Off Script

Heartbeat On the Line

I woke up to that now-familiar twist in my stomach.
Not the cute kind — the drop-everything-and-run kind.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I was on my knees, hair falling forward, one hand braced against the cool tile. The world narrowed to the sound of my own retching and the steady beep of my phone vibrating somewhere in the bedroom.

By the time I flushed and leaned back against the wall, catching my breath, my phone was in my hand. Michael's name on the screen. FaceTime.

I swiped to answer, turning the camera toward the ceiling.

"Hey." My voice was hoarse, and I knew it.

"Mina?" His tone was instantly sharper, like he'd heard enough in that one word. "What's going on? You good?"

I tried to play it off, pushing up to wash my hands.

"Just a slow start."

The silence on his end was telling. Then his face appeared, filling the screen — hoodie up, eyes scanning me like he could piece it all together without me saying a word.

"You've been throwing up."

I gave a small shrug, grabbing my toothbrush.

"Part of the deal, remember?"

He didn't smile. His jaw was tight, eyes warm but weighted.

"Mina... I'm so sorry I'm not there. Shit." His voice cracked on that last word.

"Michael, don't," I said gently, setting the phone on the counter so I could actually look at him. "It's okay. I promise. This is all part of it — and it's worth it."

He shook his head, running a hand over his face.

"I want to be there for everything. Not just the pretty parts. All of it."

I kept brushing my teeth, my eyes meeting his through the screen.

"I know you do. But you're working. It's not like you don't want to be here. Trust me — I've been with a man who could've been present and chose not to. Not many men do what you do, even from a continent away."

That made him pause. His voice was quieter when he said,

"I still feel like I'm not doing enough."

I spit, rinsed, then leaned my elbows on the counter.

"Do I need to list off what you do?"

He tried to hide his grin, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I mean..."

"Okay, let's see..." I started counting on my fingers. "One — it's dangerous for me to even mention a craving because you either have it dashed to my door in under an hour, or—"

"Or?" he prompted, already smiling.

"Or you send a chef. Like, do you know how ridiculous it is to open your door at ten p.m. and there's a man holding a tray of freshly grilled lamb chops because you overheard me say 'I could go for lamb'?"

He chuckled.

"You ate every bite, though."

"Two — you sent me the softest damn blanket from Italy because I complained my couch throw was scratchy. It came with a handwritten note that literally said 'For my baby and my baby's baby.'"

He grinned, leaning closer to the camera.

"Facts."

"Three — you had my entire fridge stocked with fresh juice, organic fruit, and exactly one tub of that peanut butter ice cream I like. Which, by the way, the delivery guy told me came from New York, Michael."