“Some women continue to have light periods at the beginning of their pregnancies.” She stands to look at her computer. She taps the screen and scrolls through something I assume is my chart. “As for your birth control, of course nothing’s one hundred percent, but the pill can fail if you’re on antibiotics. Have you been prescribed anything for a sinus infection or—”

I shake my head. “No. No antibiotics. Are you sure? Maybe they mixed up the cups or something?” But even as I say it, I remember the conference in Florida a couple of months ago. I got food poisoning and was sick for days. I rarely forget to take my pill and am sure I didn’t miss it on that trip, but how much good can it do if you can’t keep anything down? “I was sick,” I whisper.

She gives me a sympathetic nod. “That can happen too.”

I used condoms for two weeks after that food poisoning. Just in case. But that doesn’t account for the sex I had leading up to my sickness. In fact, before I ate the bad shellfish that made my weekend a total pukefest, it would have been better described as a sexfest. With a married man.

“I don’t do OB anymore,” she says, “but I can get you a referral if you’d like to continue with the pregnancy or even if you’re not sure yet.”

“I’m sure,” I say quickly. I understand why she might question it—a single woman with no boyfriend in sight—but of all the things I’ve been questioning about my life as I wrap up my doctorate, my desire to have a family is not one of them. When I visualized my future, I pictured children.

I just imagined they’d be Easton’s.

Fresh tears pour from my eyes as I imagine his face when I tell him the news. “Shit,” I whisper. “You must think I’m such an idiot.”

“Not at all. You had every reason to take the sudden change in your energy levels seriously. And I’m glad you did. We’ll make sure all the lab work looks good too, of course, and send those results over to your OB when you chose one. My staff can get your appointment set up for you.” She taps on her keyboard a few times then hesitates. “Do you . . . have a preference for your obstetrician?”

“Not my brother,” I blurt. Even if I was ready to drop this bomb on my family—and, hello, I’m not—I wouldn’t want him to be my doctor. I know he’s good at his job, but that’s just weird. My family is close, but not check-your-dilation close.

“I wouldn’t advise anyone to choose a family member. I’m sure your brother would feel the same.”