Chapter 6: The Test
The two pink lines glared back at them from the cheap plastic stick, a verdict in bold.
Silence pooled in the bathroom, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant whine of a garbage truck four stories down. Ana stared at the test like it might suddenly morph, the lines dissolving into the single one she’d prayed for. They didn’t. Her reflection in the gold-framed mirror looked pale under her dark skin, her ginger curls matted with sweat at her temples. The gold in her nose and tongue caught the sun, little flashes of a person she suddenly didn’t recognize.
Nevaieh hadn’t moved from the doorway. Her expression was a closed door. But Ana saw the minute tick in her jaw, the way her crossed arms weren’t just casual—they were holding something in.
“We need to talk,” Nevaieh had said. Her voice hadn’t sounded like hers. It had a crack, a fissure.
“Talk?” Ana’s laugh was a dry, brittle thing. She dropped the test onto the marble counter with a clatter. “What’s to talk about? It’s a false positive. Stress does that. I read it.”
“You didn’t read shit.” Nevaieh pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the bathroom. The space shrank around her. She picked up the test, her long, tattooed fingers careful around it. She looked at it with the same detached analysis she’d probably give a ledger or a rival’s business proposal. “It’s not ambiguous, Ana.”
“Don’t call me that right now.” Ana turned on the faucet, splashed icy water on her face. It dripped from her chin onto her tank top. The marine life on her arm seemed to swim in the distorted droplets. “It’s a mistake. I got the IUD. You know that. The copper one. It’s supposed to be… fucking ironclad.”
“Nothing’s ironclad.” Nevaieh set the test down again, precisely where it had been. “When was your last period?”
Ana met her eyes in the mirror. “I don’t know. I’m irregular. Always have been. The business, the late nights, the whole…” She waved a hand, encompassing Nevaieh, Chicago, the chaos of the last few months. “This. It messes with you.”
Nevaieh was silent for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’ve been tired. You snapped at Rico last week for breathing too loud. You cried at that stupid dog commercial.”
“I have emotions, sue me.”
“You threw up twice last week. You blamed bad sushi.”
“It was bad sushi!”
“You’re craving mango with chili powder. You made me drive to three bodegas at two in the morning.”
The evidence, laid out in that cool, flat tone, was undeniable. Ana felt the truth, solid and terrifying, settle in her gut. It wasn’t nausea. It was a anchor. She slid down the cabinet to sit on the floor again, the cool tile a shock against her thighs. The phoenix on her right leg looked almost ironic, rising from ashes she didn’t feel capable of creating.
Nevaieh knelt. Not touching her. Just there, a solid presence in her periphery. “You’re not in this alone.”
“Aren’t I?” The words came out sharp, defensive. “This is my body. My problem. You got clubs to run. Gambling spots. A whole fucking city that jumps when you nod. You think you got room for a… for this?” She couldn’t say the word.
Nevaieh’s eyes darkened. “You think this is a problem to be managed? Like a debt collection?”
“What else is it?”
“It’s a consequence.” Nevaieh’s voice dropped, low and rough. “Of you. Of me. Of whatever this is we’re doing.” She finally reached out, not touching Ana’s face, but tracing the edge of the sunset roses inked on her shoulder. The touch was so uncharacteristically gentle it made Ana’s throat tighten. “I don’t do families. You know that. Mine’s gone. I built what I built so I’d never need one, never lose one again.”
“So what are you saying?” Ana whispered, her bravado utterly gone, stripped away by the morning and the plastic stick.
“I’m saying I don’t know.” Nevaieh admitted it like pulling teeth. The confession seemed to cost her. “But I know you don’t get to decide it’s just your problem. My name isn’t on that test, but I’m in the room.”
Ana leaned her head back against the cabinet. The sun was too bright. The room was too clean, too shiny for the mess inside her. She thought of Miami, of her mom and her aunties, the loud, overwhelming love that would explode from them at this news. Then she thought of Chicago’s gray streets, Nevaieh’s world of calculated risks and silent threats. A child didn’t fit. A child was a vulnerability, a target, a scream in a world that required whispers.
“I’m scared,” Ana said, the admission leaving her in a rush.
“Good.” Nevaieh’s response was immediate. “Be scared. Then get smart.” She stood up, her silhouette blocking the light. “First, we confirm. A doctor. Not your usual one. Someone discreet, far from my usual haunts. We get facts. Then we make choices.”
The shift was instantaneous. Nevaieh was back, but not the Nevaieh from the bed, the one who’d rubbed her back. This was the boss. This was the strategist. It was a lifeline.
“Choices,” Ana repeated, hating the word.
“All the choices.” Nevaieh held out a hand. “But you don’t make any of them in a bathroom on an empty stomach. Get up. We’re going out.”
“I feel like shit.”
“You’ll feel worse with nothing in you. I know a place. Quiet. We can talk.”
Ana took her hand. It was warm, firm, real. She let Nevaieh pull her to her feet. In the mirror, they were a stark contrast: Ana, a storm of color and gold and visible panic; Nevaieh, a monochrome tower of control, her expression once again smoothing into something unreadable. But her hand didn’t let go.
As they walked out of the bathroom, Ana’s eyes caught the peacock feather by the faucet. It was just a feather. But it felt like a tally, a mark. One life before it. Whatever came after.
Nevaieh grabbed her keys and a black leather jacket from the couch. “Wear something warm,” she said, her voice already shifting to directives, to the next step. “The wind’s coming off the lake.”
Ana moved to the closet on autopilot, her mind a numb static. But underneath the static, a single, clear thought formed, cold and sharp as a scalpel: the chase was over. A new one, infinitely more complicated, had just begun.
A new one, infinitely more complicated, had just begun. The discreet clinic was in a neighborhood Nevaieh didn’t own, a place of faded beige walls and fluorescent lights that hummed like annoyed insects. It smelled of antiseptic and lemon floor cleaner, a scent that made Ana’s stomach roll. She sat on the crackling paper of the examination table, her shorts feeling too small, her tattoos glaringly alive under the clinical glare. Nevaieh stood by the door, a silent sentinel in her black jacket, her eyes tracking the nurse’s every movement.
“Doctor will be right in,” the nurse said, avoiding their gaze as she left.
“You good?” Nevaieh’s voice was low.
“Peachy.” Ana picked at the “305” on her forearm. “Never better.”
The doctor, a weary-looking woman with kind eyes, confirmed it with a blood test. Seven weeks. She explained the IUD had likely shifted, its failure a statistical anomaly. “You have options,” the doctor said gently, her tone carefully neutral.
“I know my options.” Ana’s voice cut through the room. She didn’t look at Nevaieh. She stared at a poster about handwashing, the steps blurring. A deep, stubborn certainty had coiled around her spine in the car ride over, tightening with every block. It wasn’t logical. It was visceral. “I’m keeping it.”
The air changed. Nevaieh didn’t move, but Ana felt the shift, a sudden drop in pressure. The doctor nodded, professional. “Then we need to schedule removal of the IUD. It’s a simple procedure, but there are risks with it in situ. We can do it now, if you’re ready.”
Now. The word was a trapdoor. Ana swallowed. “Yeah. Do it now.”
The doctor left to prepare. The silence she left behind was absolute. Nevaieh pushed off the door and took two steps into the room. “Anaijiah.”
“Don’t.” Ana finally looked at her. The fear was still there, a live wire in her chest, but beneath it was that familiar, flashy defiance. “You said all the choices were mine. This is mine.”
“I know what I said.” Nevaieh’s jaw was tight. “But you’re deciding this in a room that smells like bleach, five minutes after seeing a plus sign. That’s not a choice. That’s a reaction.”
“And what would you do?” Ana shot back, her voice rising. “Calculate the logistical burden? Weigh the liability?”
“Yes.” The answer was instantaneous, cold, and honest. It hung between them. Nevaieh’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “But you’re not me. That’s the whole point of you, isn’t it?”
The doctor returned with a tray. Ana lay back, the paper loud beneath her. The stirrups were cold against her heels. She focused on the acoustic tiles of the ceiling, counting the tiny holes. She heard the clink of metal instruments, the doctor’s murmured instructions. Nevaieh had moved to stand near her head, a presence just outside her line of sight.
“You’ll feel some pressure,” the doctor said.
It was more than pressure. It was a sharp, invasive pain, deep and wrong. Ana gasped, her fingers digging into the edges of the table. Her body went rigid, rejecting the intrusion. The bright lights began to pulse, swimming with dark spots. She heard a low, rattling breath and realized it was hers.
“Almost there,” the doctor’s voice sounded distant.
The pain crested, a white-hot lance, and the world tipped. The hum of the lights folded into a high-pitched ring. The last thing she saw was Nevaieh’s face swimming into view above her, that stoic mask shattered into pure, unguarded alarm.
Then everything went silent and dark.
The darkness receded in waves, first as a dull ache behind her eyes, then as the sterile scent of antiseptic flooding her nose. A ceiling fan clicked with each slow rotation above her. Something cold was pressed to her forehead.
“She’s coming around.”
That was the doctor’s voice, off to the side. Ana’s vision swam, the acoustic tile holes blurring into a gray mess. A sharper reality snapped into place: she was on a different table now, in a dimmer recovery room. The vinyl cushion under her was cold. And Nevaieh was sitting in a chair against the far wall, looking at her phone.
Just looking at her phone.
The screen’s blue light etched her expressionless face in the dim room. One ankle was crossed over her knee, perfectly relaxed. She hadn’t rushed over. She wasn’t holding Ana’s hand. She was scrolling.
A hot, thick confusion surged up Ana’s throat, bitter as the bile from this morning. The physical violation, the lingering cramping deep in her core—it all condensed into a single, sharp point aimed at that casual figure.
“What happened?” Ana croaked. Her tongue felt too big.
“Vasovagal syncope.” The doctor appeared, gently removing the cold pack. “Your body overreacted to the cervical manipulation. You fainted. It’s common. You’re okay. The procedure is complete.”
Complete. The IUD was out. The reality of that, of her impulsive choice now made irrevocably physical, landed heavily. She felt hollowed out and terrifyingly full at the same time. Her eyes stayed locked on Nevaieh, who finally glanced up from her screen.
“You were out for maybe ninety seconds,” Nevaieh said. Her tone was informative, like reporting the weather. “Doctor caught you before you hit the floor.”
“You caught me?” Ana asked, her voice gaining a ragged edge.
“No. The doctor did. I was…” Nevaieh gestured slightly with the phone, as if that explained everything.
“You were on your phone.”
“I was handling things.” Nevaieh’s gaze was level, unapologetic. “Rico texted. There’s an issue with the shipment for the Vega Street club. It needed a decision.”
A laugh, brittle and harsh, escaped Ana. She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the dizzy swim in her head. “An issue. A shipment. While I was… while that was happening?” She couldn’t even describe it.
“The world doesn’t stop because you faint, Anaijiah.” Nevaieh stood up, sliding her phone into her jacket pocket. “The doctor did her job. I did mine. You’re fine.”
“I’m fine?” Ana shoved herself fully upright, the thin paper sheet crumpling around her waist. The cramps protested, a deep throb. “You see me pass out on a table after–after that, and your mind goes to business? Your first move is to text your boy back about some fucking liquor?”
“What did you want?” Nevaieh’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. Her calm was a thin veneer now. “You want me to cry? To hold your hand and tell you fairy tales? You made a choice in that room. A big, loud, messy choice. You don’t get the big, loud, messy choice and then also get coddled like a child who skinned her knee.”
“I wanted you to care!” The words tore out of her, louder than she intended. The doctor discreetly slipped out of the room. “You said you were in the room. That was you in the room? On your phone, handling things?”
“Caring is handling things!” Nevaieh took a step forward, her patience visibly snapping. The calculated cool was gone, replaced by a fierce, frustrated intensity. “Caring is making sure the threats out there are managed so they don’t come in here! You think this changes nothing? You’re a flashing beacon now. You think my rivals won’t see a weakness to exploit if they find out? Caring is doing the work you don’t see so you have the space to feel all this!”
Ana stared at her, breathing hard. The gold in Nevaieh’s nose piercing caught a sliver of light from the hallway. She saw it then—not indifference, but a different language. A translation of fear into action, of worry into logistical walls. It didn’t soften the hurt. It made it more complicated.
“I felt alone,” Ana said, the fight draining from her, leaving raw exhaustion. “Right then. I felt so alone, and you let me.”
Nevaieh’s jaw worked. For a second, something raw and pained flashed in her dark eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came. “You’re not alone,” she said, the words firm but the delivery rough. “But you’re not going to feel me hovering. That’s not who I am. Get dressed. The car’s out back.”
She turned and walked into the hallway, not waiting for a reply. Ana sat there, trembling, the cold vinyl seeping through her clothes. The phantom scent of coconut oil and cheap perfume from her own sheets felt a universe away. She dressed slowly, each movement cautious, feeling the unfamiliar ache.
When she stepped into the hallway, Nevaieh was leaning on the wall opposite the door, arms crossed. She pushed off without a word and led them to a service elevator, then out through a loading dock where her black SUV idled. The Chicago wind, sharp and relentless, sliced through Ana’s thin hoodie.
Nevaieh opened the passenger door for her. It was a simple, practical gesture. Not an apology. A fact.
Ana got in. The warmth of the car interior was a shock. Nevaieh got behind the wheel, her profile stern in the dashboard glow. She didn’t start the engine immediately. She just stared through the windshield at the cracked asphalt of the alley.
“The issue with the shipment,” Nevaieh said quietly, still not looking at her. “It wasn’t about liquor. It was a perimeter check. One of my spots got scoped last night. I had to re-route security for three locations while you were in there.”
She finally turned her head. Her expression was granite, but her eyes were alive with a fierce, terrifying protectiveness. “So when you tell me I don’t care, you’re wrong. You just don’t understand what caring looks like when you live in the world I built. And now you’re living in it, too.”
She put the car in drive and pulled onto the side street, the city swallowing them whole.