12. Willa
CHAPTER TWELVE
WILLA
T here’s a bag of potato chips on my nightstand.
I’ve been staring at it since I woke up, not daring to touch it, or the water, or the ginger candy.
My phone is suspect too. I don’t remember coming to bed last night, which means that man carried me to my room—pregnancy wristbands and all—and left me a bag of chips.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. The only reason I’m reaching for the candy right now is because of the sour plume bubbling in my stomach.
But I’m not touching the chips. I draw the line at the chips.
Slipping the wristbands off, I head into my bathroom. It takes me all of three minutes and a gag on my toothbrush to run back to my bed and put them back on. Whatever magic these things have, I need them.
I breathe a sigh at the relieving pressure and get a sudden craving for potato soup.
It’s the only thing that sounds good as I grab my phone and make my way to the kitchen.
As annoyed as I was when Trevor showed up unannounced, I have to admit he knows what he’s doing.
I feel a little bad for keeping him in the dark, but seriously, how was I supposed to know he was a morning sickness aficionado?
And efficient at cleaning up, apparently .
My kitchen is spotless. I’ve been sick for days, just leaving everything out on display while my energy waned.
Right now, my white quartz countertops sparkle, the stovetop glistens, and there’s a lemony fresh scent coming from the sink.
The roll of paper towels is back in its holder, the garbage can is empty—I’m pretty sure the floor has been mopped.
The last flower hanging from that poor purple orchid in the window even looks perkier.
I really need to try and save that plant .
There’s a note tucked under a can of ginger ale:
Leftover soup’s in the fridge. See you at 3:00. —Trev
My stomach grumbles as I read the word soup.
I’m so hungry, my feet are on their way to the fridge before I realize where I’m headed.
As I wait for the microwave to finish, I marvel at the tenacity of this man.
Without my asking, Trevor came to my house, eased my nausea, carried me to bed, and cleaned my mess like a goddamn superhero.
And he wasn’t mad about any of it. I know I should have told him I was sick when he asked how I was feeling on Monday.
And Tuesday. And yesterday. But I don’t do needy.
The thought of asking anyone for something when I’m sick makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Hell, asking anyone for help with anything makes me feel inadequate.
I learned at an early age that asking for help was a waste of my time, since people are determined to believe being book smart means you have no struggles in life. By people, I mostly mean my parents. Any problems I had growing up were met with:
“ You’ll figure it out .”
“ You’re not trying hard enough .”
And my personal favorite, “ We don’t have to worry about you .”
By the time I graduated from high school, I’d had enough and walked away.
My parents told me I was on my own and not to come to them for help.
I haven’t. I’ve worked my ass off for everything I have right now—my car, the studio, this sparkling clean house with a mortgage in my name.
I don’t want to get used to having someone in my space, offering to help me. Not when the help has a time limit.
Using a towel, I pull the hot soup from the microwave and walk straight to the couch.
The plush throw blanket I usually have draped across the back is folded on a cushion with military precision.
I look around the room before I sit. Everything else in here has been tidied up too.
From the magazines on my glass coffee table—arranged in a neat little stack—to the remotes lined up next to them.
When I wrap the throw around my legs, the smell of Christmas elicits an exasperated sigh. I pull out my phone.
Me
You didn’t have to clean my house…
Trevor
I think you mean, “Gee, thanks, Trev. You’re so kind. And funny. And handsome.”
Me
Thank you for cleaning up. And for dinner. It was nice.
Trevor
Oh, so you DO like when I’m nice to you…
Me
Don’t push it, Dimples.
Trevor
My bad, sweetheart
Me
Trevor, the pet names…
Trevor
You started it
Feeling any better?
Me
If I say yes, will you promise to never clean my house again.
Trevor
LOL! Nope.
There’s a knock on my door at 2:55 p.m., and all my nausea rises in my throat. I don’t think I’m ready for this appointment. What if something ’ s already gone wrong and I’ve stressed everyone out for nothing ? What if there’s more than one in there ? What if ?—
Another knock has me on my feet, smoothing out my dress before I open the door. Trevor has a computer bag slung over his navy blue EdTechU windbreaker, and he’s wearing the biggest smile. I can’t help but roll my eyes. “You ready?” he asks, stepping back so I can lock the door.
I nod silently and follow him to his rental car.
Having no control over what’s going on inside my body is one of the most stressful things I’ve ever experienced.
After spending the morning reading statistics on early pregnancy loss, I’m mostly convinced I’ll walk into this appointment and be told the worst.
Trevor heads straight to the passenger side, opens the door, and waits well after I’ve settled into the seat. Sneering, I reach for the seat belt, pausing with it halfway across my body. “I know how to close the door, Trevor…”
“So do I.” He winks and stands there like a damn car salesman.
Rolling my eyes at his amused laugh, I click the buckle and pull out my phone to send the clearest signal that I’m already done with him.
As soon as he starts the car, a super cheesy ’90s boy band song fills the cabin.
I’m talking love, fire, desire, and all that bullshit .
“You’re kidding, right? You don’t actually listen to this…”
“What you got against my music, Jim?” He laughs.
“Nothing. I just think all the lovey-dovey lyrics are gonna make me puke in this car,” I say with a straight face. “Change it. Let’s see if that helps.”
He shakes his head, smiling as he presses a button on the radio. Another love song comes on. This one might be worse, talking about wedding vows and cherishing forever. I groan, and he laughs while backing out of the parking spot. “It’s a playlist,” he says.
“So it’s just ’90s love songs, all the time?”
“Nope. Sometimes they’re from the ’80s and 2000s.” He glances at me as we drive down the street, and his smile falls. “Speaking of puke, how are you feeling today?”
“Better. As long as I keep these things on my wrists and a candy in my mouth, I’m okay.”
He nods as he maneuvers onto the freeway. Neither of us say anything else. Nearly twenty minutes later, a blond nurse introduces herself as Mandy while showing us back to a room. After taking some blood, she hands me a white sheet and instructs me to undress from the waist down. My heart stalls.
“W-we’re not just answering questions?” I thought maybe we’d do an ultrasound on my stomach at the most, but I never once thought about needing a pelvic exam.
“This is a dating scan,” Mandy explains. “The baby is too small to see over the belly. We’ll have to use the internal transducer for accurate measurements. It’s like a little wand that?—”
“Yeah. Got it,” I say, glancing at Trevor. He doesn’t look fazed one bit, lounging back in a chair with his arms crossed.
“The doctor will be in shortly.” She smiles and slips out the door.
“You knew about this?”
“Yep. Pretty standard.”
“Well, could you turn around or something? ”
He laughs and grabs a magazine from the table next to him, opens it up, and covers his face.
“What’s so funny about this?” I ask, slipping out of my panties and placing them in my purse. He’s seen me in less, but the garish lights in this exam room are making me feel self-conscious about my choice in underwear.
“Nothing.” His muffled voice lilts with amusement.
“No. Say it.”
“You’re just real cute when you get flustered.”
“I’m not flustered. I’m agitated. And hungry,” I grumble, sliding onto the exam chair and positioning the sheet over my waist. I didn’t even think about bringing snacks with me. The only things in my purse are gum, ginger candy, and my phone. “You can look now.”
Trevor closes the magazine and digs in his computer bag, then walks over to me, unwrapping a granola bar on his way. “I have a few other things if you’re still hungry. We can grab some food afterward too.”
“I don’t want to eat all of your snacks.”
“They’re not my snacks. I brought them for you.” He meets my scowl with a smirk. As I start to tell him how unnecessary it is for him to feed me, he sticks the granola bar in my mouth. “Eat. You’ll feel better, swee—Willa.”
I’d argue, but this basic-ass granola bar is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Demolishing it in three bites, I smack my lips for good measure when it’s gone. I’m about to ask for more when there’s a knock on the door. One that stays on the other side until I say, “Come in.”
Dr. Quentin is about fifteen years older than I am, a straight shooter, and speaks her mind freely, which I deeply appreciate.
She walks into the room with a bright white smile gleaming from her mahogany face.
Her curly brown hair is secured on top of her head with a claw clip.
She doesn’t even glance at the man in the corner, her attention solely on me as she looks over her glasses.
“Willa, Willa, Willa. You are full of surprises. ”
“Hey, Doctor Q.”
“You told me you were done with that Carter guy.” She waggles her finger at me, but the smile remains. I had plenty of visits with her when I found out my ex had cheated on me the first time. And the second time. By the third time, she was as fed up with him as I was.
“Oh, I am.” I clear my throat and point behind her. “This is Trevor.”
Turning on her heel, she cocks her head at him before walking over and sticking out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Trevor.” He takes her hand with a smile. “Now”—she flips her attention back to me—“what ever happened to using protection?”
“We did.” I shrug and give her a nervous smile.
“Mm-hmm.” She tucks her chin, scrutinizing me over her glasses again as she walks toward her stool. I can’t blame her. If it wasn’t happening to me, I wouldn’t believe it either. “Well, I guess you two get a pass, then. Let’s see how far along you are.”
“Eight weeks, exactly,” I say without hesitation.
She laughs. “You would know exactly when you conceived. You’re sure this wasn’t planned?”
“Not. At. All.” I shake my head.
Dr. Quentin whips her head back to Trevor. “And you plan on being involved the entire time?”
He chuckles and nods. “Yep. If she’ll let me.”
“Willa, you better let this man take care of you.” She repeats her finger waggle. “Any morning sickness?”
“Nothing too bad…” I lie. Now that I’m feeling a little better, the past few days feel like an overreaction. I don’t want to seem weak so early on, and with this being a surprise, I definitely don’t want to look like I can’t handle my responsibility.
Trevor clears his throat and walks across the room to stand next to me. “Uh, yeah, she’s been sick all day long since Monday.”
“Ooh, he’s tellin’ on you!” Dr. Q teases, slipping on blue nitrile gloves. “I like him. Let’s do this ultrasound so you two can get out of here.” She slides a condom on the transducer and squeezes lube over it. “You ready for me to bring my rowdy kids to the studio next week?”
“Of course. I’ve got some of those sparkly Santa hats your girls liked last year.”
“They’ll be all over that! Here we go.” She nods toward the screen.
Trevor’s hand is on my shoulder before the image comes up, squeezing reassuringly when I gasp. The tiny figure lying in the large black oval is wiggling away. It’s surreal that I’m watching something happening inside my body and can’t even feel it.
Dr. Quentin points at the screen. “That’s your little gummy bear. There’s the head and spine. And here is the yolk sac. Let me click in some measurements, but everything looks good.”
I turn to Trevor, whose eyes are sparkling as he stares at the screen, lips slightly parted.
When he glances at me and smiles, something inside me shifts.
Not the baby, obviously, but something tight grips my heart.
This is really happening. We’re having a baby together.
Holy shit . My hand has found its way up to his on my shoulder, and I don’t move it once I notice. This feels okay, for now.
“You’re right. Eight weeks,” she confirms. “Would you like some pictures?” My eyes snap to hers, and I nod, still speechless.
She prints off three and hands them to me, smiling at my trembling fingers when I take them.
“Congratulations, you two! Get started on a prenatal, lots of fruits and veggies, and I’ll see you back in four weeks. ”
Dr. Q shakes our hands and heads for the door, leaving me alone with Trevor and pictures of the dancing gummy bear.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Trevor watching me, homed in like he’s stuck in a daydream.
I hold the pictures out to him, assuming he’s waiting for his turn to marvel at the ultrasound.
He doesn’t take them. Heat fills my cheeks as his eyes rove all over my face, but looking away from him right now feels impossible.
Breaking the silence seems wrong too. After an eternity, he releases a breath.
“You’re amazing, Willa. I hope you know that.
” His gaze falls to the floor, and he walks to the corner of the room for his bag, then heads toward the door. “I’ll wait for you in the hallway.”