It's been two days since that movie night, both spent dodging calls and texts, finding a place that could get you an appointment as close to immediately as possible. Now you're sitting in the waiting room, biting your nails, trying to distract yourself. You count the white washed ceiling tiles; mentally noting the monotony of the decor: the grey-purple upholstered chairs lining the walls, nearly matching the color of the somewhat worn carpeting; the one coffee table in the middle of the room, the light brown paneling and vase of silk flowers atop giving the impression of an attempt to bring warmth to the area.
You're alone.
Again.
With the exception of the receptionist, who seemed pleasant enough, you've only seen two other women, each leaving after their exams, screenings, interviews, whatever they made an appointment for. Not too surprising for a Wednesday afternoon.
In the back of your mind, you wonder if you could manage to make this room seem more welcoming if you held a shoot here. Some well used lighting to try to hide the dinginess of the old wall paper, maybe some editing to enrich the colors. You could also bring in--
"Miss Y/L/N?" A nurse interrupts your thoughts, "We're ready for you."
Your body moves on autopilot and somehow you end up in an office, sitting across from the nurse who called your name,
"How are you feeling today?" She asks gently, you shrug, your voice not cooperating, "I just wanted to make sure we had everything squared away so we can get you started. Now, first things first, you have an understanding of our policies and procedures?" She asks, waiting for a response,
"Yeah, uh..." You clear your throat, steadying your gravelly voice, the sound so loud the the quiet space, "This isn't exactly the first time."
She nods in understanding, gathering some papers and sliding them across the desk to you,
"I'm just going to need a couple of signatures and medical history information, you can take your time and read through as thoroughly as you'd like, but I do need you to at least skim these pages. I can show you to a room where you'll have some privacy if you'd like."
You nod lightly, accepting the offer.
You're shown to what looks like another office and you start to read. You aren't even paying attention, your gaze sliding over words about patients and procedures and fetuses. You go through the motions to make the nurse feel better, after the first page, your mind wanders.
'Think about anything but this.' You tell yourself.
You try to remember what all you need to buy when you go grocery shopping this weekend, whether you should tell Amy what's going on, if you should stop ignoring the texts and calls you've been getting from Sebastian, if you should actually go through with this.
You glance through the final pages about the recovery period, filling out your medical information, and finally make it to the last page.
Your pen hovers over the signature line. This is it. You're fine. You'll just end this before it really becomes a problem, and you'll be more careful next time.
You scratch half your first name into the paper.
You could swear you heard a little kid somewhere outside, squealing and giggling on a playground, and you can't stop it, a flood of images play through your mind: you and Sebastian lounging in the park in the spring, his hand resting on your pregnant belly.
Your heart clenches.
You see him on his knees in the backyard of an imaginary home, teaching a little boy how to play catch. Tears fall on your incomplete signature as you see him rocking a newborn baby girl, half swaddled, her hands reaching up to his face.
You can't do it.
.
.
.
You're running through the lobby, still sorting through fourteen text messages and six voicemails from Sebastian, all with the same general message:
"I shouldn't have reacted like that."
"Please let me know you're alright."
"I'm really worried about you."
"Could we please talk about this?"
Incessantly tapping the up arrow on the elevator and bouncing from foot to foot with urgency, you haven't been able to stop the tears since you left the clinic. You had practically thrown your papers at the nurse at the front desk with a hasty apology for wasting their time. You're not sure any of it was intelligible, but you had to get out. You had to see him.
This isn't like last time.
As soon as the elevator doors let you out on Sebastian's floor, you nearly trip over your own feet running to his apartment. It's not until you're banging on his door that you realize he's supposed to be on his way to a shoot.
Your knocks slow, soften, cease; you rest your forehead on the door, sliding down to your knees.
You still can't stop crying.
"Y/N?" You look up at your name to find Sebastian coming toward you. You stand just in time for him to half-tackle you, wrapping his arms around you, "I've been trying to get a hold of you." He breathes, keeping you close,
"Why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be shooting in Georgia or somewhere?"
"I told them I had to hang back for a couple of days. Told them... Told them it was a family emergency." You don't know what to say, so you just hug him closer,
"What about you? Are you... Are you okay?" He asks warily, preparing for your answer,
"I couldn't." You sob. He looks you in the eye, obviously stunned, "I couldn't do it. I was going to. We aren't ready for this, Seb. But I just couldn't do it!" He pulls you inside,
"You're still pregnant?" He finally asks, his tone guarded. You refuse to look him in the eyes as you nod tightly.
"Thank God." He kisses you suddenly before you can respond, pressing close, but holding you gently. You don't push him away, instead you let your eyes fall shut, reveling in the comfort.
When he pulls away with a sigh, he rests his forehead on yours,
"I know what I said. And I know what you said. And if you still don't want to be with me, I'll understand." He pulls back to look at you,
"I still don't know if we can do this, Seb."
"I'm not saying we have to be together. But I want you to know, we are together in this."
"But... I'm just..." The reason. The reason you don't think you can be with him. The reason you feel like you're losing your mind right now. "I'm so scared..." You whisper, hating that you can't get a handle on your tears,
"I know." He replies, "I know... Me too." He tucks your head under his chin, smoothing your hair back. You let yourself rest for a while, let yourself be held, let yourself feel at home. That's when it occurs to you.
"Um..." You pull back, "I need to make a phone call."
"Oh, okay." He takes a deep breath, letting you go, "You can use my room if you want. I'll go make us some tea... Can you drink tea? Maybe it should be hot chocolate..."
"Thank you." You stop him, "I'll just be a minute..."
"We still have some talking to do." He finishes your thought. "I'll be waiting out here. Take your time." You nod, taking a steadying breath before closing yourself in his room.
You stare at the contact for several minutes, talking yourself out of and back into this phone call at least a dozen times. Finally you make yourself dial.
The line rings twice,
"Hey, sweetheart, how are you?" The greeting both makes you smile and breaks your heart in line of the situation,
"Hey mom..."
