Chapter 5: The Secret in the Bathroom
The buzz of the needle was a familiar song, a rhythmic vibration that traveled from Ana’s gloved hand up through her bones. It usually centered her. Today, it felt like a dentist’s drill inside her skull.
“Almost done, mama, you’re a rockstar,” Ana murmured, her voice steady despite the rolling tide in her stomach. Beneath her, a client named Chloe lay perfectly still, the delicate linework of a mangrove root now spanning her shoulder blade. The shop air was thick with the green scent of antimicrobial soap and the sharper tang of ink.
Her studio, ‘Inkwell Deep,’ was in full swing. Reggaeton pulsed at a respectful volume from the sound system. Marcus, her piercer, was making a college kid laugh nervously by the jewelry case. In the waiting area, her apprentice, Maya, was meticulously sanitizing stations. It was a Tuesday. It was normal.
Or it was supposed to be.
The nausea had been a low-grade hum all morning, a sickly cousin to the anxiety she’d been swallowing since the shooting. But this was different. This was a physical, pressing urgency. She finished the last leaf on Chloe’s mangrove, wiped it gently. “Alright, beaut. Let me get this wrapped and you’re golden.”
Her hands were professional, automatic. She applied the second skin, gave aftercare instructions, exchanged a hug. As Chloe headed to the mirror, Ana felt a cold sweat break out on her hairline. The smell of the ointment, usually innocuous, suddenly seemed chemical and assaultive.
“Maya, can you finalize the payment for Chloe? I gotta check on the new pigment order in the back,” Ana said, her voice a little too bright.
“You got it, boss,” Maya said, barely looking up from her cleaning.
Ana walked, didn’t run, past the curtain separating the main floor from the short hallway that led to her private design room and the bathroom. She pushed the bathroom door open, locked it, and was over the sink before the first dry heave wracked her.
Nothing came up. Just a painful, empty spasm. She ran the cold water, splashed her face. Breathed. It’s just stress. It’s the leftover adrenaline. It’s the fucking remembered smell of gunpowder.
She opened the door, smoothing her crop top, and nearly walked into a solid wall of muscle and black cotton.
Nevaieh leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. She’d been a silent shadow in the shop for two weeks, a daunting presence that clients either subtly avoided or openly flirted with. She dressed down—loose cargos, a simple tank that showed off her sleeves, her long curls tied back. She said she liked the atmosphere. Everyone knew she was there as a silent sentinel.
“Everything cool?” Nevaieh asked, her voice low. Her eyes were dark pools of observation, missing nothing.
“Yeah, why?” Ana sidestepped her, heading toward her design room. “Just checking inventory.”
“You were in there for four minutes. And your hands are shaking.”
Ana looked down. Her hands, steady as stone with a machine in them, were indeed trembling slightly. She clenched them into fists. “Low blood sugar. Forgot to eat. You hovering is not helping my appetite, by the way.”
Nevaieh didn’t smile. She followed Ana into the small, art-chaotic room. Designs covered the walls. A half-finished sketch of a koi fish swam across her drafting table. Nevaieh closed the door softly behind them, muting the shop’s sounds.
“You threw up yesterday morning. In the penthouse. You thought I was still asleep.”
Ana froze, her back to Nevaieh. She’d been so quiet, creeping out of the bed at dawn. “I had bad Thai the night before. Stop monitoring my digestive system, it’s creepy.”
“You didn’t have Thai. You had the soup I made.” Nevaieh’s voice was flat, devoid of accusation, just stating facts. “And you’re pale right now. Like you saw a ghost.”
The concern, so carefully banked, was a hot ember in the room. Ana turned, leaning against her drafting table. “It’s just… my body remembering, Neva. It’s psychosomatic. My therapist said it’s normal. The gut holds trauma.” It was a half-truth, one she’d been telling herself.
Nevaieh studied her. She took a step closer, then another, until she was within touching distance. She didn’t touch. “You want me to back off? Tell me to back off. I’ll go wait in the car. But don’t lie to my face, Anaijiah. Not after everything.”
The use of her full name stung. Ana’s defiance wilted. She looked up at the ceiling, at the neon “305” sign that glowed in the corner. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” she whispered, the confession feeling dangerously like weakness. “I just feel… wrong. Queasy. Tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.”
Nevaieh’s jaw tightened. A thousand calculations seemed to happen behind her eyes—threat assessments, logistical plans. “Have you taken anything? For the nausea?”
“Some ginger chews. They taste like despair.”
A flicker of a smile finally touched Nevaieh’s lips. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Okay.” She breathed out slowly. “Okay. Your last client is done. Why don’t you finish up what you need to, tell Maya you’re dipping early for a ‘supply run.’ We’ll go.”
“Go where? I’m not going to a doctor. No poking, no prodding.”
“We’re not going to a doctor,” Nevaieh said, her tone shifting into something softer, more strategic. “We’re going to Abuela’s. For soup. Caldo de pollo. The real stuff. Not mine.”
Ana blinked. “Your grandmother’s? In Hialeah?”
“Sí. She knows more about bodies than any doctor I’ve ever met. And she doesn’t ask questions I don’t want her to ask.” Nevaieh reached out then, her thumb gently stroking the underside of Ana’s wrist, where her pulse hammered. “It’s just soup, preciosa. And a car ride. Let me do this.”
It wasn’t a demand. It was an offering. A lifeline thrown in a language Ana understood—care disguised as casualness. The thought of the clinical, bright lights of an urgent care made her skin crawl. The thought of a quiet, lace-curtained house and a bowl of broth… it felt like a possible relief.
The nausea rolled again, a fresh wave. Ana pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard. She nodded, once.
“Good,” Nevaieh said. She dropped her hand. “Finish your shit. I’ll be by the car.” She turned and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her, giving Ana the space to pull herself together.
Ana stood there for a moment, listening to the familiar shop sounds. Marcus’s laugh. The buzz of Maya’s tattoo machine starting up. The normalcy she’d clawed her way back to felt thin, a veneer over a chaos she couldn’t name.
She thought of the penthouse. Of the intense, healing connection of their bodies. Of the tear on her neck. She thought of the dates, counting back in her head, a habit as automatic as breathing. Her cycle was as regular as the tide, marked in her phone’s calendar with little moon emojis.
The last moon was over five weeks ago.
A cold that had nothing to do with nausea seeped into her bones. It was impossible. They’d been careful. Mostly. In the penthouse, that first time… there had been no thought, only feeling.
“No,” she whispered to the empty room, to the sketched koi fish. “It’s the stress. It’s trauma. It has to be.”
She grabbed her bag, her hands now steady with a new, focused dread. She pushed the curtain aside, painting a bright smile on her face. “Maya! Holding down the fort. I’ve got to run out for a bit. Call me if it’s an emergency.”
“You good, Ana? You look kinda peaky,” Marcus called from his station.
“Just hungry! Neva’s taking me for soup.”
“Oh, she’s taking you for soup,” Marcus singsonged, wiggling his eyebrows.
Ana flipped him off good-naturedly, the gesture effortless and familiar. She stepped out of the shop’s neon glow and into the blistering Miami afternoon. Nevaieh’s black SUV was idling at the curb, the passenger window already down.
Ana slid inside. The air conditioning was on full blast, blessedly cold.
Nevaieh glanced at her, then pulled smoothly into traffic. She didn’t speak, just reached over and turned the radio to a smooth salsa station, filling the space with rhythm instead of questions.
Ana watched the colorful storefronts of Calle Ocho blur past. She leaned her head against the cool glass, closing her eyes. The soup was a pretext. A kind one. But as the miles passed, the unspoken truth expanded in the silent car, heavier and more real with every turn. It was a suspicion, a terrifying, thrilling, impossible seed taking root deep in the place where the scar still shone, pale and new, on her skin.
The soup helped, but only for an hour. Abuela’s house was a sanctuary of yellowed lace and simmering pots, and the old woman’s hands were as knowing as Nevaieh had promised. She pressed a cool palm to Ana’s forehead, looked deep into her eyes, and said nothing about bullet wounds or penthouse fortresses. “Your blood is busy, mija,” was all she murmured in Spanish, placing a steaming bowl before her. “Feed it.”
Nevaieh watched the exchange from the doorway, a statue of contained vigilance.
The caldo was rich, clear, and stayed down. For that hour on the floral sofa, Ana almost believed it was just stress. Then they were back in the SUV, and the queasy rolling returned, sharper now, underscored by a droning fear. She kept her face turned to the window.
“She liked you,” Nevaieh said, signaling a turn back towards South Beach.
“She didn’t say ten words to me.”
“She didn’t throw you out. That’s a banner.” A pause. The engine purred. “Feel any better?”
“A bit.” The lie was ashes.
Nevaieh’s phone buzzed on the console, a harsh, digital scrape in the quiet. She glanced at it, her jaw hardening. “Shit.”
“What?”
“A thing. Downtown. I have to be there.” Her knuckles were white on the wheel. “It’s quick. In and out. Forty minutes, maybe.”
The seed of suspicion in Ana’s gut twined with a sudden, clear opportunity. “It’s fine. Go. I’m a big girl. I’ll grab an Uber home.”
“No.” The word was absolute. “You’ll come with me. Wait in the car. It’s safe.”
“Sitting in a hot car while you do a ‘quick thing’ downtown sounds like a special circle of hell, Neva. I’m not a purse.” Ana injected a familiar, playful steel into her tone. “I’m tired. I want my own bed. Not a leather seat. I’ll be fine.”
Nevaieh drove in silence for two full blocks. The conflict radiated from her—duty versus protection, the meeting she couldn’t miss versus the woman she couldn’t risk. “Ana…”
“I’ll text you when I’m inside the penthouse. Door locked, alarm on. You can watch me on like ten different camera feeds.” She forced a smile. “I’m just tired and queasy. I’m not under siege.”
At a red light, Nevaieh finally looked at her. Her eyes searched Ana’s face, looking for the fear, the uncertainty. Ana kept her expression smooth, a masterpiece of casual assurance. She saw the exact moment Nevaieh relented, not because she was convinced, but because the other demand was too urgent.
“Promise me. Straight home.”
“Scout’s honor.” The light turned green. “Actually, drop me at the CVS on Alton. I need more of those ginger chews. Then home. I promise.”
Five minutes later, Ana stood on the hot sidewalk, watching the black SUV disappear into traffic. The air was thick and humid. She didn’t go into the CVS.
Instead, she walked two blocks south, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs, and hailed a cab. “Mount Sinai Medical Center, please.” Her voice didn’t shake.
The urgent care waiting room was a study in muted anxiety. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching color from everything. She gave a fake name, paid in cash. Every second stretched, thin and brittle. She thought of the phoenix on Nevaieh’s sternum, the one that mirrored her own. She thought of rising from ashes. This felt like waiting for the fire.
A nurse called her alias. The room was small, cold.
The urine test was routine. The blood draw was a sharp, clean pinch. The doctor, a woman with kind, tired eyes, asked about her last cycle. Ana answered mechanically. The woman’s keyboard clicked. The clock ticked.
Then the doctor turned from the screen, her expression shifting into a careful, neutral place. “Well,” she said. “The tests are conclusive.”
She spoke numbers, dates, HCG levels. The words were clinical, separate from the reality now detonating silently inside Ana’s chest. They hung in the sterile air between them.
“Given the location of your surgical scar,” the doctor continued gently, “this would be considered a higher-risk pregnancy. We’d need to monitor you very closely, very early. We should discuss—”
“Okay,” Ana interrupted, her voice distant, a flat echo from far away. “Thank you.”
She took the printed results, folded them once, twice, into a small, thick square. She walked out. The afternoon sun was violently bright, a shock after the clinical interior. The world hadn’t ended. Cars honked. A kid laughed, chasing a skateboard.
She stood on the curb, the folded paper a burning coal in her palm. It explained the nausea, the fatigue, the wrongness. It changed everything.
A black town car she recognized glided to a stop across the street. Nevaieh emerged, scanning the block, her meeting evidently cut short. Her gaze found Ana. Relief, then sharp concern, flashed across her face. She began to cross.
Ana’s fingers closed convulsively around the paper. She shoved it deep into the front pocket of her jeans, the gesture fast and final. She plastered on a smile, one she’d practiced a thousand times in mirrors for perfect selfies. It felt like a crack in the world.
Nevaieh reached her, her hands coming up to frame Ana’s face. “Why are you here? What’s wrong?” Her thumbs stroked Ana’s cheeks, searching for fever, for tears.
“Just being paranoid,” Ana said, the lie flowing easier now, coated in a layer of truth. “The queasy feeling freaked me out. I wanted a doctor to tell me it was just… trauma stuff. And they did. Just stress. All in my head.” She leaned into Nevaieh’s touch, seeking its solid anchor.
Nevaieh studied her, her dark eyes missing nothing and yet everything. The hidden square of paper felt like it was glowing, screaming. “You should’ve waited for me. You should’ve called.”
“I know.” Ana wrapped her arms around Nevaieh’s waist, burying her face in the familiar cotton of her tank top, inhaling the scent of her. It was a retreat and a performance. “I’m sorry. Let’s just go home.”
She held on tightly, as if Nevaieh could steady the ground that had just shattered and rearranged itself beneath her feet. She held on, the secret already taking root in the new, dark, fertile silence between her heartbeat and the scar.