Chapter 10 Melanie
Melanie
“I told him,” I say into the phone, tracing a circle in the condensation on my water glass. “Last night. I told Lucas he’s the father.”
Charlotte doesn’t gasp. Instead, she exhales slowly. “How did he take it?”
“Quietly,” I say, because that’s the truest word. “Too quietly. My brain prefers interpretive dance to silence.”
“Interpretive dance can be violent. Think about how silent you were when you first found out you were pregnant,” she says dryly. In the background I hear a dog bark and remember being there with Lucas. “Is he coming today?”
“Yes.” I check the clock again even though I just checked it. “We’re riding to the appointment together.”
“I’m proud of you,” she says, soft and sure. “Drink water. Let him carry things. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“I know,” I lie.
“You never know,” she counters, and I can hear the smile. “Text me the heartbeat count.”
I hang up, tuck my phone into my tote, and waddle—walk—to the window. Outside, Saint Pierce switches jackets again: a gray morning shrugging toward sunshine. Down on the street, a black SUV pulls into a spot like it belongs there.
My heartbeat picks up.
He’s on time.
Of course he is.
A knock. I open the door and there he is—peacoat, beanie, the kind of calm that steadies a room. He’s holding a paper bag and a bottle of water like a welcome kit.
“Hi,” I say, immediately thirsty.
“Morning,” he answers. His gaze does that scan—door, hallway, me—then settles on my face. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I step back to let him in. He doesn’t crowd. He crosses to the counter, sets the bag down, and hands me the water with that hydration is queen look I’m starting to recognize.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, already unscrewing the cap.
“Granola bars, almonds, two bananas, and a lemon muffin because I couldn’t tell if you’re a muffin person.”
“I’m a muffin person,” I say, touched and also suddenly in love with the lemon muffin. “And a lemon person.”
“I’ll carry your bag,” he says, like it’s not a question. He loops the strap over his shoulder, checks the zipper, then offers me his hand to help me with my coat. It’s small, efficient care, and it short-circuits me more than grand gestures ever did.
The elevator ride is quiet in that not-awkward way, our shoulders almost-but-not touching. In the car, he adjusts the seat, heat, and mirrors like he’s calibrating a cockpit. “Seatbelt okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” I echo, and settle back. He drives with two hands and the patience of a man who refuses to jostle a pregnant person or their cargo. It’s… nice. Confusing, but nice.
“What are you thinking?” he asks after a block, like he’s not afraid of the answer.
“That you’re being very… not-pushy,” I admit, staring out at the storefronts sliding by. “And I don’t know what to do with that. I thought you’d show up with a powerpoint and a custody schedule.”
His mouth tips. “I can make you one if you need it.”
“I don’t,” I say, laughing despite myself.
“I figured I’d start with showing up and not screwing up,” he says simply. “We can add complexity after we eat muffins.”
At the OB’s office, the receptionist recognizes me (“Hi, Melanie!”) and clocks Lucas standing at my side.
Her eyebrows do a little hello dance, but she’s a professional and keeps it moving.
We sit. Lucas takes the chair next to mine.
He points at the water bottle cap when I forget to drink.
I drink with a roll of my eyes. When I have to fill a form I’ve already filled twelve times, he holds the clipboard and reads the annoying date fields aloud like a very handsome teleprompter.
“Melanie?” the nurse calls. We stand like a team. In the exam room, paper crinkles under me, and Lucas picks the corner where he can see me and the door. His eyes skim the cabinets, the sink, the poster of a lemon pretending to be a uterus.
Dr. Patel comes in with her familiar warm smile. “Good morning,” she says, then glances at Lucas and back to me with a question in her eyes.
“This is Lucas,” I say, pulse doing a staccato. “The baby’s father.”
There’s a micro-blink of surprise—because last time there was no father in the room—and then only welcome. “Nice to meet you, Lucas,” Dr. Patel says, shaking his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“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.
We fall into easier things—names we’ll never use, whether babies prefer jazz or white noise, if my child will inherit my weird thing about cilantro (genetic enemy). He steals three fries and pretends he didn’t. I let him because I’m benevolent.
When the check comes, he slides it toward himself. I open my mouth. He lifts a brow. “Consider it part of my ‘showing up’ budget.”
“Do I get a line item?” I ask.
“Snacks,” he says. “Unlimited.”
Outside, the sun has committed to the day. He walks me to the car like the sidewalk could suddenly turn treacherous. At my door he hesitates, then looks me right in the eyes.
“Thank you,” he says. “For letting me be there today.”
“You were good at it,” I say. “Being there.”
He nods, like he’s filing that away as an instruction he intends to follow. “Two weeks?”
“Two weeks,” I echo, holding up the heartbeat strip like a secret handshake.
He touches the edge of the paper with one careful fingertip, then steps back and rounds the hood to his side.
As he pulls out of the space, I rest my palm on my belly. “How’d we do?” I whisper.
The baby answers with a small, decisive thump.
“Same,” I say, smiling despite the fear. “Same.”