Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“Likewise,” he says, and he means it.
Dr. Patel scrolls through my chart. “Do we still want to keep the sex a surprise?”
I look at Lucas. His face is open, unreadable in the kind way. He lifts one shoulder. “Your call.”
Our call, whispers a traitorous part of me. I swallow. “Let’s keep it a surprise,” I say, and Dr. Patel smiles like she enjoys a good reveal.
Vitals. Blood pressure good. Weight, fundal height. She measures my belly with the cloth tape—Lucas watches, absorbing the number like it matters because it does. “Right on track,” Dr. Patel says, pleased.
Then the Doppler. The little wand kisses cool gel onto my skin, and we wait through a second of static until—there. That swift, sure whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. My eyes sting on cue. Every time it sounds like a gallop across a field I didn’t know existed in me.
Lucas goes very still, like something in him recognizes a signal he didn’t have a name for until this minute. He finds my hand without looking down and folds our fingers together. The pressure of his palm says more than anything he could say out loud.
“Strong heartbeat,” Dr. Patel says, smiling at the readout. “Baby’s in a cooperative mood.”
“That’s new,” I sniffle, and everyone laughs kindly at me.
We talk Braxton Hicks, hydration, rest. Lucas asks smart questions—not pushy, just informed. “Is there a threshold for frequency that warrants calling in?” he asks. “What’s the trigger that differentiates rehearsal from showtime?” The way Dr. Patel lights up at “rehearsal” makes me love him and also want to flick his ear.
“Great questions,” she says, and gives us the practicals: five minutes apart, one minute long, for an hour—call. Fluid, bleeding—call. Intuition screaming—call.
“Copy,” Lucas says, and Dr. Patel doesn’t blink at the tactical tone. She just pats my knee and says, “You’re doing beautifully. See you in two weeks.”
We leave with a printout of the heartbeat curve and a fresh appointment card. In the elevator, I hold the strip up to the fluorescent light like a treasure map. Lucas stares at it as if committing each up-and-down to memory.
“Food?” he asks when we hit the parking lot. “There’s that café on Birch with the weird murals.”
“The Weird Mural Café,” I say. “Yes.”
We claim a corner table near a painted magenta fish. Lucas insists I take the booth side so I can lean and as I do my lower back sends me a thank-you card. He orders me a turkey club and a mountain of fries before I can overthink, plus soup because “hydrat—”
“—ion, I know,” I finish, smiling. “I’m hydrated. I’m basically a houseplant now.”
“An exceptionally pretty houseplant,” he says, deadpan, and then seems startled he said it. He clears his throat. “What’s your plan for work? After the baby.”
I dunk a fry in ketchup and consider. “I’ll take a month off—maybe six weeks if I can swing it. I pre-shot content for the first few weeks—‘sleepy nursery’ photos, brand deals I can post from my phone with one hand while someone drools on my shoulder.”
He smiles at the visual. “Very glamorous.”
“So glamorous,” I say. “After that, I think… slower. Different. My agent panicked when I said ‘no travel until summer’ and then sent me six ‘new mom’ campaigns that require ‘authentic, messy joy.’ I can do authentic. I excel at messy.”
“What about the rescue stuff?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Photos. Adoption drives.”
“Charlotte’s got volunteers on rotation,” I say. “I’ll still help—local shoots, slow mornings. Babies nap, right? Sometimes?”
“Allegedly,” he says. “We can test the hypothesis.”
We. The word lands soft. I chase it with soup.
“And,” I continue, pretending that word didn’t warm the edges of my vision, “I’ve been thinking about doing more long-form—blog posts, guides. ‘How to photograph a wriggly dog in bad lighting while sleep deprived.’ There’s a weird Venn diagram there.”
“I’ll hold the reflector,” he says, like it’s obvious. “And the baby.”
My fork pauses. “You want to hold reflectors and babies?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. He nudges a napkin toward me when I miss my mouth with a crumb. “I want… in. Not weekend in. Everyday in, as much as you’ll let me.”
I stare at his face, at the steadiness there. “We’re not a couple,” I remind softly, because I have to say it out loud or I’ll forget to be careful.
“I know.” He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not asking you to pretend we are. I’m asking to show up anyway. To do the parts no one takes pictures of. Trash runs. Night feeds. Pediatrician waiting rooms with terrible magazines.”
“Diapers,” I say, testing him.
“I have changed diapers,” he says, scandalized that I would even ask. “I have nieces.”
“Good,” I say, and then, because honesty seems to be contagious today: “I’m scared.”
“Me too,” he says, and his mouth tilts. “We can be scared and still—” He gestures at my water. “Hydrate.”
I laugh, wiping my eyes for the third time today. The magenta fish looks like he approves.