And I hold my wife and wait.
Chapter 7
Emma
Friday… here we go
I'm sitting in a doctor's waiting room wearing sunglasses indoors like some celebrity avoiding paparazzi, except I'm just a lawyer trying to hide a pregnancy appointment from my entire small town.
And I'm wearing a scarf. In Florida. In the summer. In ninety-five-degree heat.
I look insane. I'm aware I look insane. But the alternative is someone from Pelican Point seeing me at an OB-GYN in Hibiscus Harbor and texting half the town before I even make it to the parking lot.
The waiting room is mercifully empty except for one woman reading a magazine and a receptionist who keeps glancing at me like she's trying to decide if I'm in hiding or mentally unstable.
Probably both at this point.
I parked in the back of the lot. Waited fifteen minutes in my car watching the entrance like I was on a stakeout. Timed my entrance for maximum emptiness. Signed in using my maiden name like that's going to help when they have all my insurance information.
I'm a lawyer. I should be better at covert operations than this.
The magazine woman leaves. It's just me and the receptionist now. This is my moment. I can check in, get called back quickly, and?—
The door opens. A pregnant woman waddles in, approximately eight months along, glowing and beautiful and completely comfortable with her situation. She's wearing a shirt that says "BABY ON BOARD" with an arrow pointing to her belly.
I sink lower in my chair and pull my scarf up higher.
"Emma Dawson?" the receptionist calls out. Loudly. Across the entire waiting room.
I don't move. Maybe she's calling someone else. Maybe there are multiple Emma Dawsons in Hibiscus Harbor seeking covert medical care sitting right here in the waiting room.
"Emma Murphy?" Louder this time. "For Dr. Martinez?"
The pregnant woman looks at me, the only other person in the room. The receptionist looks at me. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
I stand, sunglasses still on, scarf still wrapped around my neck like I'm about to rob a bank.
"That's me," I mumble.
"Great!" She smiles brightly. "First prenatal visit?"
"Could you maybe say that louder? I don't think they heard you in Miami."
She blinks. "Sorry?"
"Sorry. Yes. First visit."
"Wonderful! Dr. Martinez will be right with you. You can leave your sunglasses and scarf here if you'd like—it's pretty warm in the exam rooms."
I clutch my scarf tighter. "I'm fine."
She shrugs and hands me a clipboard with approximately nine million forms. I follow the nurse down a hallway, pastcheerful posters about fetal development and breastfeeding, and into an exam room that's decorated with more baby-themed artwork than a daycare.
"Go ahead and change into the gown," the nurse says. "Dr. Martinez will be in shortly."
She leaves and I'm alone with a paper gown and my spiraling thoughts.
This is real. I'm at a prenatal appointment. There are pamphlets about "Your First Trimester" and "Preparing for Baby" stacked on the counter. A poster showing fetal development week by week. A box of tissues that I'm probably going to need.
