Page 15 of Iridescent
His uncle.
The only relative, aside from Elise, Xavier had ever mentioned without that cold detachment he reserves for the Navarro name. The man who helped him when he ran away from home at nineteen. The man who, by the sound of it, had been less family than refuge.
Maybe that was why the explanation had felt so strange in his mouth. Xavier rarely gives his past names. He offers fragments, never full histories. A place. A date. A fact stripped clean of feeling.
Then again, I speak of my parents’ deaths the same way.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand.
Just past seven.
The nurse will be here soon. In a matter of hours, I will have a result capable of rearranging our lives all over again, a husband to face, and the annual dinner waiting for me in his parents’ estate ballroom.
I let out a quiet breath and tiptoe into the bathroom. The motion sensor casts a soft glow as I step onto the cool black marble floor. Golden fixtures gleam against the dark stone, and the air still carries the faint trace of his cologne from last night.
My stomach flutters as I kneel in front of the vanity and open the cabinet, pulling out one of the familiar slim rectangular boxes.
I told myself I wouldn’t do this anymore. No more early tests. No more false hope.
But hope is a hard habit to break.
And these past few weeks, it’s been louder than ever.
Swallowing against the dryness in my throat, I rise to my feet. The faintcrinkle of the wrapper echoes in the silence as I tear the box open.
My fingers tremble so badly I nearly drop it into the sink.
I can do this.
I have to.
I draw in a slow breath and make myself do it.
The next minute passes in a blur of mechanical motions and ragged breaths. When I’m finished, I replace the cap and set the test carefully on the counter, turning it upside down so I can’t see the result.
I retrieve my phone from the pocket of my pajamas and set the timer with trembling fingers.
Three minutes.
In three minutes, my entire life could change. Again.
Almost immediately, time begins to play its old tricks. Every second stretches out, slow and thick like honey dripping off a spoon. I lean back against the cool counter and fold my arms tightly around myself, as if I can hold all the frantic energy inside.
Waiting for these things has never gotten easier. If anything, it’s worse now because this time feels different. The stakes feel higher. There’s more than just hope on the line—there’s a piece of my heart I’ve kept protected, and with each tick of the timer I feel it inching out onto the ledge.
I push off the counter and begin to pace the length of the bathroom in silent, restless strides. The marble is cold under my bare feet, but I hardly notice. My heart is racing.Calm down,I tell myself, inhaling deeply through my nose the way I learned to control my breathing in the ring.Maybe do something to distract yourself.But what? It’s not like I can scroll my phone or hum a tune and forget what I’m waiting for.
My mind runs over every symptom, searching for comfort in each sign. For the past two weeks, nearly every morning has hit me with a wave of nausea so fierce I’ve had to sit down and breathe through it.
I’ve been avoiding coffee because just the smell turns my stomach. I’m exhausted all the time; bone-deep fatigue has me falling asleep on the couch by mid-afternoon, and I sleep harder at night than I have in years.
And most telling of all: my period is late. Days late now, even by the clinic’scalendar. Five weeks since the last one began. The rational part of me knows the medication can distort my cycle, delay it, make my body mimic every promise it has broken before.
Each of these things on its own could be a fluke. I know that better than anyone.
But together?
Together they paint a picture so beautiful and terrifying that I can hardly breathe when I think about it.
