Thirty minutes later, I spot Julian waiting outside the doctor's office building. He's wearing jeans and a simple blue sweater that makes his eyes look impossibly bright, so different from the powerful men in suits that typically populate the Upper East Side. He looks up from his phone as I approach, his face breaking into a warm smile.
"Right on time," he says, stepping forward to meet me. "How are you feeling?"
"Nervous," I admit. "Thank you for coming. I know this is weird."
He shakes his head. "Not at all. I’m happy to be here."
In the elevator up to the doctor's office, Julian stands close to me. His presence fills the small space, solid and reassuring.
"What happens at these first appointments? I’ve always wondered…" he asks as we step into the waiting room.
"Blood work, mainly. An ultrasound maybe." I sign in at the reception desk, accepting a clipboard full of forms. "Lots of questions I don't know how to answer."
Julian sits beside me, his knee almost touching mine. "Like what?"
"Family medical history. The father's medical history." I stare at the form, pen hovering over blank spaces. "I don't know half of this stuff about Alexander."
Oops. I just admitted that Alexander is the father, but I’m sure Julian may have already suspected as much.
Julian's hand covers mine briefly, warm and steadying. "Just answer what you can. The rest can wait."
His calm pragmatism anchors me as I fill out the forms, occasionally asking questions that help clarify my thoughts. By the time a nurse calls my name, I feel marginally more prepared.
"Ms. Montclair?" The nurse smiles. "The doctor will see you now."
Julian stands when I do and we follow the nurse down the hall.
The exam room is small, clinical, with diagrams of female anatomy on the walls. The nurse takes my vitals, asks preliminary questions, then leaves us alone to wait for the doctor.
"Thanks again," I say. "For being here."
Julian leans against the wall, hands in his pockets. "Anywhere else I'd rather be on a Tuesday morning? Hmm. Nope. Can't think of a single place."
His teasing draws a genuine laugh from me, the first one in days.
Dr. Wiley enters with a brisk knock—a woman in her fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes behind stylish glasses. She glances between Julian and me.
"Ms. Montclair, good to meet you." She shakes my hand, then turns to Julian. "And you must be Dad. I'm Dr. Wiley."
The assumption freezes me, but Julian simply smiles without correcting her.
"Actually," I say, heat flooding my face, "Julian's a friend. He's just here for moral support."
Dr. Wiley doesn't miss a beat. "Well, that's wonderful. It's good to have support during pregnancy." She sits on a rolling stool, reviewing my chart. "And the father? Will he be involved?"
The question lands like a stone in still water. "He's... not in the picture."
She nods, no judgment in her expression. "Alright. Let's focus on you and this baby then."
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of questions, explanations, and a cold ultrasound wand pressed against my abdomen. Julian stands at the head of the exam table, his presence steady and unobtrusive.
"There," Dr. Wiley says, turning the screen toward me. "See that flicker? That's your baby's heartbeat."
I stare at the tiny pulsing light on the screen, a rapid flutter in a sea of gray. My baby. Actually real, actually alive inside me. Tears spring to my eyes without warning.
"Would you like to hear it?" the doctor asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice. She flips a switch, and suddenly the room fills with a rapid whooshing sound—thump-thump-thump-thump.
