This wasn’t just any taco. The concoction was the Nook’s claim to culinary fame and promised an explosion of flavors in every bite. The tortilla, perfectly charred at the edges, cradled a vibrant mix of ingredients both familiar and daringly innovative. Bright, fresh cilantro contrasted with the deep, smoky undertones of chipotle, while the tanginess of pickled red onions cut through the richness of the succulent, slow-cooked pork.
Her expression morphed into one of confusion as she chewed, eyebrows knitting together in a clear sign of distress. “I think I’m getting sick,” she said, pushing the plate away slightly. “I’m sorry, this all sounded so good a minute ago, but smelling it and seeing it now? I can’t eat it.”
I couldn’t help but feel a pang of concern. “Hey, no big deal,” I assured her, quickly flagging down the waiter to grab to-go boxes and settle the bill. By the time I’d turned back to grab Izzy, she was already outside on the sidewalk, taking deep breaths of the fresh air.
“Let’s get you back to your parents’ house,” I suggested gently, slipping an arm around her shoulders for support. Izzy nodded, still taking deep, steadying breaths.
The walk back was quiet, the bustling energy of the city somehow muted. Izzy leaned into me, her steps slow and deliberate. I couldn’t shake the worry nagging at me, her sudden shift from excitement to discomfort too abrupt to ignore.
Reaching her parents’ townhouse, I helped her inside, the familiarity of the space offering a small comfort. Izzy managed a weak smile, her usual vibrancy dimmed. “Thanks, Max,” she whispered, her voice soft. “I just need to rest, I think.”
Watching her slowly ascend the stairs, my mind raced with concerns and questions. Whatever was affecting Izzy seemed sudden, but I knew better than to press for answers she might not have. Instead, I resolved to be there, to offer whatever support she needed.
I felt the weight of the box in my jacket pocket. I gently patted it, a gesture that was becoming a habit. Today was supposed to be the day I turned an ordinary lunch date into a moment we’d remember forever. I had pictured it clearly: amidst our animated discussions of who had picked the better dish, I’d slide the box across the table, making the mundane magnificent.
Finding magic didn’t come from grand gestures or the right timing but rather from the simple, everyday moments we shared together. All I had to do was wait for another one of those ordinary moments to come along.
THIRTY-TWO
ISABELLA
I had two problems: One, the only semblance of a meal I could keep down consisted of oyster crackers and chicken broth. And two, I was undeniably, unquestionably, going to be late for my annual doctor’s appointment that had somehow snuck up on me in the chaos of everything going down at the brownstone.
Yesterday, Max had dropped me off at my parents’ house and I’d slept long and hard for the rest of the day. I padded downstairs around nine in the evening to raid the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something that didn’t make my stomach turn. Was the flu going around?
My plan was to lay in bed all day today. I’d already sent out a canned email response to all my clients informing them I’d be out of touch for a minute while I recovered from a light illness. Well, I was hoping it was light, I still didn’t really know what was going on. I’d been snuggled deep in my covers, You’ve Got Mail playing on a low volume in the background, when my phone buzzed.
It wasn’t the sound of a text, but rather a calendar reminder. Picking up the phone, my eyes squinted in the dimly lit room and flew open when I realized I had exactly twenty-three minutes to get over to my doctor’s office.
I wouldn’t normally care about needing to reschedule at the last minute, but with an upset stomach, I’d decided to pull it together. I threw on an oversized hoodie and yoga pants before stuffing my feet into some old sneakers.
I barely glanced in the mirror, knowing time was of the essence. There was no way I could wait for my parents’ car service—there simply wasn’t time. So, I dashed out the door, my steps quick and determined as I hailed a taxi on the busy streets outside. It was just my luck the first one to stop reeked of stale cigarettes; the driver attempted to mask the smell with an overpowering, cheap car freshener. The combination made my stomach churn even more, and I cracked the window open, trying to breathe in some fresh air amidst the traffic.
The drive was a slow crawl, the city’s traffic unforgiving. I had to focus on my breathing to keep the nausea at bay with each lurching stop and start of the cab. The minutes ticked by, my anxiety rising with each passing second. By some miracle, I made it to the doctor’s office with a minute to spare. I handed the driver a wad of cash, not bothering to wait for change, and stumbled out onto the sidewalk.
The cool air was a relief after the stifling atmosphere of the cab, but I had no time to enjoy it. I rushed inside, checking in at the front desk with hurried, clipped words. The receptionist took one look at my pale face and directed me to the waiting room for sick patients, a quieter area with plush chairs that felt like a haven in my current state.
I sank into one of the chairs, grateful for the relative calm and the gentle hum of the air-conditioning. The waiting room was dimly lit, a deliberate choice to soothe the senses, and I found myself closing my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. The plush fabric of the chair felt soft against my skin, a small comfort as I waited to be called back.
My mind raced with possibilities, the uncertainty of what was wrong with me nagging at the back of my thoughts. Yet, at that moment, surrounded by the soft sounds of the waiting room, I allowed myself a moment of rest, hoping for answers soon.
I barely had time to settle into the sterile, brightly lit examination room before the nurse came in. She took my vitals with a practiced ease, the blood pressure cuff tightening around my arm with a familiar squeeze. I barely listened to the numbers she rattled off. My mind was elsewhere, fixated on the queasiness that had taken up residence in my stomach.
After an eternity, or more likely a few minutes, my doctor breezed into the room with a cheerful, “Good afternoon, Izzy! Ready to get that IUD swapped out, or are we thinking of other family plans?”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard her. “I’m sorry, what?”
She chuckled, flipping through my medical file on my tablet. “Yup, it’s been in there for . . . ninety-six, oh actually, ninety-eight months now. It’s time to replace it for maximum efficacy.”
My mind reeled, trying to grasp the timeline she was outlining. Has it really been eight years since I had the IUD inserted? My doctor’s words from back then echoed in my memory: “Izzy, make sure you use backup birth control in the last few months before you get it replaced. We haven’t really narrowed it down to exactly when efficacy begins to dip.”
Oh no.
A wave of panic washed over me, cold and relentless. “I think I might need a pregnancy test first,” I blurted out, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart hammered in my chest, and I felt my face drain of color.
The doctor’s demeanor shifted instantly from cheerful to calm, professional concern etched on her face. “Okay, let’s take a step back. Tell me what’s been going on,” she said, her tone soothing, as she pulled up a chair next to the examination table.
I recounted the past few days, the sudden aversion to food, the overwhelming nausea, and the incident at the Nook. The realization that I might have overlooked the critical timing of my IUD replacement loomed over me like a dark cloud.
