Chapter 43 I'm in full-on panic mode, and every possible worst-case scenario is playing out like a bad Lifetime movie marathon, and as luck would have it, that's when I'm my very most efficient. Rules? Don't know them. Laws? For breaking. Waiting my turn? Who's she? I need some answers, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to get them-conscious decision-making or not. I don't even remember deciding to go to an OB-GYN, but next thing I know, I'm standing in front of the receptionist at Miami's most expensive OB practice. The sign on the door says this place is run by Dr. Sofia Moretti-the same Dr. Sofia Moretti who's been quoted in magazines as being the go-to OB for celebrities. She's also one of very few doctors in the city who takes Sunday appointments-though, you are supposed to schedule said appointment rather than show up unannounced-and apparently, she delivered Stella St. Clair's twins last year-yes, the Stella St. Clair, international pop icon and TikTok sensation. Surely if this doctor can deliver Stella St. Clair's twins and keep it from the press for two WHOLE months, she can handle my currently fucked-up situation. I push open the door, and it bangs against the wall with a thud. The waiting room is filled with women-expectant moms with bellies in all shapes and sizes-and the receptionist looks up at me with a raised brow. She's in her late forties with glasses that rest low on her nose and the permanent air of someone who's seen too much nonsense to have patience for it. "Excuse me, can I help you?" she asks, her voice imbued with annoyance. "I need to see the doctor," I say in a rush, speed walking over to her desk. "Right now." "Do you have an appointment?" she asks, her tone making it clear she already knows the answer. "No," I reply, trying to sound calm and collected when, in reality, I'm seconds away from throwing myself across her desk. "But this is an emergency. One of those circumstances where you have to make an exception to the appointment rule." She blinks. "An emergency?" "Yes," I say, nodding furiously. "Like, a...possible baby emergency. Hence, the reason I'm here. At an OB-GYN." "We don't usually do walk-ins," she says, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "But I can look at the schedule and see if Dr. Moretti has any openings this week." "This week?" I question, my voice rising in panic. "No, that won't work." I lean in, lowering my voice like I'm about to spill state secrets. "Listen. I need an appointment now. I might be pregnant. And I'm not supposed to be pregnant. Like, me being pregnant right now is absolute insanity and I need to figure out what in the hell is happening and I can't just go to some rando clinic because do I look like the kind of girl who goes to rando clinics? Um, no. I need to see Dr. Moretti." I pull a credit card out of my wallet and slam it down on the desk. "Charge me whatever, but I need to see the doctor." Her lips twitch and I think she's about to smile, but she just shakes her head. "One moment." She picks up the phone and proceeds to have a quiet conversation that I can't hear before she hangs up. "We don't usually do this, but I recognize you from the news... You're one of the island survivors, aren't you?" Panic floods my veins and makes my eyeballs widen comically. She shakes her head. "Don't worry, I won't say anything. I imagine you've been through enough." Then she looks both ways before handing me a clipboard with a stack of papers on it. "Fill out this new patient registration form and take a seat. Dr. Moretti will fit you in." Quickly, I scratch down all my info on the sheet without even moving from the window, courtesy be damned, and hand it back to her. "Thank you," I say, and she nods then jerks her chin at the waiting room chairs. I comply, pulling a silk scarf out of my bag and wrapping it around my head. Now that she mentioned knowing me, I'm a little afraid everyone else will too. Luckily, the place is ridiculously fancy, with chandeliers, a coffee bar, framed photos of smiling babies on every wall, and a huge spread-out waiting room. It's more spa than medical office, and I find a quiet corner away from all the other patients. I don't know how long I stare at the wall before a nurse calls my name, but I don't think it matters. Time is a chasm, reality is warped, and I might be motherfucking pregnant. This isn't exactly something I had on my schedule, and it takes as long as it takes. The nurse is young, with a bright smile and a clipboard that she clutches like it's her lifeline when I get her in sight, waiting at the wooden door next to the sign-in desk. "Ms. Banks?" she says, and I'm thankful they had the forethought not to say my first name, given the circumstances. As I approach her, I smooth my hands nervously down my Prada jeans. "That's me." "Right this way," she says, leading me down a hallway lined with more baby photos. "So, you think you're pregnant?" "I don't know," I say, my voice tight. "But I need to know for sure. Like, immediately." She nods, her smile never faltering. "We'll start with a pregnancy test, and Dr. Moretti will see you after that." I follow her into an exam room, where she hands me a cup. "You know the drill, right? Pee in this, bring it back to me, and we'll dip a strip. Easy as that," she says with a wink when my whole body locks up. I trudge through the motions of pissing in a little cup via an unruly tool with which you can't control the spray-kind of like putting your thumb over a garden hose-and blow out a breath when I manage to fill it halfway. I seal it, wash my hands, hand it off to the nurse outside the door, and return to the room, jumping up onto the paper-covered table and sinking my head into my hands. My God, how times have changed. Five minutes of staring at the door like it's about to burst into flames later, the nurse returns, looking entirely too calm for someone holding my future in her hands. "Congratulations," she says, her smile tenuously bright. "You're pregnant." My stomach pitches to the side, and my ears start to ring. "What?" "The test is positive," she repeats. "Your feeling was correct, and you are, in fact, pregnant." "No," I say, shaking my head. "That's wrong. It has to be wrong. I think you need to do the thing where you put goo all over my belly and see inside my uterus. They do it on Grey's Anatomy all the time." "An ultrasound?" "Yes, that." I nod manically. "Do that. Because I think your tests are expired or something." "That's not how that usually works," she says. "Our tests aren't like home tests, and they are very effective. But I'll let the doctor know your request if you feel really strongly-" "I feel strongly. Very, very strongly. I'm the freaking Hulk over here, okay? World's Strongest Man Winner. Omnipotent and omnipowerful like God Almighty, for the purposes of this moment, you know?" She smiles. "I'll try my best." She leaves, and I reassume the fetal position, tucking my knees to my chest and rocking myself. A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and the nurse holds it open for a beautiful redhead in a lab coat with an air of authority about her as she enters. "Hi, I'm Dr. Moretti," she introduces herself. "And you must be Avery." I nod. "I hear you just got some big news." I shake my head. "No, no. No news. Because your tests are wrong. They have to be." Dr. Moretti smiles. "I don't think there's anything wrong with our tests, Avery, but I do understand the shock that comes with finding out you're pregnant, if it's not something you've been planning for." "With all due respect, there's no way I'm pregnant, okay? It's...impossible. Immaculata, you know?" "Immaculate?" "Yes! That!" "Are you saying you haven't had sex, Avery?" Dr. Moretti asks, her beautifully shaped brows drawing together. "Ye-well. Technically, no. But, like, I just started. Twenty-seven years of no boom-boom in the hoom-hoom, and I finally do it, and you're telling me it made a baby?" I shake my head. "No way." Dr. Moretti smiles, glancing back at the nurse and nodding. "Okay. Let's do an ultrasound, just to get a look for sure if it'll make you feel better." "Yes!" I nod. "Please. I need to feel better." Her smile is conciliatory in a way I don't like, so instead of focusing on her, I ignore it. "So, let's do it. Whip that thing out," I say, pulling up my shirt. Dr. Moretti's smile lifts to her eyes. "Because of the suspected early progression of the pregnancy, we'll need to do the ultrasound transvaginally. Nurse Higgins and I will step out. You'll remove your clothes and then put on this paper gown with the opening in the front, okay? We'll come back with the machine when you're ready." I nod woodenly, despite not liking the sound of the word "transvaginally" at all. The nurse hands me a gown before her and Dr. Moretti leave the room. And I do as I'm told, my hands shaking as I remove my Louboutins and jeans and panties, and shortly after my bare ass hits the scratchy-paper-covered table, there are three soft knocks to the door. "You can come in." Dr. Moretti and her nurse step back inside, and the nurse turns down the lights. "Now, since we're not sure how far along you are, we're going to have to start with a vaginal ultrasound," the doctor explains again. "It won't hurt. You'll just feel some pressure. Go ahead and spread your legs for me, and scoot down on the table if you can." Good grief, the things women have to go through. I hold my breath, and just like that, things are started. I can feel her moving the wand around inside me, and I close my eyes tightly, refusing to look at the screen. "Okay, Avery," she says after a moment. "I can confirm that you are pregnant. You look to be about eight weeks along." My eyes fly open. "Eight weeks?" "Yes," she says. "I'd say your date of conception is on or around January 10th or so." January 10th? While we were still on the island. "Holy fucking shit," I blurt out in a rush. "Did I get pregnant the first time I had sex? What is this, an episode of The Secret Life of the American Teenager? Am I Amy Juergens?" Dr. Moretti raises an eyebrow. "Well, I can assure you that it's not a TV show. But yes, it does happen." I'm having an out-of-body experience as she turns on the volume, and the sound of a heartbeat fills the room. It's fast, steady, and impossibly real. "That's your baby's heartbeat," she says softly. There's a baby. In my uterus. A baby that's half me and half Henry, growing inside me. For a moment, warmth washes over me. The sound of the heartbeat, the knowledge that this tiny life is mine... It's overwhelming in the best way. But then fear creeps in. I'm pregnant. I'm going to be a mom. And no one in my life even knows I'm in a relationship. Because it's a secret freaking relationship with the father of my baby, who just so happens to be my brother's best friend. Dr. Moretti hands me a packet of information and a couple of ultrasound photos. The receptionist schedules my next appointment, but it all feels like a dream. I float through the motions, my mind spinning like an out-of-control top. When I walk out of the office, I don't know what to do or where to go. So, I just sit there in my car, in the middle of the parking lot, with ultrasound photos of my baby-oh my God, my baby-clutched to my chest. My phone buzzes from my purse-that's apparently still on my shoulder-and I pull it out to find a message that makes tears fill my eyes. Henry: Can't wait to see you tonight. A few hours ago, I felt the same. Now, I don't even know my own name. How the hell am I supposed to tell Henry I'm pregnant when I can hardly believe it myself? Especially when it's all my fault. The whole reason Henry and I even had sex in the first place is because of me. I'm the one who convinced him on the island, maybe even manipulated him into it. I seduced him. Not the other way around. I'm a trapper. A baby trapper. I trapped Henry! My God. Everything's about to change. And he has no freaking clue it's coming.