Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
“You seem tense,” Quintin says, his hand on my lower back as he leads me inside.
I fucking am .
“I’m fine,” I lie, heading toward the receptionist, who smiles up at us.
The yellow walls should be calming, the TV in the corner playing one of those home improvement shows. The other women look up as we enter. Some of them look like they’re giving birth soon, bored-looking men seated beside them.
And I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing here with a man I went on a first date with a week ago.
“Daniela Figueroa. I have a two thirty appointment.” My eyes flit to where Quintin stands, just to the right of me, his eyes sparkling with interest and his hand reaching for mine. Like we belong here together.
Truthfully, we’d been talking on the phone the night before, and I mentioned Santana was too busy to come with me. He offered to take me before I even had the words fully out of my mouth.
And I, in my pregnant emotions, terrified of being alone, agreed.
I didn’t think this through. This isn’t his baby. He hasn’t even seen me naked. We had sex once in his restaurant, and I haven’t seen much of him since, although he has maintained contact. Which is…different. Nice.
He sent flowers the day after our date. He’s left breakfast on my doorstep on his way out for the last few days.
Still, this isn’t his baby. Hell, I have no idea what I am to him at this point.
Breathe, bitch.
The receptionist checks me in and tells me to have a seat.
I jump when Quintin’s hand lands on my back again, and he offers a quick smile, reminding me to relax.
“Everything is going to be okay,” he whispers as we sit, taking my purse from me.
I want to tell him he doesn’t know that. Something could be wrong. But I don’t want to give power to that notion, so I just nod. When he reaches for my hand again, I hold his, needing comfort.
“Figueroa?” a nurse calls out, and I wonder how the hell I’m not stuck waiting longer than a few minutes the way I typically am.
Quintin stands before me, helping me up.
“Do you want me to wait here?” he asks, waiting for my response.
“No,” I answer, gripping his hand.
I guess fear outweighs discomfort, because the thought of being in that room alone is terrifying. I have no idea what I’m doing, no idea if I’m even growing a baby properly.
Women have been doing it for fucking millennia, but here I am, worried I’m not doing it right somehow, worried I fucked up already.
We make our way through the hallway into a sterile-looking room, where the nurse asks a series of questions. Then, after taking my vitals, she tells me to step on the scale. Quintin takes my coat, folding it and my bag onto the chair beside him as I take a deep breath.
“You don’t have to take off?—”
I glare at her as I kick off my boots, and she does me the courtesy of pressing her lips together, moving back as she glances away.
With a deep breath, I step on the scale.
The number climbs, and I clear my throat, trying to remind myself weight gain is normal.
I’m pregnant. I am a pregnant goddess. I am beauty personifi?—
“One ninety?—”
“Must you, truly?” I ask, stepping down to create space between us before my annoyance gets the best of me and I end up getting escorted out in cuffs.
I sit on the bed, hating the way the paper under my butt crinkles. This is fucking ridiculous.
“The doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse announces with a nod before scurrying out, and I stare at my black socks, mortified.
“You know you’re beautiful, right?” Quintin murmurs from his seat.
When I don’t look up at him, he stands and walks over to me.
With one hand, he cups my chin and lifts my face until my eyes meet his.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you feel, wrapped around my cock.
As soon as we get out of here, I want to do it again. ”
“Did you come here just to try to get another look at my vagina?” I ask, twisting my lips as he grins. He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I sigh into him.
A knock at the door has Quintin letting me go, much to my disappointment.
“Daniela?” The doctor pokes his head in with a smile. He glances at Quintin, and his smile widens. “And you must be Dad.”
Before I can correct him, Quintin squeezes my hand, patting it with his other one.
I’m warring between confusion and discomfort all through the appointment, answering questions as they’re asked, up until the doctor pulls out a small sonar wand and a bottle of gel that he squirts on my stomach, searching for the baby’s heartbeat.
As the steady thumping sound fills the room, faster than I thought a human heart could beat, I fill with a sense of peace. It goes on and on until he pulls the wand away with a smile.
“Baby sounds great,” he starts. “Now, let’s hope Mom is at her best. We want to make sure gestational diabetes doesn’t come into play.”
My heart drops, and as my brow furrows, Quintin speaks up.
“What do you mean?” he asks, reaching for my hand, but I know what the doctor is talking about. It’s the same thing any doctor talks about when I mention any health issues I’m having.
“Concerning her BMI?—”
“An outdated metric system,” I offer blandly, staring up at the ceiling, trying to blink away hot tears of embarrassment. “That was used to measure average white men and somehow now applies to the rest of us.”
“I think that’s enough,” Quintin says, his words quiet. When I glance at him, he’s staring at me, his jaw ticking before his gaze slides to the doctor.
Those expressive eyebrows are lowered, and he fully turns to face the doctor. His angry profile is beautiful, and I press my lips together at the sight.
“I know you’re coming from a place of concern, but so am I,” the man says, leaning against the counter, tucking his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat.
“I’ve been my pre-pregnancy weight all my adult life.
So what you’re about to say, I’ve already heard.
The only times I’ve been at an acceptable weight was when I wasn’t eating.
So thank you, but I’m good.” My words fall on deaf ears as the doctor offers me a partial smile I want to rip off his face.
Pompous, know-it-all motherfucker.
What a pendejo .
“Ms. Figueroa?—”
“That’s enough,” Quintin interrupts, his voice only slightly louder.
He steps between the doctor and me, and while I want to tell him I can handle this—that I’ve been handling things like this—it’s nice not to have to.
It’s nice to have someone else witness what it’s like to not fit the formulaic weight norms, to watch as professionals constantly bring it up.
Being fat does not translate to being unhealthy. Being overweight does not require a stern talking to from old white men.
Without another word, the doctor turns to leave, and we’re alone. Quintin grabs paper towels and begins wiping the gel from my stomach, and I watch as he eyes the growing bump there.
“Is it crazy that a baby is in there?” I whisper my question, not sure how to approach this side of him. His jaw still ticks, even as he brushes my hair from my face, when he leans down to help me sit up.
He nods, silent, as he pulls my shirt down and helps me down from the bed before gathering my things. We walk out hand- in-hand, and on the way into the elevator, he informs me we’re finding a new doctor, even if it takes us the rest of the day.
I’m left wondering when me and my baby became part of his “we.”
“Ready for some baby furniture shopping?” Quintin’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I blink, momentarily taken aback by the sight of him standing in my doorway with a wide smile.
“Baby furniture shopping?” I repeat, my brows drawn as I try to process his words. I don’t remember signing up for this.
Stupid bitch. Where do you think babies sleep?
He chuckles softly, holding up his phone to show different cribs. “Yeah, remember we talked about it last week after your appointment?”
More like I mentioned it in passing while trembling with nerves at the thought of having to figure this out on my own. Yes, I remember.
The idea of choosing from hundreds of cribs and changing tables felt like such a distant notion back then. Now, at twenty weeks pregnant, it’s becoming more and more real with each passing day. I can’t help but feel a jumble of emotions—excitement, nerves, and a touch overwhelmed.
“A touch” might be the understatement of the century.
“Of course, I remember,” I say with a forced smile, stepping aside to let him in. It isn’t like I can slam the door in his face and hide, not when he’s done far more research than I likely have, fear keeping me from preparing the way I know I should be.
Quintin enters without hesitation, his gaze softening as he looks at me. “Are you okay? Is this too much?”
In the weeks since our first date, he’s shown me an attentiveness I’m still unable to get used to.
There’s a level of care I’ve never experienced in my life; whether it’s asking me if I’ve eaten and sending me food if I haven’t, checking in with what I still need to prepare for the baby, or listening to me cry about dumb shit, he’s on top of it.
Hell, I wish he were currently on top of me. We haven’t had sex since our first date, and I wonder if he’s still attracted to me now that he’s seen the more clinical side of things.
But we’re talking about the baby, and right now, I need to focus.
I let out a sigh, my shoulders slumping as I drop my head back in defeat. “Honestly, I’m a little...all over the place. This whole baby thing is a lot to take in.” We haven’t discussed how I’m going to tell my family, when I’m going to, or if he’s going to be involved in that.
He steps closer, wrapping his arms around me before running his hands down to my ass. “I’m sure it’s overwhelming, but I’m here to help in any way I can.”