Tegan didn’t say a word, staring at the desk. It was a few minutes before she felt the warm streaks of tears fall. She started to speak, but all she could do was blink.
“It’s OK. Take your time.”
“What about... I thought I was pregnant. Am I?”
Lucy gave her a sad smile. “Yes, you are.”
"What will happen to my baby?"
“We need to determine what stage it's at before you make any decisions, but I don't want to mislead you. You need to be prepared for the possibility that you might lose the baby.”
“What am I going to tell him...” she whispered to herself before catching Lucy’s quizzical gaze. “My...” Her what? Owen was nothing to her. Officially. They weren’t dating. What was he? “The father...” Tegan’s words got caught. How strange this was. Just last night, panic had filled her at the possibility of being pregnant or having cancer.
But after telling him, and his response, she had found herself with a hint of excitement and wonder in the midst of all that worry and confusion. Now, that was all gone. She thought about his face when he found out. It was absurd for him to be that calm, that happy, at the news. Not after knowing her such a short time. But he was. She had given him something, and now she had to take it back. This wasn’t just bad news; it was the worst possible news.
“If he cares about you, he’ll understand.”
“How can he when I don’t?”
“Well, that’s one of my jobs. To go over the options and help you understand. I can give you my strongest recommendations and urge you to consider them. But ultimately the choice is up to you.”
“Is there... anyway to save my baby?”
“Tegan—”
“Is there or not?” Tegan mumbled, trying to hold back tears.
“We’re not there yet. We need to run more tests. We did an ultrasound at your last appointment, but an ultrasound isn't always a good indication of if or how far it’s gone. If the cancer is just in one ovary, we can remove that. If it has gone to the other, then the best course of action is to remove your uterus. But look, we aren't there yet. I need to book you in for urgent screening, and we can go from there.”
* * *
“OK, can we hose him down a bit more, please?” came the director’s voice. Owen stood still and closed his eyes as the make-up assistant walked over with a spray bottle full of water and gently sprayed his face and torso, already slicked with baby oil, to give the impression of sweat under the lights.
“Quiet on set... and... action.”
Owen launched into his boring spiel yet again. “Is your current car lacking punch? Well, kick it to the curb and head down to your local—”
“Cut! Cut. Sorry Owen. It was great, but can you flex a bit more for us?”
“Sorry, what?”
“When you start talking, you move your hands and they cover up your abs, and we need to see them.”
“So, you need to see my abs in order for me to say a line and sell cars?”
The director smiled. “What can I tell ya, babe. You’re hot. Women like abs. When you win the championship, we’ll have you wearing the belt. Everyone loves a winner. But for right now, let’s get those poppin’.”
“Don’t suppose I should just... I dunno, stand still and speak?”
“Whatever you feel comfortable with, champ.”
Owen let out a frustrated breath that puffed out his cheeks yet moved his shoulders around and set himself to try again. He sucked his stomach in, which made the director gasp. “Fuck. That’s it. Perfect. Hold it... action!”
Owen launched into his lines again, trying to say them as quickly, yet professionally, as possible. When done, it appeared he had satisfied them. Calling a break for the day, the director lit up a smoke as Owen came over to him.
“What happened to the girls? The dancing girls?”
“Danc—oh yeah. We canned them at the last minute.”