Page 126 of Darling Venom
The only thing I had to look forward to was work.
I intended to find that manuscript, even if I had to write it myself.
It was easy to avoid Tate Marchetti.
Logistically, at least.
We worked in different industries, on different streets, never socialized in general, and kept to our neat, lonely bubbles without the hassle of the outside world.
Without anyone.
But if I slipped up, if I let my thoughts wander, I found myself wanting to see him.
I asked Reagan about her baby checkups, probing for information about Tate’s wellbeing. I even missed a subway stop last night, traveling halfway to his place before I forced myself out onto the platform and into an Uber ride-share, where I couldn’t change my destination on a whim.
After our final meeting (a hotshot director interested in film rights), I hailed a cab with Reagan. We were talking about her last appointment with Tate when the yellow car pulled up.
She winced after we got in, setting a protective hand on her stomach as soon as her butt landed on the squishy leather.
I hopped inside, rattled the office’s address, then turned to Reagan, meeting her scrunched nose. “Are you feeling okay?”
She clawed at her belly. “I don’t know.”
I’d never seen her so hesitant.
So unsure of what to do.
“Do you want me to call Dr. Marchetti’s office?”
“Please.”
I redirected the driver to Morgan-Dunn Hospital, pulled out my phone, and scrolled through my contacts list before I remembered I didn’t have Tate’s number. By design.
Tate’s design, to be specific.
So, I settled on the clinic’s number.
They answered on the first ring.
“Bernard and Marchetti Medical Center. This is Sylvia. How may I help you?”
“Hey, this is Charlotte. I’m calling on behalf of Reagan Rothschild.”
“Dr. Marchetti is currently out of the office, but I can pass along a message.”
“This is an emergency. She’s in a lot of pain, and we’re worried something may be wrong.” I stared at Reagan’s gritted teeth. “We’re headed to the clinic now. Can you call Dr. Marchetti in?”
“Paging him as we speak.” I heard her type on the other end and call out to someone. “When you pull up, we’ll have a nurse and wheelchair ready for her.”
I hung up, begged the cabbie to drive faster, and clutched Reagan’s hand. It felt swollen in mine, from the hilt up to the tips of her fingers. Her face, too. It looked bad, which I chose not to disclose.
“Sylvia paged Dr. Marchetti.” I kept my voice low, hoping to soothe her. “They’re waiting for us.”
After she passed the thirty-four-week mark, Reagan had relaxed a bit. Like she’d gotten over the hump that troubled her most and the rest would be smooth sailing.
But the fear returned to her eyes. Her face turned pale, her hands shaky.
She faced me. “Tell me this isn’t a big deal.”
