She leans across the table and points out various parts of the baby’s body in a dozen different pictures.
“Healthy?” I ask.
“All looks good. Strong heartbeat. Right on target for development in all of the areas that matter.”
I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear that until my eyes get hot. “Good.”
Ziggy squeezes my hand.
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.
I haven’t explicitly told her Caden’s cancer was genetic, but I’ve told her I have shitty genes. I haven’t explicitly told her it’s a little terrifying to me that she has no idea if her baby will have any genetic disadvantages either, but who says that to a pregnant woman?
She has enough on her plate without adding my anxieties to it.
And no matter what this baby needs, I’ll be here for them.
Just like I’ll be here for her.
“I ordered Tater Tot something,” I confess.
“Holt. You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s a teething ring in the shape of a wine glass. Should be here Monday.”
“I stand corrected. You did, in fact, have to do that.”
I grin at her, then flip through the images again before I dive into my food.
And she’s not wrong. It’s edible. Even decently good.
Cooking isn’t something I learned to do when I was younger, and it’s always been more of a necessity than a joy.
So making something with flavor that’s not just an energy delivery mechanism is new.
You could say having a professional chef cooking for me the past couple weeks has inspired me.
We catch up on everything—her banquet plans, my physical therapy orders, her still dealing with the gut-instinct feelings of wanting to text her former best friend ultrasound pictures before the reminder that they’re not friends anymore sets in, Jessica getting up and shaking off and resettling herself in the pool, Fletcher being annoying, Goldie inviting her to lunch with her besties soon.
That has me grinning. “You’re gonna love them.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that with that exact shit-eating grin?”
Because Goldie’s besties are a trio of seasoned citizens who speak their minds and have given their last fucks.
They’re awesome. And I’m absolutely not ruining the surprise. “It’s impossible to explain Goldie’s friends. You just have to meet them for yourself.”
“Has Miranda met them?”
“No idea. They come to matches sometimes. But to the best of my knowledge, you’re the only office staff Goldie hangs out with.”
When we’re finished, Ziggy rises to wash the dishes.
I join her at the sink.
Feels fucking good to have the use of both of my legs again. And my arms.
“You made dinner. Go sit,” she says.
