No explanation. No “if you want me to” or “unless you'd prefer I don’t.”
Just “I’ll be there.”
And now it's 9:58 AM, and I'm sitting alone in a waiting room full of happy couples, trying to convince myself that I'm totally fine with Donovan not showing up.
Because there’s no way he’s coming.
I’m not sure my very stiff—pun intended—boss has even figured out if he even wants this baby. And Icertainly can't expect him to just show up and play supportive partner when he doesn't even know what he wants yet.
"Emma Sinclair?"
I look up. The receptionist is smiling at me.
"Yes?"
"We're running about ten minutes behind. Can I get you anything? Water? Crackers?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
She nods and goes back to her desk, and I go back to staring at my phone like it’ll up and speak.
It's 10:02 now.
He's not coming. I knew he wasn't coming. Which is fine. Totally fine.
I'm an independent woman with a good job and supportive friends and I absolutely do not need Donovan Mitchell Titan to hold my hand through a doctor's appointment.
Evenif part of me—the stupid, hopeful part I've been trying to ignore—desperately wants him here.
The waiting room door opens.
I don't look up. It's probably just another happy couple here for their routine checkup, ready to coo over ultrasound pictures and discuss nursery colors.
"Sorry I'm late."
I freeze.
That voice.
I look up, and there he is.
Donovan, standing in the doorway of a Manhattan OB-GYN office wearing jeans—actual jeans—a gray t-shirt, and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
He looks like a normal person.
A devastatingly handsome, tall, muscular person who just walked into a pastel waiting room full of pregnant women and their partners.
"You came," I say stupidly.
"I said I would." He walks over, sitting in the chair next to mine. “My apologies. Traffic was a fucking nightmare."
"You're wearing jeans."
"Is that a problem?"
"No, I just—I've never seen you in jeans."
"I own jeans, Emma. I don’t come custom in a suit like a Ken doll.”
