Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
AVERY
Whatever possessed me to agree to this appointment is the same demon that convinced me tequila shots before photographing that ice climbing expedition were a good idea.
Spoiler: they weren't. Neither is sitting in Nathan Kingsley's car, which smells like leather and good decisions and probably has never seen a french fry wedged between its seats.
My van smells like adventure. His car smells like a man who flosses daily and has strong opinions about thread count.
"You can touch things, you know." Nathan glances over as I hover my hands above my knees like I'm afraid of contaminating his pristine interior. "It's just a car."
"It's not just a car. It's a spacecraft. There are buttons here I'm pretty sure require a pilot's license." I eye the center console, which has more screens than my entire photography setup. "Does this thing achieve liftoff, or just low orbit?"
"It has heated seats."
"Of course it does."
He reaches over and presses something. Warmth spreads beneath me, and I hate that it feels amazing. Alaska in early spring isn't messing around with the cold, and my van's heating system is more of a suggestion than a feature.
Classical music drifts from speakers that probably cost more than my monthly food budget. Violins. Cellos. The kind of music that makes you feel like you should be contemplating life's great mysteries instead of trying not to vomit on Italian leather.
"Can we change this?"
"What's wrong with Vivaldi?"
"Nothing, if I wanted to feel like I'm dying in a period drama. Do you have anything recorded after 1750?"
Nathan's jaw tightens, but he taps the steering wheel control. The violins fade, replaced by... more violins.
"That's still classical."
"It's contemporary classical. Philip Glass."
"I need something with drums. Or at least a guitar. Anything that doesn't make me feel like I should be wearing a corset and fainting on a chaise lounge."
He sighs—the sigh of a man whose organizational systems are being challenged—and connects my phone to his Bluetooth. Indie rock fills the car, and I finally relax against the heated seat.
"Better?"
"Much."
"This sounds like someone having a breakdown in a coffee shop."
"That's the vibe."
We drive in silence for a few minutes except for the music, the Alaskan landscape sliding past in shades of gray and stubborn green.
Anchorage sprawls ahead, mountains looming in the distance like judgmental relatives at Thanksgiving.
My stomach does a slow roll that has nothing to do with the curves in the road.
"Here." Nathan produces a protein bar from the center console with the efficiency of a man who has prepared for exactly this scenario. "It's got ginger. Supposed to help with nausea."
I take it, examine the wrapper. "Did you research pregnancy snacks?"
"I researched appropriate nutritional support for first-trimester symptoms."
"So yes."
"There's also sparkling water in the door. And saltines in the glove compartment."
I open the glove compartment. Alongside the saltines are prenatal vitamins, antacid tablets, and what appears to be a laminated list titled "Emergency Pregnancy Protocols."
"You laminated a list."
"It's practical. Lamination prevents damage from spills or—"
"Who spills things in this car? This car has never seen chaos. This car was born in a laboratory where scientists engineered the perfect environment for people who organize their sock drawers."
"I don't organize my sock drawer."
I wait.
"Okay, I organize my sock dresser. It's a separate piece of furniture."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it, and for a moment, the tension in the car dissolves.
Something twitches in the corner of his mouth, and I catch myself staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
Capable hands—the kind that save lives and also did very non-surgical things against a wine barrel.
My face heats. I shove the protein bar in my mouth to avoid saying something stupid.
The OB-GYN office sits in a medical complex so sprawling I half-expect to need a passport at the entrance. Everything is beige in that aggressive way healthcare facilities manage—weaponized calm.
Nathan handles check-in with the efficiency of someone who speaks fluent Medical Bureaucracy. Clipboard acquired, forms completed in precise handwriting, insurance cards presented in the exact order required. I stand beside him feeling like a feral cat someone dragged to a veterinary exam.
"Date of last menstrual period?" He reads from the form.
"Why do you need to know that?"
"I don't. The form does. Standard obstetric intake question."
"Can't I just write 'a while ago' and call it good?"
He gives me a look.
"Fine. January 15th. Approximately. Give or take. Time is a construct."
He writes the date without comment, which is somehow worse than if he'd lectured me about the importance of accurate medical records. Then we sit in the waiting room, surrounded by other couples who look significantly more prepared for this experience than I feel.
The woman across from us has a binder. An actual binder with tabs and color-coded sections.
Her partner is reading a book titled "The Expectant Father's Handbook" with the intensity of someone studying for a final exam.
They look at each other with soft, knowing glances.
People who planned this. Who wanted this.
Who probably have a nursery already decorated and a college fund established.
I have a van with a check engine light on and a savings account that currently contains $847.
Nathan's hand moves toward mine on the armrest between our chairs. Hovers. Pulls back.
I pretend not to notice.
A nurse calls my name, and we follow her through doors that feel like a portal to another dimension. Weight, blood pressure, temperature. All recorded with clinical precision while I answer questions about my medical history and try not to feel like I'm failing some kind of test.
"Any history of pregnancy complications in your family?" the nurse asks.
"My mom had me, and I've been a complication ever since. Does that count?"
The nurse doesn't laugh. Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose.
Then comes the gown. The paper gown that crinkles with every breath and gaps in places no gown should gap.
I sit on the exam table feeling approximately as dignified as a burrito that's come unwrapped, while Nathan studies the anatomical posters on the wall with the focus of a man trying very hard not to look at my bare legs.
"You don't have to be here for this part," I offer. "I can text you updates. Maybe send a carrier pigeon."
"I want to be here."
"Why?"
He finally meets my eyes. "Because it's my baby too. Because you shouldn't have to do this alone. Because—" He stops, recalibrates. "Because I want to."
Before I can respond, the door opens and Dr. Alicia Hoffman enters like a force of nature. She's somewhere between fifty and seventy, with silver hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun and the energy of someone who has seen everything and is impressed by none of it.
"Avery Lane." She glances at my chart. "Twenty-eight. Freelance photographer. Lives in a van." Her eyes flick to Nathan. "And Dr. Kingsley. Decided to expand your practice to obstetrics?"
"Just here as the—" Nathan hesitates. "Father."
"Mmm." Dr. Hoffman's expression suggests she has opinions about surgeons who get homeless photographers pregnant in wine caves. "Well. Let's see what we're working with."
The ultrasound machine looks like something from a sci-fi movie, all screens and wands and buttons that beep ominously. I lie back on the table, paper gown crackling, while Dr. Hoffman squirts gel on my stomach that's cold enough to qualify as a war crime.
"First pregnancy?" she asks.
"Is it obvious?"
"You're gripping the table like it might eject you into space. Try to relax."
Easy for her to say. She's not the one lying half-naked in front of her one-night stand while a stranger prods her uterus with what appears to be a very expensive wand.
Nathan moves closer, positioning himself near my shoulder where he can see the screen. His hand hovers again, near my arm this time, and I don't know if I want him to touch me or stay exactly where he is.
"Okay," Dr. Hoffman says, pressing the wand against my lower abdomen. "Let's see..."
The screen fills with gray static, shapes moving like clouds in a storm. I have no idea what I'm looking at. It could be a baby or a weather pattern or abstract art from a pretentious gallery.
Then Dr. Hoffman adjusts something, and suddenly there it is.
A shape. No longer a bean—more like a tiny gummy bear now, with a head and body and the beginnings of limbs. And in its center, a flutter that I realize, with a lurch in my chest, is a heartbeat.
"There's your baby," Dr. Hoffman says. "Measuring right on track for eleven weeks."
The sound comes next—a rapid whooshing that fills the room like a tiny drum corps has taken up residence inside me. Faster than I expected. Stronger.
"That's..." My voice cracks. "That's the heartbeat?"
"One sixty. Strong as a drum. Kid's already got more energy than most of my interns."
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. This isn't supposed to feel real yet. It's supposed to be abstract, theoretical, a problem to solve. But that sound—that impossible, relentless drumming—makes it undeniable.
I turn my head and find Nathan crying too.
Not sobbing, nothing dramatic. Just tears tracking silently down his face while he stares at the screen with an expression I've never seen on him before. Wonder and terror, tangled together.
"That's our baby," he says, voice rough.
"Yeah."
Dr. Hoffman, apparently immune to emotional moments, continues her examination with brisk efficiency. She points out various features on the screen—the head, the body, tiny arms and legs already formed—while I try to process the fact that I'm growing an entire human being inside my body.