Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
I lift my chin. “Both of them.”
Mason goes still beside me. Brookes’s hand settles at the small of my back, offering reassurance.
The technician’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Okay,” she says, a little too brightly. “Wonderful. Follow me.”
As we walk down the hallway, I can feel the protective energy rolling off both men. Mason walks half a step ahead, like he’s prepared to shoulder open doors, walls, or the entire world if it gets in our way. Brookes stays close behind me, his fingers brushing my lower back every few steps, reminding me without words that he’s there.
Inside the dimly lit room, the air smells faintly of disinfectant and lavender. There’s a padded table, a screen angled toward us, and a small printer waiting beside the machine.
I lie back, my heart suddenly pounding.
Mason takes one side of me. Brookes takes the other.
“You cold?” Mason asks when I lift my shirt.
“Not yet.”
The technician smiles. “You will be in about three seconds.”
She squirts gel over the small bump low on my belly, and I gasp as the cold hits my skin.
Mason immediately leans closer. “You okay?”
I laugh. “It’s just cold.”
Then the wand presses down. The screen flickers. Static shifts. Shadows move. The technician adjusts the angle, her expression focused. For one terrible second, I forget how to breathe.
Then there it is. A tiny, perfect heartbeat flickering strong and fast. A little body curled inside me, already moving, tiny limbs stretching, head turning as if our baby knows we’re watching.
Our baby.
A sob tears out of me before I can stop it.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, tears spilling freely down my cheeks. “Look. Look at our baby.”
Mason makes a rough sound beside me. His big hand finds mine, gripping tight, and when I turn my head, his eyes are wet.
Brookes leans closer to the screen, his lips parted, his face filled with a kind of wonder I’ve never seen on him before. Like he's been immediately transformed.
“That’s our kid,” Mason says, voice tight. “Holy shit.”
“Mason,” I say, laughing through tears.
“What? That’s our kid. That’s the only thing my brain can say right now.”
Brookes lets out a shaky breath. “The heartbeat.”
The technician smiles softly. “Strong heartbeat. Very strong.”
The words move through me like sunlight. Strong. Our baby is strong. I close my eyes for one brief second and whisper a prayer of thanks. Relief spreads through me, loosening every tight, fearful place inside me until all that’s left is joy.
When I open my eyes, Mason is staring at the screen like he’s afraid to blink and miss it.
Brookes reaches for my other hand. “Janey.”
I turn to him.
His eyes shine. “You’re incredible.”
My chin trembles. “I’m just lying here.”
“No.” His voice is low, rough with emotion. “You’re making our whole world.”
That does it. I cry harder.
Mason bends and kisses my forehead. “Good job, sweetheart.”
I laugh wetly. “The baby did most of the work.”
“You’re both overachievers,” he says.
The technician takes measurements, explaining little details as she goes. The curve of the head. The tiny spine. The flicker of movement that makes all three of us gasp like fools.
After a while, she says, “Everything looks perfect so far. Would you like some pictures?”
“Yes,” all three of us say at once.
She laughs. “I’ll print several.”
When she hands over the little black-and-white images, I clutch them to my chest like treasure.
Mason holds one carefully between his thumb and forefinger, looking terrified he might damage it.
“This is coming with me everywhere,” he says.
Brookes glances over. “You’re not putting it in your wallet. You’ll ruin it.”
“I’ll laminate it.”
“You're not laminating the baby.”
“It’s a picture of the baby.”
“It’s still the baby.”
I laugh so hard the technician has to remind me to hold still so she can wipe the gel from my stomach.
We won’t be able to find out the sex for a few more weeks, and part of me is tempted to leave it as a surprise. I don’t think Brookes will survive that. He’s desperate to see if his mother has developed some kind of psychic grandmother ability.
If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Melissa Rose.
If it’s a boy, he’ll be John Richard, after both our fathers.
And somehow, already, both names feel like love.
***
After the appointment, we drive into town instead of going straight home. I’m craving burgers, extra pickles, and a strawberry milkshake thick enough to require both a straw and a spoon. Neither man argues when I ask. In fact, Mason looks relieved to have a mission.
“Burger. Pickles. Milkshake,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Anything else?”
“Fries.”
“Obviously.”
“And maybe onion rings.”
Brookes nods seriously from the passenger seat. “A balanced meal.”
“I’m growing a human,” I say from the back seat. “The human wants options.”
Mason catches my eye in the rearview mirror, and his smile is so soft it steals my breath.
“Then options it is.”
We settle into a corner booth at the old diner on Main Street, the one with red vinyl seats, chrome-edged tables, and a jukebox in the corner that hasn’t played anything recorded after 1998. The place is busy with the lunch crowd, full of clattering plates, sizzling burgers, and the sweet smell of frying onions.