Chapter 11
Eleven
Harper
“So ready,” I say and Dr. Harlow smiles, sitting on the rolling stool doctors always seem to have and scooting close.
“If you’ll just slide down,” she says, adjusting the stirrups and guiding my feet into them.
Worried, I flick my gaze to the side as she tells me to scoot further—why is it always further down?—but Leo is keeping his eyes deliberately on mine and not on my lady business that’s covered by the ridiculously thin paper drape.
One touch and the thing will tear, and then where will I be?
It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.
I smother my scowl.
Yet, he wasn’t wrong when he said that. Leo saw—and licked and kissed and touched—pretty much every part of me.
But there’s something about him being here in this moment that feels beyond vulnerable.
Yeah, genius, I think. Because he hurt you.
He did.
I exhale, focus back on Dr. Harlow as she picks up the ultrasound wand, squirting some lube on the top.
“I know you’ve had one of these before, but I’ll talk you through each step, okay?”
I nod.
She brings the wand under the drape, positions it against me. “You’ll feel a little pressure—”
Leo chokes and we both freeze, glance over.
I lift my brows in question.
He looks from me to Dr. Harlow. “That thing is going inside her?”
She chuckles and I smother a giggle. Men. I swear.
“I’ll be gentle,” Dr. Harlow says solemnly. “I promise.”
Leo’s gone pale, worry creeping into the edges of his expression. Then he shifts his focus back to me, question in his eyes.
Checking in to make sure I’m good.
My damned dumb heart squeezes again.
First the candy, and now this? I don’t know what to do with that, with the glimpses he keeps giving me of the Leo from that night.
Is he that Leo? The sweet, thoughtful, caring one? Or is he the one who stomped on my heart without a single regret?
“I’m okay,” I find myself murmuring.
“Swear?”
“Swear,” I whisper.
He nods, and though he’s clearly still nervous, he doesn’t comment further, just keeps his eyes deliberately on mine, as though searching my face for the barest hint of discomfort.
But even though the wand isn’t exactly fun, it doesn’t hurt.
“Okay?” Dr. Harlow asks once it’s positioned.
“Yes,” I say and she reaches forward, presses some buttons on the machine and—
All of my breath flows out of me.
“There’s your baby,” she murmurs softly, as though she knows exactly how beautiful this moment is.
And it is.
She points to the bean-shaped blob on the screen. “Right there in the center is its heartbeat.”
“Is it supposed to be that fast?” Leo asks and I jump, not realizing he’s come so close.
His eyes are glued to the screen, as though he’s as obsessed by seeing our baby on the screen as I am.
“Yes,” Dr. Harlow says. “He or she is pumping at about one-hundred-sixty beats per minute. That’s right in the normal range for ten weeks along.
” She takes a few measurements before adding, “All of those look normal as well.” Then she leans forward again, tapping at the keyboard, and prints off a couple of pictures, passing them over to me.
I hold them close, torn between committing them to memory and absorbing everything that’s still on the screen.
Blood flow and size measurements—the baby is the size of a strawberry.
My baby’s head and limbs.
Something called the crown-to-rump measurement.
And that heart rate.
Everything looks perfect, and I start to relax.
But then she does something that destroys me.
She turns on the sound.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
“Wow,” I whisper, my eyes immediately welling up and spilling over.
I don’t even care that I’m staring at the screen through suddenly blurry eyes.
That’s my baby.
A thumb wipes my tear away and I find myself looking at Leo.
His eyes are damp too and my stupid heart convulses again as our gazes lock together, our baby’s heartbeat filling the air around us.
“Everything sounds perfect,” Dr. Harlow says quietly. “I’ve taken a recording and it will be in your chart if you want to listen to it again later—”
I have a feeling I’ll be listening on repeat.
“—for now”—she slips the wand free—“I’ll let you get dressed and we’ll see you in about a month.”
“Thanks, Dr. Harlow.”
“Don’t forget to check in about the nausea and vomiting at the end of the week. If it’s still really bad, I can send in a prescription for you.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Then she’s gone and it’s just Leo and me in the room.
And silence—heavy silence, filled with so, so many unsaid things.
“You’re keeping the baby.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He shifts, almost as if he’s going to reach for my hand, but stops, steps back. “I’ll let you get dressed.”
“Okay.”
He turns away again, moves to the corner, and neither of us say anything as I take off the gown, toss the paper drape, clean up, and quickly extract my underwear and bra from where they’re hidden in my folded jeans—something that has my lips twitching.
Then I’m pulling them on, doing the same with my jeans and shirt. “It’s safe,” I tell him as I sit down to put on my shoes.
Only as I reach for them, he beats me to it, slipping them onto my feet and double-knotting the laces.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I just stay quiet as he finishes and we walk out.
I make a pit stop at the desk to schedule my next appointment, and I don’t miss that Leo notes the date and time in his phone.
Something else I don’t know what to do with.
Then we’re walking to my car, and he’s pausing next to the driver’s side door.
“You working this afternoon?”
“No. Today’s my day off.”
“Good.” He shifts as though to touch me then stops. “You’ll be okay getting home?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He steps back, and I open the door, climb inside.
But he doesn’t head to his car until I’ve buckled in and backed out of my spot.
“I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” I whisper as I force my gaze from the reflection of his retreating form in the rearview.
And I don’t gain any sudden insights as I drive home.
Nor when the doorbell rings and there’s a box on my porch—
A box filled with those ginger candies and sports drinks to ward off dehydration and a gift card to a food delivery company.
He’s looking after me.
But why?
Regardless, I take the box inside and make a dent in the ginger candies, so much so that my stomach settles enough for me to use that gift card to order dinner.
And to actually not puke it—or the sports drink I have with it—up.
Small victories.
But they’re laced with confusion.
Confusion that doesn’t abate when he texts just before I go to bed.
LEO: How are you feeling?
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
But that’s not why I don’t message him back.
Sighing, I spread my planner out on the kitchen counter, pull up my spreadsheet, and start figuring out how I’m going to take time off after the baby is born.
I’ll make it work. I know I will.
But the tension is already creeping into my shoulders.
Because I know it’s not just surviving those first few months.
It’s years of commitment, years of supporting another person, years of potentially doing it alone.
Yes, Leo says he’s going to stick around, but I lived through what happens when reality doesn’t measure up to the fantasy you’re wishing for.
I need to be prepared.
I need to keep myself—and my baby—safe.
Things will be tight—so tight I might have to give up the storefront for a time. But I’ve run my business out of my personal kitchen before. I can do it again. It’s complicated and slow and exhausting, but it’s doable, even if it feels a bit like failing.
Still, it’s a backup plan.
For now, I pack my schedule with as many events as I can handle—or maybe it’s actually a few more than I can reasonably juggle without wanting to cry.
But that’s okay.
I’ll make it work.
I’ll survive.
I always do.
Even if I have to cry my way through.