**TRIGGER WARNING, PLEASE READ**
So, I'm just gonna have to spoil this right off the top, but in this chapter, Max gets an abortion, and there's a fairly detailed description of it (no blood but just the general medical procedure). This is a chapter I had planned on writing from the beginning, and it's basically my own personal story, but I think the emotions and thought process are really true to Max as well.
I know it's a sensitive subject so if it's going to be distressing to read please skip it, and if you have any moral objections to anything I've written, I kindly ask that you keep your opinions to yourself.
Of course, if you liked the chapter or it resonated with you in some way then let me know, I've been quite nervous about posting this but I'm really proud of it, so please enjoy :)
Chicago, Illinois
Max should have been in bed.
It was Saturday morning and, like every weekend, she should have still been cocooned in warm blankets, waiting for Mike to come back with coffee and croissants from the bakery around the corner. But instead, she was pacing around their small bathroom, gnawing anxiously on the edge of her thumb.
One missed period wasn't unusual, she'd reasoned with herself initially. She'd just been promoted and work had been insanely busy as they neared the end of Q4. But then another month had gone by with no bleeding and she was feeling really tired lately and she just needed to rule this out.
It's been so crazy at work, that's all, she reassured herself for the hundredth time.
As of just under two months ago, Max was officially an A&R representative for the record label. Rick had moved to Los Angeles after getting headhunted for an executive position at Columbia Records, and he'd immediately recommended Max to take over for him. Now she was with the one with her own assistant. It had been her dream for years and it still felt unreal that she had actually achieved it.
The job was stressful and chaotic, the artists were often difficult to work with, and the hours were irregular, and she wouldn't change it for the world. She was certain her hormones were all out of whack from the hectic transition into the new role. Besides, pregnancy meant morning sickness and food cravings and mood swings, and she'd had none of those. It was definitely just stress.
She was glancing down at her watch again when she heard the front door open and close, followed by the thump of Mike kicking off his boots and the creaking of the floorboards as he walked around.
"Max?"
"I'm in the bathroom," she called out.
"Guess what just came in the mail?"
"What?"
"A 'save the date' for Rachel's wedding!"
"That's great…" she replied absentmindedly, too focused on the seconds ticking by on her watch to fully absorb the news of her friend's engagement. One more minute.
There were really only two ways this would go—either she was not pregnant, or she wouldn't be for long. The choice was already made before she'd even taken the test. There was no way she could continue working if she had a newborn. Her job was late nights and last minute gigs, bars and clubs and music festivals… and she loved every second of it. And she had worked so damn hard to get it. Not to mention Mike had just gotten promoted to project lead at work several months ago, and he was a lot busier now that he was managing a team. They were only twenty-five years old for fucks sake, they couldn't have a baby.
And Max loved their life. She loved taking Mike to gigs, staying out late and sleeping in on the weekends, having sex whenever they felt like it, and getting stoned and spontaneously deciding to go to a restaurant or a movie, or to meet their friends at a bar. A child simply didn't fit into the equation right now.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Times up. Mustering all the bravery she had, she grabbed the test from the counter and flipped it over with zero hesitation.
There, she was freaking out for nothing because just like last time there was only– oh. Her stomach dropped as she lifted the test closer to her face. There wasn't only one line. There were two. Two very solid, very pink lines—the unmistakable result practically laughing in her face.
No no no no! The calm rationality she'd been maintaining vanished in an instant and was replaced by an icy chokehold of dread and panic as reality set in. She was pregnant. She sat down heavily on the closed lid of the toilet seat and buried her fingers in her hair, tugging at it from the roots until it stung. After a few seconds, she realized her breathing had turned shallow and rapid, gasping for oxygen through her mouth. Max decided to allow herself exactly two minutes to panic and then she was going to get her shit together.
Pulling the thick wool of her turtleneck sweater over her mouth and nose, she breathed deeply as images from high school health class flooded her mind. There was that horrible birth video they'd been forced to watch to encourage abstinence that had been seared into her brain—the screams, the blood and other bodily fluids, the tearing. Max shuddered. She wanted absolutely no part in that. Nancy's birth story from just a few months ago came to mind—how she'd pushed and pushed for hours before they eventually had to do an emergency c-section, and then the prolonged and painful healing process that came after.
Saliva flooded Max's mouth and she slid to the cold tile floor, lifting up the lid of the toilet just in case. Oh god, she thought as she leaned her elbows on the seat. What was Mike going to think? She was pretty sure he was going to agree with her but what if he didn't? What if he wanted her to have it and she went ahead and got an abortion anyway? Then she wouldn't be Max, his girlfriend, anymore. She'd forever be Max, the girl who'd gotten rid of his child.
For a minute she considered simply not telling him. She could just get it taken care of and say it was her period; he certainly didn't keep track of her cycle. But no, she wouldn't want to keep that secret from him for the rest of her life. She glanced down at her watch and the thin second hand ticking its way to the twelve. Okay, enough now.
Slowly, she got to her knees and took a deep breath, steeling herself. If Mike couldn't handle it then he wasn't the person she'd thought he was. She stood on shaky legs, studying herself in the mirror, trying to see if she looked different at all; if there had been any signs she'd missed, any trace of that pregnant "glow" everyone talked about. Nope, she just looked like herself. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face before grabbing her brush and smoothing out her dishevelled hair. Standing back from the mirror, she turned to the side and tried to picture herself with a baby bump under her sweater, and thought that she really might vomit this time.
With a sweaty, shaky hand she grasped the doorknob and turned it, the incriminating pregnancy test clutched tightly in the other. Mike was sitting on the sofa, sorting through the mail when she emerged. She could smell the coffee that was sitting in cardboard cups on the table, right next to the brown paper bag of croissants.
"Hey," Mike grinned when he saw her, "so after breakfast, I was thinking we could– what's wrong?" he asked, smile fading when he noticed the look on her face.
Briefly, he glanced at the test in her hand but it clearly didn't register as anything because he looked back up at her, bemused.
Max sighed and tossed the plastic stick on the coffee table numbly. "We fucked up."
He frowned and leaned forward to look at the test, realization dawning on his face almost immediately.
"Shit." He looked up at her, eyes widened in alarm. "Shit!" It made her feel such immense relief that his reaction was identical to her own that it almost made her crack a smile. But then, to her absolute horror, his eyes momentarily flicked down to her stomach, and she felt overcome with such visceral dread that she wanted to scream. "Are you– are you sure?"
"I've only taken this one but… it's accurate," she sighed. "I can feel it."
Mike took a shaky breath. "So what are you...?"
"I'm not keeping it." She crossed her arms, prepared to defend her decision if need be.
"Okay," he exhaled, nodding as if he were relieved. "Yeah. I just, I don't think we're–"
"No. Definitely not."
An awkward silence descended over them as the news sank in, and his eyes kept involuntarily flicking to her midsection.
"Can I… get you anything?" Mike asked after a minute.
Max raised an eyebrow. "Like what?" A box of condoms and a time machine, maybe.
"I dunno, babe," he chuckled sadly. "Come here." Gently grabbing her wrist, he guided her onto his lap. Max let herself collapse into him with a sigh, burying her face in his neck. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair, his voice so quiet she could barely hear it.
She shrugged. "It's not your fault, this shit happens. The pill is only like, ninety-five percent effective. I guess we're part of the unlucky five." Her gaze fell to the save-the-date card sitting on the table, and she reached forward and grabbed it.
She turned it over in her hands. It was obviously expensive, probably costing more than a week's worth of groceries for them. Thick, creamy cardstock, embossed with shiny purple script informed her that Rachel was marrying someone named Ethan Goldberg in May of next year. Inside, there was a glossy, professionally taken black and white engagement photo of Rachel and a good-looking man with curly dark hair. She was cupping his face, massive diamond ring on display as they leaned their foreheads together, smiling serenely.
Max had last seen Rachel in person two years ago when she'd accompanied Rick to New York City on a work trip. Rachel had been in her first year of law school at Columbia then. They still kept in touch over the phone, trying to make a point to catch up a few times a year, but life had clearly gotten in the way since this was the first Max was hearing of any kind of serious boyfriend, let alone fiance.
"It's probably gonna be a nice ass wedding," Mike said, looking down at the photo in her hands.
Max nodded, and then, with a start, remembered that she had a time-sensitive issue on her hands if she didn't want to show up to the ceremony in a maternity gown.
"Well, I guess I should make the call sooner rather than later," she sighed as she got up from Mike's lap.
Grabbing the yellow phonebook from the side table, she flipped through it until she reached the women's section of the medical clinics, running her finger down the page and stopping when she found one that was nearby. She picked up the phone and dialled.
"Lakeview East Women's Clinic, how may I help you?"
"Um hi, are you guys an… abortion provider?"
"We are."
Max curled her fingers into her palm. What the fuck were you supposed to say? "Okay, I uh… I need one of those?" Smooth.
The woman on the phone didn't miss a beat at Max's awkwardness, calmly and professionally asking her a few questions about her last period, medications she took, and if she'd taken an at-home test before providing the details of the appointment and the cost of the procedure.
Max thanked her and hung up the phone, already feeling as if a weight had been lifted at just having the appointment scheduled.
"It's Monday at eleven," she informed Mike, who had been watching her anxiously. "I guess I'll call in sick to work… Oh, and I can bring a support person if you… want to come."
He got up and grabbed his work bag, pulling out his planner and flipping it to the right page. "Damn, I'm supposed to give a presentation to the managers that morning," he said, raking a hand through his hair.
"It's okay," Max said immediately. For some reason, this was something she kind of wanted to do on her own.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes soft with concern. "Maybe I can ask my boss if we can push it a day–"
"It's fine, Mike. It'll probably just be a lot of sitting around anyway." Unthinkingly, she reached forward and grabbed one of the coffee cups, taking a long, much-needed sip.
Then she froze. Pregnant women weren't supposed to drink coffee, were they? But then again, what did it matter? Shaking off the unpleasant feeling of guilt, she took another sip and leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh.
It was going to be a long two days.
Mike and Max went about their weekend as normal, cleaning the apartment, grocery shopping, watching movies. But something was off. It was like they were out of sync, dancing around each other—awkward in a way they hadn't been in years.
He almost seemed afraid to touch her outside of a quick kiss in the morning and at night, as if she had a contagious disease. Not that she was initiating anything sexual either. It felt weird to do anything until they got this… thing taken care of; like her body wasn't fully her own.
In the evenings she still smoked pot and drank wine or beer like she normally would, because there was no point in abstaining, and tried to ignore the nagging feeling that she was doing something wrong. At night she tossed and turned and dreamed of a demon feeding off of her organs and tearing her open from the inside, clawing its way out and then feasting on her carcass until she woke up in a cold sweat.
And then Monday came. Max didn't think she'd ever been more impatient for the weekend to be over. She was alone in bed when she woke up. Mike had had to leave early for one last run-through with his team before the presentation that morning. She rolled over, gaze falling to a yellow sticky note on her nightstand, written in his neat, angular handwriting. M, Good luck. — Love, M.
Forcing herself to sit up, she glanced out the window and saw through the gap in the curtains that it was snowing steadily, as forecasted. She stood, pulling the plaid comforter off the bed with her as she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, holding it closed with one hand. It dragged behind her on the hardwood floor until she came to a stop in front of their overflowing closet. Max cocked her head to the side. What does one wear to an abortion?
Deciding to prioritize comfort, she grabbed her black track pants off the shelf and then spotted one of Mike's Northwestern sweatshirts near the top of the laundry basket. She pulled it out and pressed her nose to the pilling cotton, his familiar scent providing a small amount of solace.
In the entryway, she zipped up the navy blue goose down parka she'd finally caved and purchased last winter after years of insisting through chattering teeth that she was warm enough in her leather and denim jackets. She felt like she was suiting up for battle as she donned her scarf, hat, and gloves, making sure the only skin exposed was a small window from her eyebrows to her bottom lip.
She glanced at the clock—10:30. Just enough time to get there on foot without having to rush. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the hall, adjusting her headphones over her beanie before pressing play on her Walkman, the opening track of Jagged Little Pill flowing over her as she descended the stairs. There were many newer models now, but she just couldn't find it in herself to replace her trusty old cassette player, far preferring tapes to the cold, digital sleekness of CDs. The satisfying mechanical click of the buttons, the analog whir of rewinding, seeing the brown ribbon of tape rotating through the little window—it held a lot of memories, and she supposed she was more sentimental than she cared to admit.
Leaning on the heavy door of the apartment building, Max stepped out into the bright, cold daylight. She started east, boots crunching over the snow-covered sidewalk. She spotted a familiar figure on the corner—Frank, the homeless man who often posted up there in the doorway of a vacant storefront. He was bundled up in threadbare clothes that didn't look nearly warm enough, his perpetually junk-filled shopping cart shielding him from the wind on one side and his ancient, scruffy dog curled up on the other. She shifted one side of her headphones off of her ear as she approached, forcing her face into a small smile.
"Hey there, Red," he flashed her a gap-toothed grin as she stopped in front of him.
"How's it going, Frank?"
"Better than it was a minute ago now that I've seen that smile."
That made Max break out into a real grin. "Always a charmer," she teased, digging in her pocket for spare change. "Didn't wanna go to the drop-in shelter?"
"Weather like this, they've been full for days," Frank said, holding out a dirtied White Sox cap for her to drop her change into.
Max frowned, not for the first time cursing the city's corrupt politicians for failing its most vulnerable citizens. "Well, I'll bring you a coffee and some food on my way back, how about that?"
"I think that boyfriend of yours better put a ring on your finger before someone else realizes what an angel you are and whisks you away."
"Behave yourself, Frank," she laughed, stuffing her hands back into her pockets and turning back down the street.
"Stay warm, sunshine!" he called out as she slid her headphones back into place.
Max turned the corner onto North Halsted, one of the busier streets in Lincoln Park. A city this big was constantly bustling, but the cold always seemed to slow its pulse—people shuffling carefully on the icy sidewalks with their heads down, snow-covered cars crawling along, their drivers peering through barely defrosted windows, everybody wearily dragging themselves through the Monday morning grind.
She reached into her pocket and turned up the volume of her music, keeping her eyes on the ground as she skirted around a group of men aggressively handing out religious pamphlets of some kind. The smell of freshly baked bread filled her nose and Max slowed down as she walked by the window of the Ukranian bakery, mouth watering as she eyed the golden, flaky pastries lined up in the display case. Briefly, she considered going in and grabbing a coffee and a honey cake, but a glance at her watch changed her mind. Maybe she'd stop by after, as a treat.
She turned to continue down the sidewalk and nearly ran right into a young delivery boy wheeling a dolly full of soda cans into the Puerto Rican restaurant next door.
"Perdóneme, princesa," he said with a wink as he maneuvered his cart through the door. Max laughed and shook her head.
She had lived in the city for over seven years now and it truly felt like home. She loved everything about it. She loved all the different cultures coexisting like a patchwork quilt; she loved the buskers on the CTA, even the terrible ones; and even though she'd fought it for so long, it was impossible to resist getting swept up in the sheer collective euphoria of cheering for the Bulls. Max couldn't even find it in herself to hate the frigid weather. Not when it was so easy to escape the cold in a coffee shop or a record store or just stay inside, curled up with Mike on their couch.
Chicago, in its winter cloak, had a way of weaving a tale of contrasts like that—of warmth amid the chill, of life within the stillness.
After another fifteen minutes of walking and a few wrong turns down some side streets, she saw it—a dark red door sandwiched between a payday loan shop and a Korean convenience store, just like the receptionist had said. There was no signage in order to make themselves less conspicuous to protestors, which Max was relieved to see there was none of today. After stashing her Walkman in her coat pocket, she stepped up to the intercom, pressing the button marked "3" as she'd been instructed. A crackling voice over the speaker asked for her name, and a few seconds after she provided it there was a buzzing sound and the telltale click of the door unlocking.
Nerves jangling, she climbed up two flights of stairs and into an eerily empty hallway with stained beige walls and a worn, dark brown carpet, and for a second she wondered if she was walking into some sort of organ harvesting operation. But then she turned left at the end of the hall, pushed open a light blue door and was immediately greeted with the sterile, antiseptic smell of a medical clinic. She was pleased to see how normal it looked inside—a large front desk in front of her with a small waiting room off to the side, bright and clean and professional looking.
After checking in with the receptionist, Max was given a clipboard of forms to complete and directed to the empty waiting area. She sat down in one of the cracked vinyl armchairs and took a deep breath in and out. This is happening, it's all going to be okay. It was just an everyday medical procedure, despite the slightly terrifying warnings of potential complications on the waiver she was reading over.
Once Max was done with the forms she curled her fingers around the edges of the clipboard, staring blankly at the generic photographs of flowers on the walls until a nurse in floral scrubs came out and called her name. She directed Max towards a changeroom and advised her to take everything off from the waist down as well as any long sleeves and change into the items hanging on the hook. Max closed the door and slid out of her coat, sweatshirt, boots, pants, and underwear, putting on a disposable paper gown and a thicker, blue fabric robe over top. She placed her things into a small locker, hiding her panties under her track pants as if someone was going to come in and see.
When she reemerged, the nurse led her to a small office and directed her to sit in a chair. She began to explain the procedure, talking about local anesthesia and cervical dilation and aspirators. Max nodded along absently, only half listening. She didn't really care about the specifics, she just wanted it done. It all felt strangely surreal as if she was watching herself from the outside, like it was a TV show or something—an after-school special on the consequences of unprotected sex.
She did snap back to attention when the nurse slid a pamphlet about IUDs into her hand, advising they could insert one right after the procedure if she was interested. Max immediately agreed because she'd really prefer not to have to go through this again.
Then she was instructed to lie on the examination table, the thin paper sheet crinkling underneath her as she placed her embarrassingly mismatched socks into the stirrups.
"I'm going to do an ultrasound now to make sure everything is where it's supposed to be," the nurse explained as she held up a scary-looking white wand.
Max looked up sharply. "I don't have to see it do I?"
"No, this is just for me."
She nodded in relief, resting her head back down. Then the lubricated wand slid into her and Max winced as it pressed uncomfortably against her cervix.
"Okay… everything looks normal," the nurse said as she watched the screen in front of her, noting some things down on a chart. "You're between ten and eleven weeks."
Max exhaled deeply. Ten and a half weeks ago… that was early October. She stared up at the white ceiling tiles and wondered which of their sexual encounters was the one that had done it. Maybe it was that day when it had been pouring rain and they got stoned and opened all the windows, and he'd tied her wrists together with the belt of her bathrobe before they slowly fucked to the sound of the torrential downpour. But no, he hadn't actually finished inside her then… So maybe it had been later that week when she'd dragged him into the bathroom stall at the gig of a terrible band she'd been tasked with checking out… or maybe it was one of the countless, completely unremarkable—but still satisfying—times when a mint-flavoured kiss good night turned into something more, or in the morning before work, gentle and lazy and half asleep.
She cringed when she realized that meant that she'd already been knocked up at Halloween, thinking back to how much she drank that night. She and Mike had dressed up like Wayne and Garth for the label's party, and she'd even done a celebratory bump of cocaine in the bathroom with some of the other reps. Surely that wasn't good for any kind of baby. No. Not a baby, she reminded herself. A collection of cells. Like a tumour.
Once she was done, the nurse sent her to a different waiting room, where there were a number of other women in the same hospital robes. Max flipped through a copy of last month's Vanity Fair that had been on the side table, her knee bouncing anxiously as she tried to concentrate on an article about the O.J. verdict, but her eyes kept darting around the room at the other women.
There were a couple of wide-eyed teenagers, girls no older than sixteen, anxiously clutching their mothers' hands; an older Middle Eastern woman in a headscarf with whom Max assumed was her husband, both of them looking solemn and a little sad; a lot of the other women were alone, like herself—women of varying ages and races whom Max couldn't help but feel a kind of solidarity with. She took great comfort in the fact that this was a common occurrence. That they were all just women, making a choice for themselves.
She watched them disappear through the swinging door one by one as a different nurse came out and called their names. Max felt like she was on the verge of crawling out of her skin by the time hers was finally called over an hour later. She tossed aside the Better Homes & Gardens she'd been not reading and followed the nurse down a brightly lit hallway into a large operating room, her heart suddenly in her throat.
Max was lying on what looked like a dentist's chair, looking pointedly away from where the nurse was inserting an IV into her inner arm when the doctor came in, a kind smile on her face. Max liked her immediately, the fear that had been steadily building lessening just a little. She explained the suction aspiration procedure again and assured Max of its safety, advising she did this a dozen times a day. And then the nurse injected the lorazepam into the catheter in her arm, and any lingering anxieties Max may have had evaporated from her mind almost instantly, her senses dulled and the world going a little blurry around the edges.
Her feet were once again guided into stirrups and she dug her nails into her palm at the unpleasant metallic ratcheting of the speculum followed by a sharp, painful pinch of the needle that administered the local anesthetic. A minute later there was a loud hum as the machine was turned on, but Max couldn't feel anything as she continued to stare at the ceiling and tried not to think about what was going on between her legs.
She wondered if she'd ever take a pregnancy test and be happy to see a positive result. Maybe someday. Definitely not until she was in her thirties. Maybe then the image of a child with Mike's wild hair and her eyes would spark longing in her heart instead of terror.
But then she could also so easily picture a life in which there was no child, and they were happy and fulfilled and obsessed only with each other.
Nancy would probably have more kids, and Holly might too someday, and maybe that could be more than enough for them—being the fun aunt and uncle. Mike had never expressed any great interest in being a dad, unlike Dustin, who having grown up an only child couldn't wait to have a big family like Suzie's once they finished their doctorates. Max knew from Mike's weekly phone calls with Karen that at least four girls they'd gone to school with already had multiple kids. Hell, Steve Harrington was on kid number four last she'd heard. It was a nice life, she thought. For some people.
The machine shut off and the room filled with silence. "Okay Max, I'm just going to put the IUD in now…" she heard the doctor say distantly, her own thoughts still fuzzy and focused inwards. It wasn't until the stirrups brought her legs together and lowered that she realized it was over. "Alright, you're all done," the doctor said breezily, rolling off her latex gloves.
Max sat up slowly with assistance from the nurse, somewhat disoriented. "That's it?"
"That's it."
She was escorted to a recovery room and helped into a comfortable reclining chair where the nurse advised her to relax for half an hour while the sedative subsided. Max sipped from a box of apple juice and ate an oatmeal cookie while she perused the aftercare instructions. Once her time was up the nurse gave her a small bag with surgical underwear and pads and walked her through the winding halls to the changeroom she'd been in before. Max felt like she was on autopilot as she put her clothes back on, pulling the collar of the sweatshirt over her nose and inhaling Mike's comforting scent.
Then the next thing she knew she was stepping outside into the cold winter air as the door closed heavily behind her.
It was done.
Max looked directly up at the thick snowflakes falling from the sky, letting them land on her tongue. She felt… immensely relieved—lighter, freer than she ever had before. She felt like laughing, so she did, uncaring that the middle-aged couple walking past her looked at her like she was insane. She put her headphones back on and pressed play, resuming the Alanis song she'd been in the middle of.
Practically skipping down the street, she made her way back to Halsted and down to the bakery. She got a chocolate babka for herself and an apple cake for Frank then stopped into the coffee shop down the block and got two large black coffees. As she was leaving, Max held the door open for a woman carrying a bundled-up toddler on her hip, and she watched them through the glass as they stood in line, the woman pointing out menu items to her rosy-cheeked daughter.
Max continued down the street and thought of her own mother. She and Wayne were still going strong after nearly two years of marriage, but Max knew a part of her would always be waiting for the rug to be yanked out from under her feet, no matter how many years had passed. She attended local Al-Anon meetings occasionally—when some particularly dark memories clawed their way to the surface and refused to sink back down. They always reiterated that she was not responsible for her mother's choices and that it wasn't her job to manage her sobriety, and it never should have been, but it was still so hard to let go.
If, someday, Max ever was someone's mother, she would be different from her own. She'd be responsible and level-headed, capable of admitting her own mistakes; she would be a more healed person than she was currently. Fucking it up was not an option. If it ever happened, it would be wanted, and she would be ready.
As she neared home, Max became worried her carefree mood was just a byproduct of the residual Ativan coursing through her system. She kept waiting for the guilt or regret over what she'd done to hit her but it just… didn't.
She smiled as she handed the coffee and cake to Frank, whose eyes were filled with such gratitude that it warmed her from the inside out. And then, finally, she was stomping the snow off of her boots as she entered her apartment, quickly shedding her winter gear. Immediately, she reached back and unhooked her bra, sighing in relief as she tugged it off through her sleeve and discarded it on the floor before beelining for the sofa.
An hour later, she was curled around her hot water bottle watching a Sailor Moon episode she'd already seen, palms pressed together under her cheek. The anesthesia had worn off after about thirty minutes and now she felt sore and crampy, like a bad period.
The jingling of keys in the lock drew her attention away from the TV. Mike must have left work early to be with her. The thought filled her heart with joy. She hadn't realized how badly she'd wanted to see him until just now. There was the familiar rustling of him taking off his coat and hanging it up along with his bag, and when he came around the corner a few seconds later, she saw he hadn't arrived empty-handed.
He approached her, holding the bouquet of white lilies in his hand up with a sheepish smile.
She raised an eyebrow. "'Congrats on the abortion' flowers?"
His steps faltered, eyes going wide. "Shit, should I not have– do you not want them?"
"I do," she replied quickly, flashing him a small smile to show she'd just been kidding.
Relieved, he gingerly placed the paper-wrapped flowers on the coffee table and then sat down on the edge of it so they were nearly eye level.
Leaning over, he tucked her hair behind her ear, fingers gently brushing along her cheek. "Need anything?" Max shook her head, content with just gazing up at him for a moment. Snowflakes still clung to his unfairly long eyelashes and the tip of his nose was red from the cold. He looked so beautiful it made her chest ache. "You okay?"
She nodded. "I am, actually."
He smiled at her softly. "Move over," he said, standing up and lifting the blanket she was under. She shifted forward so she was closer to the edge of the cushions and he slotted in behind her. He draped his top arm over her waist, splaying his hand over the hot water bottle so it pressed more snugly against her abdomen. She groaned at the immediate relief.
"Is that bad?" Max asked after a minute.
"Hm?"
"That I don't feel like, torn up about it at all? "
His thumb pressed into her hip bone. "I don't think there's any right or wrong way to feel."
"Are– are you sad?" she asked, her stomach twisting itself into a knot as she awaited his answer.
He was quiet for a few seconds and she heard him swallow, felt his chest rise and fall behind her as he took a breath. "I dunno… I don't think so? It's not like it was my body so I guess it doesn't really feel… real?" That made sense. It barely felt real to her.
"It was definitely the right choice though, wasn't it? I mean could you imagine us with a kid right now?"
Mike snorted. "God, that would be a disaster. What would we feed it, instant ramen?"
They both laughed and Max felt a weight lift off her chest that she hadn't even known had been there. They were still them; this ordeal hadn't irrevocably altered their relationship.
"Now I guess it's just… something that happened," she mused after their laughter died out. She felt him nod before dropping a kiss on the crown of her head.
Several minutes passed in silence save for the cartoonish voices coming out of the television, and soon Max was on the verge of falling asleep, her eyelids drooping closed. They fluttered back open when Mike sat up a little, pressing his lips to the corner of her jaw.
"I love you a lot," he murmured.
Her heart did a little flip like it always did when he told her loved her. Smiling, she craned her neck back so her lips could reach his. It was a familiar dance, the eager press of her lips against his, the slide of his tongue against hers, and then she opened her mouth as she let him intensify the kiss even further. Things started to get a little heated like they often did with them, but they both seemed to think better of it, slowing back down to gentle pecks until they were just resting their foreheads together, eyes closed.
"I love you more," she whispered.
His nose brushed against hers as he shook his head. "Not possible."
