Chapter 21: Confirmation
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and fake lemon, with a whisper of lavender from a plug-in on the wall. Simone sat in the hard plastic chair, her posture perfect, her fingers tracing the raised pattern on the cover of a parenting magazine she wasn’t reading. Eli slouched beside her, one leg bouncing a nervous rhythm against the tile floor. He kept checking his phone, then putting it away, as if remembering where he was.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low.
“Mhm.” She didn’t look at him.
He reached over and took her hand. Her fingers were cold. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, the same way she’d done for him a hundred times before tests or presentations. The gesture felt borrowed, rehearsed. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t relax either.
They’d done this in silence for three days, since the little blue plus sign appeared on the stick she’d left on the bathroom counter for him to find. He’d stared at it, his brain skipping like a bad record, while she stood in the doorway, arms crossed, waiting. No tears, no drama. Just that clinical, observing look she got when she was dissecting a problem in organic chemistry. “We’ll need a doctor to confirm,” was all she’d said.
“Simone Davis?”
A nurse in cheerful scrubs held the door open. Eli stood too quickly, his knee popping. Simone gathered her purse and followed, her steps measured.
The exam room was smaller, quieter. The paper on the table crinkled when Simone sat on it. Eli took the single chair against the wall, feeling useless. He watched her profile as she stared at a diagram of the female reproductive system tacked to the wall. He knew that face. She was memorizing it, filing it away.
The doctor came in—a woman with kind eyes and a brisk manner. She asked Simone questions, typed notes into a computer. She talked about dates, about symptoms, about prenatal vitamins. The words blurred together for Eli, a medical waterfall. He focused on Simone’s answers, her voice flat and professional, as if she were discussing a case study.
Then, the confirmation. A simple sentence. “The quantitative hCG levels confirm you are pregnant.”
A weight settled in the room, thick and undeniable. Simone’s shoulders dropped a fraction, a tiny release of a breath she’d been holding.
The doctor asked, “Do you have any questions about the next steps?”
Simone shook her head. “Not at this time.”
“And you,” the doctor turned to Eli. “Any questions?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He just shook his head, a dumb, mute motion.
“Alright. We’ll schedule a follow-up for eight weeks. Congratulations.” The doctor offered a smile that didn’t touch her eyes—it was the congratulatory smile for all of them, the happy ones, the scared ones, the ones who hadn’t decided yet. Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
The silence was absolute. The hum of the fluorescent lights was suddenly very loud.
Simone stayed on the table, looking down at her hands in her lap. Eli stood up. The space between them felt like a chasm. He crossed it in two steps, standing before her. He reached for her hands. They were still cold.
He intertwined his fingers with hers, squeezing. His grip tightened—not with panic, but with a fierce, almost desperate certainty. He needed her to feel it, to believe it. He lowered himself to his knees on the floor, the linoleum hard under his jeans. He rested his forehead against her temple, feeling the warmth of her skin.
“We’ve built something real these past months,” he murmured, the words thick in his throat. He brought his other hand up, letting it settle, palm flat, over her still-flat belly. The gesture felt ancient, instinctive. Possessive. “This is just the next chapter.”
He felt her breath hitch. A single, sharp inhalation.
She was quiet for a long time. He stayed there, kneeling, his face buried in the soft space near her ear, his hand on her stomach. He could smell her shampoo, the faint, clean scent of her sweat. He waited.
“A chapter,” she finally said, her voice quiet and measured, “is something you can go back and reread. You can edit it. You can skip ahead.” She pulled back just enough to look down at him. Her eyes were clear, sharp, unbearably tired. “This isn’t a chapter, Eli. This is a life. My life. A life I had mapped out in a very specific order.”
He looked up at her. “Our life.”
“Is it?” The question hung there, simple and devastating.
He didn’t let go of her hand. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. The ring… the promise. This… this makes it more.”
“It complicates it,” she corrected. She looked at his hand on her stomach, then back at his face. “Med school. Residency. My plan was nine more years of studying and eighty-hour weeks before I even thought about this. You know that. You’ve always known that.”
“Plans change.”
“Do they?” She slid off the table, forcing him to stand up, breaking their connection. She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, as if she were cold. “Or do people just make messes and call them changes?”
He flinched. The ghost of Aaliyah flickered between them—the texts, the rooftop, the way he’d been so unsure. The fight with Marcus. The phantom ring. “That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” She turned to face him fully. “We were just starting to get solid again. Or I thought we were. Now this? It feels like… like the universe is forcing our hand. Or your hand. I don’t know.” She shook her head, a quick, frustrated motion. “I need to think. I can’t… I can’t process this with you looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided everything for both of us.” She picked up her purse. “I need air. I’m going for a walk. Don’t follow me.”
“Simone—”
“Please, Eli.” Her voice cracked, just a little, and that small fracture hurt more than any shout. “Just give me an hour.”
He nodded, numb. He watched her open the door and slip out into the hallway, her braids swaying softly down her back. He stood alone in the sterile room, the crinkled paper on the exam table the only evidence she’d been there at all. He looked at his hand, the one that had rested on her stomach. He clenched it into a fist, then let it fall limp at his side.
The nurse popped her head in. “All set? Need help scheduling?”
“No,” Eli said, his voice rough. “I’m all set.”
He walked out into the bright, impersonal lobby, past the glossy magazines and the pregnant women with their partners, their hands clasped, their smiles easy. He pushed through the heavy glass doors into the afternoon sunlight. It was too bright, too normal. Cars passed. A bird sang. The world went on, utterly indifferent to the tectonic shift happening inside him.
He pulled out his phone. No messages. He stared at the blank screen, then tapped out a text to Marcus before he could think better of it. Need to talk. It’s important.
He deleted it. That wasn’t his lane anymore.
He thought about calling his mother. His father. The words stuck in his throat.
He just stood there on the sidewalk, unmoored, waiting for the hour to pass, knowing that whatever Simone came back with would define everything. The promise of the ring, the ghost of the fight, the life he’d sworn to build—all of it was suddenly condensed into a single, waiting silence.
He stood there until his phone buzzed in his hand, startling him. It was his father’s name on the screen. He answered, the word "Hey" cracking in his dry throat.
"Your mother said you had a doctor's appointment today," his father said, his voice steady. "Everything alright?"
Eli walked, one foot in front of the other, away from the clinic. The story spilled out in ragged pieces—the positive test, the sterile room, Simone’s silence, his own clumsy declaration about the next chapter. He told him about the months of trying to rebuild, about the ring still sitting unused, about the fight with Marcus that had left a permanent scar on his friendship. He didn’t leave anything out. The weight of it pressed the air from his lungs.
"You're human, Eli," his father said after a long pause. "Humans make messes. But this? This isn't just you and Simone in a messy apartment anymore. There’s a potential child involved. That reshapes everything, forever, no matter what you two decide to do next."
"I know that."
"Do you?" His father’s tone was gentle but firm. "Saying you want this baby, that it's a ‘next chapter’—that can be a selfish thing if you're not seeing her. You’re painting a picture in your head, but is she in the frame? Or is she just the canvas?"
Eli leaned against a brick wall, the rough surface grounding him. "I love her. So much. That’s why I’ve been trying to be better."
"I believe you," his father replied. "Then be better right now. Be the man she needs, not the boy who’s scared. Push your own wants to the side. Just be there. Comfort her. Let her know she's loved. You need to listen, Eli. Really listen. And you have to make it clear, beyond any doubt, that you love her no matter what path this takes."
The line went quiet, filled only with his father’s steady breathing. "You understand what I'm telling you?"
"Yeah," Eli whispered. "I do."
"Good. Go show her."
Eli ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket. The directionless panic hardened into a single, focused purpose. He got into his car and drove not to their apartment, but to the grocery store.
He moved through the brightly lit aisles with a determined clarity. He grabbed the sea salt and vinegar chips she craved when stressed, the pint of cherry garcia ice cream, the expensive sparkling water with the yellow label. He found the movie-theater style popcorn, a bottle of her favorite lavender essential oil for her temples, the biggest, softest blanket he could find, a U-shaped body pillow, and socks with little grippy dots on the bottom.
Back at their apartment, he worked quickly. He spread the blanket in the center of the living room floor, arranging the pillows. He set out the snacks like offerings. He dimmed the lights and put on her curated study playlist, something soft and instrumental. He dapped a bit of lavender oil on a cloth and placed it near where she’d sit. Then he waited.
The key turned in the lock just after sunset. Simone pushed the door open, her backpack slumping off one shoulder. She froze on the threshold, her eyes taking in the picnic, the dim lights, the careful arrangement. Her face was unreadable, etched with exhaustion.
"Hey," Eli said, staying seated on the floor.
"What is all this?" Her voice was flat.
"Just… stuff for you. To be comfortable. To talk. Or not talk."
She dropped her bag by the door and slowly walked over. She didn't sit. She just looked down at the spread, her arms crossed. "Eli…"
"Before you say anything," he said, looking up at her. "I need to apologize. In the exam room, I made this about my dream, my chapter. I got ahead of myself. I was selfish."
She blinked, her defensive posture softening a fraction.
"This decision… it’s for both of us to figure out," he continued, the words feeling truer than anything he’d said in that clinic. "But it’s mainly yours. It’s your body. Your future. Your life." He took a deep breath, holding her gaze. "I need you to know, with complete certainty, that I love you. And whatever you decide—whatever we decide—I am here. I’m not going anywhere. I support you. I love you. No matter what."