Allie
The last time I was in this exam room, I found out I was pregnant with Lydia.
It still has the same scratchy paper barrier, the kind that makes you feel like one sudden move will alert the entire office.
The same picture of a newborn baby sleeping inside a tulip on a cloud.
And apparently, their heating system is still the biggest piece of junk in all of New Hampshire.
It’s a week before Christmas, and I’m still shivering through a thick knit sweater.
The only thing that’s different now?
I’m not over the moon to be here.
If I’m being honest, I just want to go home, crawl back into bed, and forget the world exists for a little while longer. But if I did that, Ana or Jax would either drag me out—or worse—call my mother.
We’ve already done the hardest part. Having to lie there in silence while the cold wand pressed into my belly, trying desperately to find a heartbeat that might or might not be there.
I couldn’t bring myself to look. Neither could Jax.
Instead, we sat there in silence, tears shining in our eyes, our gazes locked, clinging to the only safety net we had left in that room: each other.
The screen was right there, but I couldn’t look up. And with the tech so quiet, her face drawn and stiff, it was clear we didn’t need her to say the words out loud.
Jax and I just aren’t meant to bring a baby into the world. At least not right now. And as much as it breaks my heart, I have to be okay with it.
I glance over at Jax, sitting beside me now. The soft sound of him picking at his fingernails echoes in the small room—and nearly rips my heart out with the realization:
This is his first baby.
His first great love he might never get to meet.
And his second loss in less than a year.
Tears prick my eyes again. I reach across the space until my hand finds the sleeve of his cold leather jacket.
He looks up and offers me a halfhearted smile, one I know he’s trying so hard to pass off as genuine. But he doesn’t have to pretend. Not with me.
Before I can say anything, three soft taps sound at the door, and in walks Dr. Lavoie.
Of course she’s wearing the same expression as always: a too-bright, overly friendly smile paired with a loud greeting as she heads straight to the sink to wash her hands.
My eyes follow her, the way her hands move, how thoroughly she scrubs them under the water. She twists and turns her wedding ring like it’s not even a second thought anymore. Just like how breaking bad news must become when you’ve done it long enough—like Dr. Lavoie has.
“So,” she says, her voice startling me slightly. I glance up as she sinks into her chair and boots up the computer. “How are we feeling, Allie? Any more syncope? How about spotting?”
I blink at her. “Uh, no? No more fainting. No more bleeding.” I make it a point to say bleeding, not spotting. Because there’s a difference between the two, a big one.
One makes you worry, but in the end everything is fine.
The other makes you start to say goodbye—just in case.
I had the latter.
“That’s good,” she says, already too busy typing my responses into the computer to hold her practiced smile.
Her eyebrows knit as she studies the screen, eyes probably landing on whatever notes made it clear this wasn’t going to be the happy check-in she expected.
My assumption is confirmed the second she turns away from the monitor, rolls her chair a little closer, and leans forward, elbows on her knees.
I want to scream. To tell her to just say it. To stop tiptoeing around it. That Jax and I already prepared ourselves. That we’re okay. We just need her to confirm what we already know.
I squeeze my eyes shut and feel Jax’s warm hand close around mine, trying his best to ground me, but instead, I’m just… here.
Existing.
Dr. Lavoie exhales slowly. “And how about the nausea? Do you think you want to try something for it?”
My eyes fly open.
I glance at Jax, who looks just as confused as I feel.
He turns to face Dr. Lavoie. “She’s finally keeping down small things, but she still gets nauseous.”
“Well, we definitely want to see you eating,” Dr. Lavoie says softly. Then her smile returns, growing so fast I forget how to breathe when she adds, “But whatever you’re doing, keep it up—because baby looks great.”
A tiny gasp escapes my lips while tears sting my eyes. I don’t even have to look over to know Jax wears the same expression.
My hand rises automatically, cupping my mouth. “W-what?” I choke out, not even realizing I’m already crying.
Dr. Lavoie’s brows pinch tightly as her eyes flick between Jax and me. “Did you guys not see? The tech was supposed to send you with printouts,” she says, her tone dropping for the first time I’ve heard in six years.
Any thought I might have had, officially leaves my brain.
I remember the tech trying to hand them to us, but we were just confused. Why would we want that kind of reminder in a keepsake to mourn? It felt cruel.
Our baby’s okay?
Apparently, our silence was answer enough.
Dr. Lavoie leaves her seat, murmuring she’ll be right back as she slips out of the room.
I spin, searching for Jax beside me, but I don’t even need to. He’s already springing from his chair, wrapping his big arms around me, peppering my head with so many kisses it makes me feel drunk in the best way possible.
Then, in a matter of seconds, Dr. Lavoie returns with a portable ultrasound machine, wheeling it in as Jax jumps up to hold the door open for her.
“Oh, thanks, Jax,” she says, plugging in the machine. Then she gestures from me to the exam table. “You know what to do, Allie. Lay back, shirt up.”
I do exactly that, so fast I’m sure I ripped the stupid paper barrier.
She wastes no time. Just as Jax’s head aligns with mine, it appears right away. Clear as day.
Our baby.
Jumping around like it’s having the damn time of its life. Like scaring their parents is the best thing in the world.
They clearly get that from Jax.
I glance over at him, tears already spilling from my eyes, and it’s like I fall in love with him all over again. The way he looks at the monitor with his whole entire heart, as if he’s pouring it straight into the little jellybean on the screen.
His head slowly turns, and his gaze lands on mine. “That,” he says, pointing to the screen, “that’s our baby?”
My hand finds his cheek, cradling it gently. “That’s our baby, Jax.”
The soft whir of the machine cuts through the air, followed by the gentle ripping of paper as Dr. Lavoie hands me a few still images.
“Now, the hematoma is still there,” she begins, and my chest tightens. “It’s not big enough to be a concern, and the baby’s heart rate is perfect today. So, I’m not worried. Just no lifting anything heavy, and no sex—at least until we check again in two weeks.”
Jax and I both nod, still at a loss of words as we stare at the ultrasound. I can’t stop the smile from spreading as my mind just keeps repeating: our baby is okay.
“Congrats, you two,” she says softly, already rising from her chair. “Allie, I’ll see you after the holidays for your first prenatal.”
My smile grows as I nod, until a thought rushes to the front of my mind.
“Wait!” I nearly shout, reaching out to stop her. “So, will I be considered high risk? You know, because of the accident?”
She gives me a tight-lipped smile and shrugs. “Yes and no. You’ll be monitored carefully, and you’ll have a few extra appointments and ultrasounds throughout your pregnancy. But I don’t see you needing any special restrictions. We’ll take things slow, okay?”
A wave of relief washes over me, and I press my hand to my chest to slow my racing heart.
“Thank you, Dr. Lavoie,” Jax says softly, caressing my hand.
She smiles back. “You’re welcome, Jax. And don’t let her lift anything,” she adds, pointing at him to show she means business.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smirk.
We watch her leave the room, and not even a second after the door clicks shut, Jax sweeps me into his arms so tight I can hardly breathe.
And I cry—hard.
But this time, it’s not the earth-shattering sadness kind.
It’s the excited, overjoyed kind.
For the first time in almost six months, we have our one, shining, flickering hope.
And that lives in our baby.