You can tell me. No, no she couldn't, which was what was tripping Whit up entirely. She wanted this over with, spoken and settled so she could retreat and force herself to deal with this, but the words to take care of it were beyond her. What was she supposed to start with, 'do you remember that weekend in April'?
Running a hand across her face, she finally started to speak. "I started to feel sick in Brazil about three weeks ago. I thought it was fatigue or just a bug, but when I got to France a week ago-"
Getting up out of the chair, Whit started to pace, first just in front of where they were sitting, then wider, trying to work up to telling him, "-I ended up having to see a doctor because I nearly passed out in the hotel lobby and when I put that together with the nausea, I thought there was something wrong with me. He told me there wasn't."
She didn't know why she was telling him such inconsequential details when the ones that were important were "birth control and condoms failed". Pacing certainly didn't help her nausea, but it was the only thing burning the edge off her need to flee the room, his house, the city and the country. New Dehlia was as good as Philly, really.
For God's sake, just tell the man. It's four words. Three if you don't start the sentence with his name. Two if you use a contraction.