she’s not in there. However, the progesterone quickly ruined my buzz, bringing the blues like I’ve never known. I drag myself to work and commence the daily pity party that I can’t shake. I then go home and keep it running even though I’m trying desperately not to for Winter’s sake. But my hormones have a mind of their own, and oh do they like ruling my world. And if I thought my bloating was bad before my trigger shot, well fuck me, I look about four months pregnant now.
Winter is at his wits’ end with me, I think. It’s been just over a week since the night he told me Johnson was killed, and he’s spending more time away from home than before that night, but he checks in on me throughout the day and comes home as early as possible at night. His patience is wearing thin with each passing hour. I don’t blame him. Not when he’s had to put up with my hormones for weeks, and certainly not when he’s got a lot of club stuff on his mind. I think the thing that really gets to him out of all the things I say and do, though, is my obsessive googling of “IVF success rates,” and “blastocycsts this,” and “blastocycsts that.” The day I found the IVF Pregnancy Calculator online and inputted all our data to find out our likely success rate percentage, he lost his shit with me and we didn’t speak for nearly twenty-four hours. Well, okay, he spoke to me, but I wanted nothing to do with him. I may have even told him to fuck right off, words I’ve never used with him.
Anyone who says IVF is easy is a dirty, dirty liar.
“Birdie,” he says, coming into our en suite where I’m currently debating the sense in taking a pregnancy test. “Have you seen my running shoes?” He frowns at me. “Why are you sitting on the edge of the bath looking like you’re trying to figure out the answer to something?”
Shit, shit, shit.
My mind scrambles to come up with a lie. Telling him what I’m actually sitting here thinking about is not a good idea. In fact, it’s the worst idea maybe ever. The doctor advised against taking a home pregnancy test because it can give a false reading thanks to the fertility hormones in my body after the trigger shot. I’m on the tenth day after my shot, though, which technically is the day I could be tested. Because it fell on a weekend, the clinic is having us come in on Monday to do the test. I’m coming out of my skin waiting, though, and just want to take a sneak peek at a test today. Winter will probably start World War III over this if he finds out, so I need to figure out what to tell him instead of the truth.
“Your shoes are in the laundry. I washed them. And I’m thinking about Monday and our test. Are you still good to come to the appointment?”
His frown deepens. “You know there’s no way I’m missing that appointment.”
I do, but it was the first thing that came to mind when I had to manufacture an answer to his question. “Sorry, yes, I do. I was just having a moment of uncertainty over the whole thing.” Not really a lie. Every day is twenty-four hours of uncertainty while we wait to see if I’m pregnant.
He pulls me up and wraps his arms around me. “Don’t ever doubt me. I’m by your side every step of the way.”
My arms circle him and hold on tight. Winter’s body is my safe haven. I never feel as protected and secure as I do when I’m in his arms. “I love you,” I murmur against his chest.
We stay like this for a while before he takes hold of my face with both hands and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you, too.”
I watch while he changes into his running gear, thinking about our last nine days. Winter is still on edge over club stuff, but he’s not distant anymore like he was right after Johnson died. It took a few days for him to move through his emotions, time in which I wondered if this was our new normal. Thankfully it isn’t, and he’s back to his usual self. But he’s still the tensest he’s ever been, and all I can hope is that the situation with the club improves