Chapter 4 - Naomi
I stare at him—the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. He looks like he hasn't slept much, which makes two of us.
"That's a good answer," I admit, wrapping my hands around my coffee. "But I need more than good words, Ethan. I've heard plenty of those before."
He flinches slightly, and I hate that I'm being harsh, but these are the stakes now. This isn't just about my heart anymore.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know I need to prove it to you."
The afternoon sunlight streams through the bakery windows, catching the golden flecks in his hazel eyes—the same eyes our child might have. The thought makes my chest tighten.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
He nods.
"If I wasn't pregnant, would you be sitting here right now, asking for another chance?"
Ethan doesn't answer immediately, which I appreciate. At least he's thinking about it rather than just saying what he thinks I want to hear.
"I don't know," he finally admits. "I'd like to think eventually I would have realized what I lost, but..." He shrugs, a gesture so characteristically Ethan it makes my heart ache. "I can't honestly say for sure."
"Thank you for not lying."
"I'm done with that," he says. "The lying to you, the lying to myself."
Melissa, my afternoon shift worker, appears beside our table with a plate of lemon bars—my latest craving.
"Thought you might want these," she says with a knowing smile. "You've only eaten about twelve of them today."
I feel myself blush. "Thanks, Mel."
She disappears back behind the counter, leaving us alone again. I push the plate toward Ethan.
"Try one. They're really good."
He takes a lemon bar, biting into it with appreciation. "You made these?"
I nod. "New recipe. The pregnancy has me craving citrus like crazy."
His expression shifts at the mention of the pregnancy, becoming more serious, more present.
"What else has changed?" he asks. "With the pregnancy, I mean."
The question surprises me. It's thoughtful, something I wouldn't have expected from him.
"Well, I'm tired all the time," I begin, finding it oddly easy to talk about this with him. "The morning sickness was awful for a while, but it's better now. I can't stand the smell of coffee even though I work in a place that serves it all day."
"That sounds brutal."
"It's not all bad," I admit. "There's something... I don't know, miraculous about it too. Knowing there's this little person growing inside me."
Ethan's eyes drift to my belly, which is just beginning to show a slight curve beneath my bakery apron.
"Can you feel it? The baby, I mean."
"Not yet. That comes later, usually around five months, they say."
He nods, absorbing this information. "I spent the morning reading pregnancy websites. I had no idea there was so much to know."
The image of Ethan hunched over his phone, researching pregnancy, brings an unexpected smile to my face.
"There is a lot," I agree. "I've been reading everything I can get my hands on."
This was always how it was with Ethan—when it was good, it was so easy. That's what made the hard parts so much harder.
"So, what now?" he finally asks.
"Now..." I take a deep breath. "We figure out how to co-parent. How to build a relationship that works for our child."
"And us?" His voice is tentative. "Is there any chance for us?"
I meet his gaze directly. "I can't jump back into something with you just because of the baby, Ethan. That would be a mistake for everyone involved."
He nods, trying to hide his disappointment.
"But," I continue, surprising myself, "I'm not saying never. I'm saying you need to show me—not tell me, show me—that you're serious about changing. About being someone I can count on."
Hope flickers across his face. "I can do that."
"It won't be easy."
"I know," he says. "But nothing worth having ever is, right?"
I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. "That's such a greeting card line."
"Doesn't make it less true," he counters with a hint of his usual grin.
I shake my head, trying not to let my guard down too quickly, even as something warm unfurls in my chest.
"You've got a long way to go before I trust you again."
"I know. But I'm going to try, Naomi. Really try."
The sincerity in his voice makes me want to believe him. But I've been here before—captivated by Ethan Covington's charm and promises.
"Start with the basics," I suggest. "Be consistent. Show up when you say you will. Follow through on your commitments."
"I can start right now," he says, sitting up straighter. "What do you need? Doctor's appointments? Help with anything?"
I consider his offer. "I have an ultrasound next Thursday at 2 PM. You can come, if you want."
"I'll be there," he says immediately. "What else?"
"Honestly? I could use some help with deliveries. The doctor said I shouldn't be lifting heavy flour bags anymore, but I haven't found anyone reliable to help on delivery days."
"Consider it done. When's the next one?"
"Monday morning, 6 AM."
His eyes widen slightly—Ethan Covington is not known for his early rising habits—but he nods firmly. "I'll be here."
A customer calls out to me from the counter, and I realize I've been on my break longer than intended.
"I should get back," I say, standing up.
Ethan rises too. "Thank you for talking to me. For being honest."
"Always," I respond. Then, feeling brave, I add, "That's one thing you can count on from me, Ethan. Even when it's hard, I'll always tell you the truth."
"I'm going to earn back your trust," he says, and for one wild moment, I think he might try to kiss me.
Instead, he extends his hand like we're sealing a deal. I take it, my smaller hand hugged by his rough palm.
"Thursday at 2," he confirms. "I'll meet you at the doctor's office."
"And Monday at 6."
"I'll be here." He hesitates, then adds, "Can I text you? Just to check in?"
The request is so modest, so unlike his usual confidence.
"Yes," I say. "That’s fine."
"Thank you. Can I..." he gestures vaguely toward my belly.
I understand what he's asking and nod, lifting my bakery apron slightly. There's just the faintest curve to my belly, barely noticeable if you don't know to look for it.
Ethan's hand hovers for a moment before gently resting against the small swell. His eyes widen, like he's finally comprehending the reality of our situation.
"There's really a baby in there," he whispers. "Our baby."
"Yeah," I say softly. "There is."
When he looks up at me, his eyes are bright with an emotion I can't quite name.
"Thank you," he says.
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me completely."
After he leaves, I watch through the window as he walks to his truck. He pauses before getting in, looking back at the bakery with an almost determined expression.
I place my hand where his was moments ago, feeling the slight roundness that will soon become impossible to hide.
"Your dad's trying," I whisper to my unborn child. "I guess we'll see where this goes."
Melissa slides up beside me, eyebrows raised.
"So that's the father, huh? One of the Covington brothers?"
"Ethan," I confirm. "The youngest."
"The wild one," she nods. "Think he'll step up?"
I turn away from the window as Ethan's truck pulls out of the parking lot.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But he's surprised me already."
And maybe that's enough for now—this fragile beginning, this tentative hope. Not promises of forever or happily-ever-after, but simply the next right step.
One date.
One ultrasound appointment.
One day at a time.
Thursday
Thursday arrives with the crisp edge of early autumn, leaves just beginning to turn on the maples outside the medical center.
I stand near the clinic door, checking my phone for the third time in as many minutes. 1:58 PM. My appointment is at 2:00, and Ethan is nowhere to be seen.
A flutter of anxiety rises in my chest. I've been here before—waiting for Ethan Covington, telling myself he's just running late, that he'll show up any minute now. I spent six months making these same excuses, each time believing them a little less.
"We have to check you in," the receptionist calls to me from behind her desk. "Dr. Mason doesn't like to get behind schedule."
"Just one more minute," I reply, peering through the glass doors that lead to the parking lot. No sign of his truck.
Since Monday, Ethan has been surprisingly... consistent. He showed up at 5:55 AM to help with deliveries, bleary-eyed but ready to work. He texted me each evening to ask how I was feeling. Yesterday, he even dropped off a pregnancy book that he said Jackson's girlfriend Sarah recommended.
I'd started to hope—dangerous as that feels—that maybe he really was changing.
Now it's 2:01, and that hope feels as fragile as spun sugar.
"Ms. Harper?" The receptionist's voice holds a note of impatience. "Dr. Mason needs to—"
The doors swing open, and Ethan rushes in, his hair windblown, his flannel shirt half-tucked. He's clutching something in his hand and breathing hard like he's been running.
"I'm here," he announces to the entire waiting room. "I'm here, I'm not late—" He glances at the clock on the wall. "Okay, I'm two minutes late, but there was a tractor accident on Route 16, and I had to detour past the old Simmons place, and there's a cow in the road—"
He stops abruptly, seeming to register the amused looks from the other patients.
"Hi," he says, softer now, turning to me. "I made it."
Relief washes over me so intensely it's almost embarrassing. "You made it."
"Ms. Harper?" the receptionist calls again. "We really need to—"
"Yes, coming," I say, moving toward the desk. Ethan follows, still catching his breath.
"I thought..." I murmur so only he can hear.
"That I wouldn't show?" He looks genuinely hurt by the suggestion. "I said I would be here."
Before I can respond, the receptionist slides a clipboard across the desk.
"Fill this out, please. Both parents, if you're both staying for the appointment."
Ethan takes the clipboard, studying the form with newfound seriousness.
"Both parents," he repeats, like he's trying the words on for size.
We sit side by side in uncomfortable waiting room chairs, and I watch as he carefully fills out his medical history. When he gets to "Family medical conditions," he pauses.
"My mom had high blood pressure," he says quietly. "And my grandfather had diabetes. Should I put that down?"
"Yes," I nod. "That's exactly what they need to know."
He continues writing, his handwriting neater than I expected. When he finishes, he hands me the clipboard, then suddenly remembers whatever he was clutching when he arrived.
"Here," he says, opening his palm to reveal a small paper bag. "I got you something."
Inside the bag is a lemon bar, slightly squished but carefully wrapped in wax paper.
"I stopped by Sweet Somethings," he explains. "Melissa said you've been craving these, but you ran out this morning. That's partly why I was late—I wanted to surprise you."
The gesture is so unexpectedly thoughtful that I don't know what to say. It's just a lemon bar, but it's also so much more—it's evidence that he was listening, that he remembered something important to me, that he went out of his way.
"Thank you," I finally manage, my voice softer than intended.
"Naomi Harper?" A nurse appears at the door to the exam rooms.
Together, we stand and follow her down a hallway lined with posters about fetal development and breastfeeding. Ethan's eyes dart everywhere, taking it all in.
"First ultrasound?" the nurse asks him kindly, noticing his nervous energy.
"Is it that obvious?" he asks with a self-deprecating smile.
"Only to someone who sees it every day," she assures him, showing us into a dimly lit room with an exam table and a monitor. "Naomi, you can change into this gown. Dad, you can have a seat right there."
Dad. The word seems to catch Ethan off guard. He sinks into the chair she indicated, looking suddenly overwhelmed.
When the nurse leaves, I squeeze his hand briefly. "You okay?"
He nods, not quite meeting my eyes. "Just... real. This makes it real."
"It's been pretty real for me for a while now," I say, attempting humor to lighten his mood.
That gets a small smile from him. "Right. Of course."
"I'm going to change," I tell him, taking the hospital gown behind a small screen in the corner.
As I change, I hear him shifting in his chair, the sound of magazine pages turning.
"Did you know," he says suddenly, "that right now the baby is the size of an avocado?"
I smile, though he can't see me. "I did know that, actually."
"And it can hear us," he continues, clearly reading from something. "It says here the baby can hear voices now."
I emerge from behind the screen in the gown, catching him with a pregnancy magazine open on his lap.
"You've been doing your homework," I observe.
He looks up, a bit sheepish. "Vincent gave me a bunch of books. Said they helped him when he had Lucy."
Before I can respond, the door opens, and Dr. Mason enters—a kind-faced woman in her fifties with whitish hair.
"Naomi, good to see you again," she greets me warmly before turning to Ethan. "And you must be the father. I'm Dr. Mason."
"Ethan Covington," he says, standing to shake her hand.
"Covington? One of the ranch Covingtons?"
He nods. "Yes, ma'am."
"I delivered two of your brothers," she says with a smile. "Though that was many years ago now."
This connection seems to relax Ethan slightly as I settle onto the exam table.
"Alright, let's see how this little one is doing," Dr. Mason says, squirting cold gel onto my exposed belly. "This is your first ultrasound, correct?"
"Yes," I confirm. "I had blood work done, but this is the first time we'll be seeing the baby."
She nods, pressing the ultrasound wand against my abdomen. "Let's take a look."
The room fills with a rapid whooshing sound—fast, rhythmic, like galloping horses.
"What's that?" Ethan asks, leaning forward.
"That's your baby's heartbeat," Dr. Mason explains. "Good and strong, exactly what we want to hear."
Ethan's eyes widen, his gaze fixed on the monitor as a grainy black-and-white image appears. I reach for his hand without thinking, and he takes it, squeezing gently.
"There we are," Dr. Mason says, pointing to a shape on the screen. "There's your baby."