Nine Weeks
The waiting room of the Willow Creek Medical Center smelled of antiseptic and burnt coffee—a scent that usually made me think of flu shots and sprained ankles, but today, it made my stomach do a slow, nauseating flip.
Everything felt too clean, too clinical, and too normal for how fast my heart was thundering against my ribs.
My hands wouldn't stop moving in my lap.
I was fidgeting with the hem of my cardigan, tugging at a loose thread until my fingertips ached.
Beside me, Mom sat with her purse clutched tightly over her knees.
She was staring at a outdated magazine about gardening, but I could tell she wasn't reading.
She was holding herself together through sheer force of will, her jaw set in that way that told me she was ready to fight the world for me.
Every few minutes, her hand would find mine. She'd give it a firm, grounding squeeze, and I'd squeeze back, clinging to her silent support like a lifeline.
When the nurse finally pushed open the heavy door and called my name, my legs felt like they were made of lead.
"I'm right here, baby girl," Mom whispered, standing with me.
The hallway was short, but it felt like a mile-long gauntlet.
We passed posters of smiling, glowing families and healthy, chubby-cheeked infants.
I tried to look at the floor, afraid that if I looked at those pictures too closely, the reality of my own shattered plans would break me right there on the linoleum.
"Let's start with some blood work," the nurse said, her voice gentle but efficient.
I nodded, offering my arm and looking away as the needle slipped in.
The moment I saw the dark red blood fill the vial, the last bit of my denial evaporated.
This wasn't a nightmare I was going to wake up from.
This was my life. This was the beginning of something that didn't involve Brandon or Chloe or the city.
After the nurse left, I sat on the exam table. The crinkle of the sanitary paper beneath me sounded like thunder in the quiet room. Mom perched in the chair in the corner, her eyes never leaving mine.
The doctor came in a few minutes later—a woman in her late forties named Dr. Aris with kind eyes and a voice that sounded like warm honey.
She walked us through the standard questions: dates, symptoms, family history.
I answered as best I could, though my voice wavered more than once, especially when she asked about the father.
Finally, she glanced at my chart and then back at me with a soft smile. "Based on your HCG levels and our initial math, I'd say you're exactly nine weeks along."
Nine weeks.
The number lodged in my chest like a physical weight.
Somehow, hearing a professional say it made it realer than the two pink lines ever had.
Nine weeks meant this had started when I still believed I was getting married.
It meant this baby had been there while I was picking out floral arrangements and while I was walking into a betrayal that ended my world.
It wasn't an abstract secret anymore. It was a timeline. A heartbeat.
"Would you like to see?" Dr. Aris asked.
I nodded, my throat too tight to produce actual words.
The room dimmed as she flipped a switch, and the small ultrasound machine hummed to life. The cold gel against my skin made me flinch, but then the wand pressed lightly against my belly, moving in slow, searching circles.
And then, there it was.
A tiny, flickering light on the grainy screen. It was blurred and small—barely more than a shadow—but it was undeniably alive.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a sob as my vision blurred with tears. My mom moved from the chair, her hand finding my shoulder and squeezing so hard I could feel her own thumb trembling.
"That's your baby," the doctor said softly, pointing to the screen. "Measuring right at nine weeks. And look at that... that's a strong heartbeat."
The sound filled the room—a fast, steady thump-thump-thump that was impossibly small and yet louder than anything I'd ever heard. It undid me completely. Hot, fast tears slid down my temples and into my hair as I stared at that flicker.
My baby.
I hadn't realized how much I'd been bracing myself, half-convinced that the universe would take this, too. I'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the doctor to tell me it was a mistake or that it wasn't viable. But hearing that heartbeat... it was a promise.
Mom leaned closer to the screen, her voice thick with emotion. "Look at that little peanut, Bree. Strong already, just like you."
I laughed through the tears, the sound shaky and raw. "Yeah. Stronger than me right now."
She kissed the top of my head, her arms wrapping around me as we both stayed glued to the black-and-white image. "You're stronger than you think. And you're never going to be alone in this. Not for a second."
The doctor printed a small strip of grainy images and handed them to me.
My hands shook as I took them, my thumb tracing the tiny shape.
Nine weeks. A secret that was growing too big for me to hide.
But as I looked at that first picture, a tiny spark of something I hadn't felt in weeks flickered in my chest.
Hope
The house was hauntingly quiet after Mom left for her evening shift at the diner.
I sat curled up on the sofa, a knitted blanket draped over my legs, the ultrasound pictures resting in my palm.
I'd been staring at them for hours, trying to reconcile the tiny shadow on the paper with the girl who had run away from the city in a panic.
Nine weeks. A heartbeat that I could still hear echoing in my ears every time the house went silent.
But as much as that heartbeat gave me hope, the thought of Anthony made my stomach tie itself in knots.
I knew my brother. I knew the protective, violent streak that ran through him.
If he saw these pictures, he wouldn't just be happy; he'd be out for blood.
I wasn't ready for the explosion. I wasn't ready to shatter his image of his "perfect" little sister, or to let him see the wreckage of my life up close.
A sharp knock on the front door made me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I instinctively shoved the ultrasound pictures under the sofa cushion, my pulse racing. Mom had her keys. Harper and Tessa always texted first.
When I opened the door, the cool evening air rushed in, and there stood Nick Harrison.
My breath caught. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved into the pockets of his dark jeans.
He was wearing a black T-shirt that looked like it had seen a full day at the shop, and his dark hair was mussed, a few silver strands catching the porch light.
But it was his eyes—those stormy, observant gray eyes—that hit me.
He looked at me, and I felt like I was being seen in a way that had nothing to do with my face.
"Did Anthony forget his jacket here again?" I asked, my voice high and brittle as I tried to play it off.
"No." His voice was a low rumble in the quiet night.
"He's at the station. I just... I wanted to check on you."
My chest tightened. Of course he had. He'd been the one to catch me at the lake; he was the only one who knew the raw, unedited version of my story. I stepped back, pulling the door open wider. "Come in. It's not exactly a party in here."
"That's fine," he said, stepping into the living room.
Nick was a big man, and his presence seemed to shrink the walls of the small house. He didn't pace; he just stood there for a second, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing on me. The silence stretched between us, heavy and thick with things we hadn't said.
I sat back down on the couch, my hand hovering near the cushion where I'd hidden the photos. His gaze followed the movement, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realized I was guarding something.
"You went to the doctor today," he said. It wasn't a question.
I hesitated, then slowly pulled the strip of photos out from under the cushion. My voice was barely a whisper. "Nine weeks. Strong heartbeat."
Nick crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps and sat on the couch beside me. He didn't crowd me, but he sat close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the scent of cedar and motor oil settling around me.
He didn't reach for the pictures immediately; he just sat there, looking at them. Finally, his calloused hand moved, his fingers brushing the edge of the printout.
"Can I?"
I nodded, my throat working.
He lifted the strip carefully, his large fingers handling the paper as if it were made of spun glass.
He studied the tiny shadow, his jaw tightening as he looked at the faint curve of the life growing inside me.
For a long moment, he didn't say a word, his expression softening in a way that made my heart ache.
"That's... that's really something, Aubrey," he murmured, his thumb ghosting over the grainy image.
"It makes it real," I said, the words catching. "I can't pretend it's a mistake anymore. It's a person."
"Yeah," he whispered. "It is."
The silence that followed was safer than I deserved.
I let myself sit there, anchored by his presence, until the dam finally broke again.
"I don't know how to do this, Nick. I don't know how to be a mother.
I don't know how to tell my brother that his best friend is the only one who knows the truth.
I don't know how to get through tomorrow. "
Nick set the pictures back on the coffee table and turned to me fully. His hand found mine—rough, warm, and incredibly steady. "You don't have to know all of that tonight, Aubrey. You're trying to build the whole house before the foundation is even dry."
Tears spilled over, hot and fast, tracing the paths they'd made all day. "But if I don't figure it out, everything is just going to fall apart again. I can't lose anything else."
His voice was firm, the kind of steady that settles into your bones and stays there. "Then let it fall. If it falls, I'll be right here to help you pick up the pieces. You don't have to carry the weight of this by yourself."
The words were a hammer to my heart. I covered my face with my hands, my shoulders shaking with the force of my relief. Nick didn't hesitate; he reached out and pulled me into him. His arm wrapped around me, pulling my head onto his chest. I could hear his heartbeat—slow, rhythmic, and sure.
For the second time in two days, I let myself fall apart against him. I let myself lean on a man I'd spent years trying to ignore. And this time, when he whispered, "You're not alone in this, Aubrey," I actually believed him.