Before she could respond, the door to the exam rooms swung open. A nurse appeared, chart in hand. “Tallulah Aden?”
Her eyes landed on us—on me with my hand still awkwardly cupped around Tally’s arm, as if I could physically steady her. There was a faint smile, one of those soft, maternal kinds, and then a glance flicked from Tally to me.
“And will the father be joining you today?” She didn’t ask, not exactly. She assumed.
I opened my mouth, ready to explain that I wasn’t that guy. That I was the one on puke patrol. The reluctant chauffeur. The last-minute, worst-case scenario babysitter. That I was only here to make sure she didn’t collapse or pass out on a street corner.
But then I looked at her and I saw what I wasn’t supposed to see. It flashed behind her eyes, just for a breath, but it was enough. Not panic. Not discomfort.
Fear.
The deep, agonizing kind that didn’t belong in a room like this, didn’t belong on her face, and sure as hell didn’t belong in the eyes of someone walking into a doctor’s appointment alone.
So I nodded, and the lie slipped out before I even realized I was saying it.
“Yeah. I’ll go back with her.”
Tally turned slowly to look at me, and the fear, the shrill, deer-in-headlights look softened into something much calmer. Something like relief.
***
Tally sat on the edge of the exam table, her posture too straight to be casual, the thin paper gown rustling every time she shifted her weight. It was bunched awkwardly around her thighs, the stark white of it jarring against the golden warmth of her skin. She looked steadier than she had in the waiting room—less like the woman who’d been three seconds from bolting and more like someone working hard to stay upright, one breath at a time.
The room had settled into that particular kind of quiet found only in medical offices, where even the fluorescent lights seemed to buzz with unspoken tension. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of stillness that made you feel observed even when no one was looking. I stayed where I’d been for most of this ride—on the periphery. Hands in my pockets, back to the counter, doing everything I could not to intrude.
She didn’t look at me, and I didn’t press.
A soft knock broke the silence, followed by the click of the door swinging open. The doctor entered with the brisk efficiency of someone who’d said the same things a hundred times already today. She didn’t hesitate as she slid onto a rolling stool and came to a smooth stop at the foot of the table, flipping through the chart in her hands.
“You’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you, Tallulah,” she said, her tone lighter than the air in the room.
Tally scooted herself back, then reclined against the crinkling table, her eyes flicking to me for the briefest moment before she spoke. “Tally’s fine,” she said lightly, but there was an edgebeneath it. “Tallulah’s the girl my mom’s still yelling at back in Newnan.”
The doctor gave a quick laugh, then lifted the gown. That was my cue to turn my head and fixate on a spot on the far wall—some motivational print about maternal health that I suddenly found fascinating.
“This’ll be cold,” the doctor warned, and I heard the squelch of gel being applied.
The lights dimmed as a nurse I hadn’t even noticed passed behind me and rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Come stand over here,” she whispered, guiding me closer. “You’ll get a better look at the screen.”
I moved automatically, careful not to crowd the table or Tally. Her arm was tucked above her head, her breathing slow and shallow, almost comfortable. And then—
The machine hummed, the wand pressed down, and for a moment, all I heard was static. A low, watery whoosh, the kind of sound that lives deep in your ears after a long night out. Then, clear and steady, it came—that rapid rhythm, fast and strong.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.
A heartbeat.
The doctor smiled, small and satisfied, then turned the monitor toward us.
There on the screen was a tiny figure, strange and perfect. It was still a little alien-looking, but it had arms. Ears. Feet. Little hands waved, like it was mid-story. It had a spine. A heartbeat. A center that pulsed steadily and strongly, clearer than I expected.
And those feet. The same ones I’d felt pressing into my palm that night. I could almost feel them again now, shifting, stretching, making their presence known. Right there in front of me.
It was all so very real and unimaginably beautiful.
“Heartbeat sounds great,” she murmured, her tone clinical but soft enough to catch me off guard.
Tally’s fingers found mine without warning. She didn’t grip—only settled there, warm and tentative, then tightened slightly until her palm rested fully against mine. I turned my head enough to meet her eyes.
