Page 77 of Dominic Powers Duet Box Set
“When?” I ask, trying to keep my questions to single words and just hope that he understands my intent. Tucker doesn’t disappoint me.
“When will you go home?” he asks to clarify and I nod my head. “That’s up to the doctor. She really didn’t give me a lot of information since I’m not family. I didn’t know who to call for you,” he says, almost apologetically.
I just slowly– and carefully –shake my head from side to side to tell him there’s no one to call. There’s no one to care about me. No one will come running to my side to make sure I’m still alive.
“Just rest now, Sophia. You’re safe,” Tucker reassures me.
My eyes are closed but my mind is racing. Everything has spiraled out of control and I’m not sure it can even be contained now. Harrison has royally screwed me over and I’ve allowed it. I helped it. Every day, I had an opportunity to put an end to this whole charade and I didn’t take it. To that end, I have to take responsibility for my actions and accept that I’ve lost the love of my life.
The door to my hospital room opens, creating a distinctive clicking and creaking noise that I recognize without even opening my eye. There’s no point in looking to see who it is. My family doesn’t know, and wouldn’t care, that I’m in here. My Dom has severed all personal ties with me, so I know it’s not him. If it happened to be Harrison, I know that Tucker would protect me. Most likely, it’s hospital personnel making their rounds.
“Miss Vasco,” an authoritative female voice calls my name. “I’m Dr. Fallon and I’ve been overseeing your care since you were brought in last night.”
I force my good eye open and give her a nod of understanding. Moving to sit up straighter is painful, but I know from experience it’ll only get worse if I don’t start moving now. Tucker rises from his seat and raises the head of my bed as I readjust my position to face the doctor.
“Would you mind excusing us?” Dr. Fallon asks Tucker directly.
“Not at all,” Tucker responds. “I’ll be right outside, Sophia. No need to worry.”
“Thank you,” my voice croaks as I momentarily forget I can’t speak.
Dr. Fallon notices and promises, “Your voice will return in time. It’s best that you not strain it until then. Use low whispers when you must talk. I’ll try to phrase most of my questions as a ‘yes or no’to make it easier on you.”
I nod and give her a small smile since anything else is too painful right now. In watching her confidence and poise, it occurs to me that I’ve spent way too much of my life being a victim to someone else. Not all of it was my fault, but somewhere along the way, a pattern has emerged and I don’t like it at all. It’s way past time for me to be strong, stand on my own two feet, and face the future with my chin held high.
Dr. Fallon takes the seat Tucker vacated and reviews the information in my chart before speaking. “Your eyes look a little more swollen today, but that’s normal. The swelling will start subsiding now and your vision will return. Your MRI and CT scans were all normal, so there’s no permanent damage. You probably feel like you’ve been run over by a car, though,” she finishes with a smile.
I nod and whisper, “Yes!”
“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst, what’s your pain level today?”
“Four or five,” I whisper. My injuries hurt, no doubt, but it’s not the worst pain I’ve ever felt.
“Miss Vasco, I haven’t prescribed you any strong pain medications because your blood work indicates you’re pregnant. Were you aware of this?”
I’m stunned speechless. Even if I were able to talk, scream, or yell, there’s no way I could. I shake my head, not in response to her question, but in response to my own inner turmoil. Did I just hear her correctly?I’m pregnant?
What. The. Fuck?
“I take it you didn’t know yet,” Dr. Fallon presumes. Correctly.
When I look at her, my bottom jaw is still on the floor, my heart is beating erratically, and my head just slowly moves from side to side of it’s own accord. My hands draw together in my lap, my fingers wringing each other relentlessly as I try to calm my heart.
“When was your last period? How many weeks ago? You can hold up fingers if you need to,” she instructs.
“Calendar?” I whisper and she hands me her phone after pulling up the calendar app on it. I scroll back through the dates, counting back and trying to remember when it was. I point to the week and realize it was just over six weeks ago, right before the time when my whole life fell apart.
Holding my throat for support, I whisper to her, “Lighter than usual.”
“Are you on the pill?”
“No. Implant,” I whisper and point to my arm. My short answers will have to work for now or I’ll have to start writing out the answers. My anxiety is making my throat constrict even more than before and even whispering is becoming more difficult.
The knowing look on her face concerns me. “Are you sure the implant didn’t come out on its own? Did you doctor specifically feel for it and tell you it was in place?”
I think back and try to remember the specifics of that day. “No,” I whisper. He simply gave me an injection to deaden the area, made a small incision to insert it, and walked out of the room when he was finished. He didn’t touch my incision site after he inserted the implant.
She examines my arm, feeling around the area where it should be. She manipulates my arm into different positions as she continues her examination. Her face gives nothing away but I think I’ve been holding my breath the entire time. What is she going to tell me?
