Chapter 3 #2
When she finishes, she hands me a paper towel to wipe the gel off my stomach and fixes us both with a look that suggests she's about to deliver a verdict.
"Everything looks good," she says. "You'll want to continue those prenatal vitamins. Cut back on caffeine, no alcohol, no raw fish. I'll see you back in four weeks for another check."
"That's it?"
"What were you expecting? A parade?"
"Maybe a manual? Some kind of instruction guide?"
Dr. Hoffman almost smiles. "First babies are terrifying. You'll figure it out. Most people do." She glances at Nathan. "Though I'd recommend less hovering from Dr. Kingsley here. You're going to give yourself an ulcer."
"I wasn't hovering."
"You reorganized my cotton ball jar while you were waiting." She points to the counter by the sink.
Nathan has the grace to look embarrassed. I file this information away for future use.
The nurse gives us photos from the ultrasound—grainy black-and-white images of the tiny figure that is apparently our child. I stare at them in the elevator, trying to reconcile this little gummy bear shape with the heartbeat still echoing in my ears.
"You okay?" Nathan asks.
"I'm growing a human. An actual human. With actual arms and legs."
"Tiny ones. About half an inch each at this stage."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?"
"I honestly don't know."
My stomach growls in response, which is answer enough. The nausea has faded into something closer to ravenous hunger—apparently our child has decided to swing from one extreme to the other without warning.
"I could eat."
"What sounds good?"
The craving hits with the force of a freight train. "Jalapenos. And ice cream."
Nathan blinks. "Together?"
"Yes."
"That's... Are you sure that's not the nausea talking?"
"My body wants what it wants. Are you going to judge me or feed me?"
He does not, to his credit, judge me. Instead, he drives to a grocery store with the kind of focus usually reserved for emergency surgeries and returns to the car with a pint of vanilla ice cream and a jar of pickled jalapenos.
We sit in the parking lot eating directly from the containers, which I suspect is a first for his pristine vehicle. Nathan watches me dip ice cream into jalapeno juice with an expression caught between horror and fascination.
"That can't taste good," he says.
"It tastes amazing." I offer him the plastic spoon. "Try it."
"I would genuinely rather perform surgery on myself."
"Coward."
"Selective about my life choices. There's a difference."
I eat another bite, the sweet-and-spicy combination hitting some primal satisfaction center in my brain. Outside the car, Anchorage goes about its business—people walking dogs, cars pulling in and out of parking spaces, a completely normal day that has no idea my entire existence has shifted.
"So," I say between bites. "We're really doing this."
"We're really doing this."
"I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Neither do I." Nathan pauses. "But I've downloaded seven apps and ordered twelve books, so I'm hoping to have a preliminary understanding by next week."
The laugh surprises me. Real, unguarded, the kind that loosens something in my chest.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing. You're just... very you."
"Is that bad?"
"It's something." I set down the ice cream, suddenly serious. "I don't know how to do this. Any of this. The co-parenting thing, the being-in-one-place thing, the letting-someone-help thing. My whole life is built on not needing anyone."
"I know."
"I'm not going to suddenly become someone who meal preps and has a five-year plan."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
He's quiet for a long moment, staring out the windshield at the gray Alaskan sky.
"I'm asking you to let me be there. Not to fix things, not to take over. Just to be there. For the appointments and the cravings and the three AM panic attacks about whether we're ready for this."
"We're not ready for this."
"No." He glances at me. "Is it working?"
I think about the heartbeat. The gummy bear blur. The way he cried without trying to hide it, the way he drove to a grocery store without question to satisfy my ridiculous craving.
"Maybe," I admit. "Ask me again when you're not judging my food choices."
"I'm not judging. I'm... concerned."
"Same thing."
"It really isn't."
We argue about the distinction all the way back to the parking lot where I left my van. It's easy, this bickering—easier than the heavy conversations waiting ahead.
Nathan pulls up next to my van, which looks even more disreputable next to his sleek car. Rust spots, bumper stickers, a dream catcher hanging from the rearview mirror that a roadside vendor in New Mexico swore would bring good luck.
"Thank you," I say, hand on the door handle. "For today. For the snacks and the not-judging and the..." I gesture vaguely. "Everything."
"Whatever happens," he says, "whatever we figure out or don't—I'm glad it's you."
"Glad what's me?"
"The person I'm doing this with." He swallows. "If I had to have an unplanned baby with anyone, I'm glad it's you."
My throat tightens. "That's either the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me or the weirdest."
"Probably both."
"Probably."
I get out of the car before I can do something stupid like cry again, or worse, lean across the console and kiss him. Because that's not what this is. We're co-parents, not... whatever else my hormones are trying to suggest.
But as I climb into my van and watch his taillights disappear down the road, I press my hand against my stomach where our baby is growing.
He watched me eat jalapenos with vanilla ice cream without flinching. It's the sexiest thing anyone's done for me in months.
And that terrifies me more than anything.