21. Jinx
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jinx
The emergency room is harshly lit, its brightness bouncing off the sterile white walls, making my eyes squint.
The monotonous whoosh of the air vent above creates a backdrop of sound, punctuated only by the occasional beeping of machines monitoring patients.
In the hallway, nurses shuffle past with their soft shoes, creating a rhythm that barely breaks the silence. I recline against the plastic-coated pillow, feeling the crinkly paper beneath me stick uncomfortably to the backs of my legs.
The pervasive scent of bleach and hand sanitizer hangs in the air, while the scratchy hospital gown irritates my skin, making me want to escape my own body.
The wait for both mine and the baby’s results feels interminable. The nurse attending to me has been a bright spot in this dreary room—her red hair pulled back into a neat bun, bright pink compression socks peeking out from her scrubs, and a voice so gentle it feels like a balm to my frazzled nerves.
She gives my wrist a reassuring pat just as the ultrasound technician enters, wheeling in the portable machine.
The technician spreads the cold, sticky jelly on my belly, causing me to flinch. Instantly, the boys gather around, their curiosity palpable.
I wouldn’t dare call them vultures to their faces, though; they’re too captivated by the moment, their expressions akin to children on Christmas morning, with me as the centerpiece of their wonder.
The ultrasound screen flickers to life, initially displaying grainy, indistinct blobs until, suddenly, a clear image emerges. A tiny, flickering shape appears, and all three boys inhale sharply, as if witnessing a miracle.
Rowan grips the railing tightly, knuckles white from the pressure. Thomas leans in so close his nose is almost touching the screen, and Bruno’s eyes widen in a rare display of unguarded awe, his usual brooding demeanor momentarily forgotten.
The doctor’s grin widens as the rhythmic thumping echoes through the room— whoosh-whoosh-whoosh , strong and steady like a drum.
“The baby looks perfect,” she announces, her fingers dancing across her tablet with practiced speed. “Good growth, steady vitals. But I’ll need you to stay a little longer until your CT scan results are clear, just to ensure that bump on your head didn’t cause more than a scare.”
I let out an exaggerated groan, draping an arm over my eyes in mock despair. “Fantastic. More waiting.”
The boys, however, remain oblivious to my plight, their attention riveted to the monitor as if it were the final moments of a championship game.
Rowan leans forward, pointing at the tiny flicker on the screen as if spotting a trophy catch. “Look at that! That’s a foot, right?”
Thomas elbows him, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “No way, that’s definitely a hand. See the shape there? Those are fingers!”
Bruno, standing with arms crossed but clearly engaged, smirks with a hint of playful superiority. “You’re both wrong. That’s the head. Obviously, she’s developing a brain in there, unlike the two of you.”
Their lighthearted bickering swirls around me, a comforting hum in the background. Despite the persistent ache in my head and the queasy flips in my stomach, watching the three of them act like this… It’s endearing in its own chaotic way.
A bit tiring, too.
I squint at them and let out a long sigh. “How did I end up with three hyperactive boyfriends?”
None of them bother to deny it. Rowan simply flashes a cheeky grin and plants a soft kiss on the back of my hand.
They keep going, their excitement palpable in the sterile air of the ER room. Of course they do.
“What about Josh?” Thomas suggests, bouncing on the edge of his seat like an overexcited Labrador puppy, eyes wide with anticipation. “It’s strong. Classic. Super Canadian.”
Rowan shakes his head, a playful grin on his face. “It’s too safe,” he counters, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest. “What about something cool, like Kai?”
Bruno crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. “We’re not naming the kid after a surfer,” he retorts with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What about Janey, if it’s a girl? After my mom.”
“Your mom’s name was Janina,” Rowan replies flatly, raising an eyebrow.
“She liked Janey,” Bruno insists, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.
I lie there, propped up on the hospital bed, letting their lively chatter wash over me. It feels like I’m an observer in a bizarre nature documentary on feral male bonding behavior.
They’re so enthusiastic, tossing out names like they’re crafting an entire future right here amidst the beeping monitors and antiseptic smell.
“I’m begging you,” I mutter, barely lifting my head from the pillow, “don’t name my kid something that sounds like it belongs on a 2007 reality show.”
Thomas leans over the bed, his chin resting on the soft hospital blanket. “Okay, wise one,” he teases, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You tell us. What name is worthy of the all-glorious Jinx spawn?”
Rowan perks up, leaning forward with an expectant look. “Yeah. Out of all of us, who do you like best?”
Bruno folds his arms tightly and narrows his eyes. “Be careful how you answer that,” he warns with a mock-serious tone.
I crack one eye open, glancing at them, each one waiting as if the next word out of my mouth might determine the fate of the world. With a tiny smirk playing on my lips, I say, “I already know the name.”
They all freeze, their collective breath held in suspense.
I let the silence linger just a moment longer, savoring their anticipation, before rolling onto my side and mumbling with a sly smile, “But I’m not telling you yet. You’ll have to wait.”
Rowan groans dramatically, slumping back in his chair. Thomas flops onto the floor in an exaggerated fake collapse, arms spread wide. Bruno just shakes his head in disbelief, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
They all bombard me at once, their voices a chaotic chorus tumbling over each other, eager to know what I want to name the baby.
I lean my head back against the stiff, crinkly hospital pillow and let my eyes flutter shut for a moment, seeking a brief escape from the clamor.
“Fine, fine. If it’s a girl,” I say with a calm certainty, “I want to name her Belladonna Seraphina.” The room falls into an abrupt, profound silence, the kind that seems to stretch on forever. “And if it’s a boy, Jackson Parker.”
The silence lingers, heavy and palpable. I crack one eye open to gauge their reactions.
Thomas is blinking rapidly, his expression one of disbelief, as if I’d just announced I was naming the child Darth Vader. Rowan’s mouth is slightly agape, caught in that awkward moment of trying to find a tactful response.
Bruno’s brow furrows deeply, the familiar shadow of his brooding demeanor settling in like a storm cloud.
“Seriously?” Thomas is the first to speak, his voice tinged with incredulity. “Belladonna?”
“It’s unique,” I retort, lifting my chin defiantly. “And Jackson Parker is nice. I like them both. So, yeah. Those are my choices.”
They don’t say anything at first, the silence stretching between us like a taut string.
Then Bruno, always the quiet one with a voice that seems to rise from the depths of his chest, murmurs, “I thought this was our child.”
The words land like a blow just beneath my ribs, stealing the breath from my lungs. I press my fingers to my temple with my good hand, already weary, trying to keep my frustration in check.
“Well… yeah, kind of. But I’m the mother. Doesn’t that mean I get the final say?” I say with a hint of defensiveness.
The glance they exchange is devastating, as if I’ve yanked the floor from beneath them. Their excitement, their joy, it all collapses inward like a squashed spider.
They fall silent, and the room takes on a chill, as if someone has thrown open a window to winter winds. I want to reach out, to pull back the words that have already taken root in the air, but honesty binds me.
It’s my body, my baby. Isn’t it?
The doctor returns, clipboard clutched tightly in hand, and a smile stretched across her face, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Everything looks okay. The CT scan is clean. You’re good to go home, but no driving for a few days. Make sure you get plenty of rest.”
I nod, relief flooding through me, grateful for the green light to leave. As I begin to push myself upright, all three of them spring into action as if I’m as fragile as a porcelain doll.
Rowan extends a steadying hand toward my elbow, while Bruno is already maneuvering to slip his arm beneath my knees, ready to assist. Thomas fumbles with my belongings on the tray, handling them cautiously, as though they might suddenly become hazardous.
“Guys,” I groan, pressing my palm against my forehead in exasperation. “Please. I’m not made of crystal. I can walk.”
They pause, exchanging looks of concern that resemble the expressions of scolded puppies. Still, they reluctantly give me space, hovering close by, wary that any misstep might shatter me all over again.
As I rise to my feet, a throb pulses through my wrist, and my pride stings even sharper.
Despite understanding their intentions are nothing but kind, I can’t shake the overwhelming sensation of being the most cumbersome burden in the room, and the solitary figure holding all the strings of control.
I mutter something under my breath, feeling the absurdity of not being able to drive my own damn car. My wrist aches beneath the tightly wrapped bandage, each pulse of pain spreading a wave of discomfort, while a dull throb settles behind my eyes, eroding my patience.
“I can do stuff, you know,” I huff, the words escaping with more frustration than intended as Rowan walks beside me, as if he anticipates my every falter.
Rowan turns his head slightly, meeting my gaze with eyes filled with gentle understanding, his voice carrying a softness that doesn’t waver. “We know you can. But right now, you don’t have to.”
His words lodge in my chest with a curious mix of warmth and unease. It’s a kindness that feels sweet yet leaves a residue of feeling small—not in an endearing way, but in a way that highlights my vulnerability and reliance.
I glance downward, my boots catching my attention with their scuffed surfaces, a testament to neglect. My nails, once vibrant, now lie bare, unpainted for days, and my sweater hangs loosely.
The person I see doesn’t feel powerful or punk rock, or like the version of myself I recognize.
But then Rowan reaches over, his hand gently enveloping my uninjured one, offering a comforting squeeze that bridges the gap between us. “We’ve got you, Jinx. Okay?”
I manage a smile, faint but genuine, breaking through the wall of uncertainty. “Okay,” I whisper.
The drive back is suffocatingly quiet, the silence stretching thin and taut like the strings of a violin about to snap. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching as neon signs smear into colorful streaks and headlights ripple like distant stars across the car roof.
My stomach knots tightly, not from the baby, but from an unrelenting tension coiling within me. Words hang unspoken in the air, their absence as heavy as a stack of thick blankets pressing down on my chest.
As the car rolls to a stop in front of my apartment, I don’t wait for the engine to cut off before unbuckling my seatbelt.
“Make yourselves at home,” I say, my voice clipped and devoid of warmth, the syllables tumbling out like stones. “I’m going to lie down.”
Thomas opens his mouth, concern flickering in his eyes. “Do you need—?” he begins, but I silence him with a curt shake of my head.
“Nope. Just tired.” I climb out, my feet hitting the pavement with a dull thud, and head purposefully toward the front door.
The keys jingle softly in my hand as I slide them into the lock, the familiar scent of snake bedding mingling with lavender diffuser oil rushing to greet me. It’s a comforting embrace, a reminder of who I am.
I kick off my boots, leaving them haphazardly by the door, and ignore the boys as they shuffle in behind me. My feet carry me straight to the sanctuary of my bedroom, where I collapse face-first onto the unmade bed.
The mattress groans slightly under my weight, echoing the fatigue that fills my bones. My body aches, my heart clenches with an unnameable sorrow, and a guilt begins to unfurl behind my ribs like a dark bloom.
But I shove it down, refusing to let it take root. I don’t want to dwell on the reasons behind the heaviness in my chest.
I just want the sweet escape of sleep to sweep me away.
And for a little while, it does.