I force myself to move, to stop staring at the pregnancy test results and driving myself crazy with angst and indecision. My phone sits on the dresser. I pick it up and scroll through my contacts, looking for my OB/GYN.
The receptionist answers on the second ring. I explain what I need, and she puts me on a brief hold before coming back on the line. "Dr. Wilson says she can squeeze you in at lunch today, Ms. Ross. Will twelve-fifteen work?"
When I first came to New York, I couldn't have afforded a doctor's visit without deciding which of my bills to risk letting go unpaid for a month or more. Now busy physicians rearrange their schedules to accommodate me, clearing space because of a name that isn't even mine yet. It still catches me off guard sometimes, as I’m still learning to inhabit this privileged life as Dominic Baine’s fiancée.
"Twelve-fifteen is perfect. Thank you."
I end the call and set the phone down. In a few hours, I'll know for certain. Then Nick will know too, and we'll figure out how to navigate our new reality together.
The penthouse stretches around me as I drift toward the kitchen, restless and unable to settle. I make toast because I should eat something, but my stomach rebels at the first bite and I set it aside after only a few nibbles.
No coffee today. The smell alone turns my stomach. Besides, I've read enough to know I shouldn't have it now anyway. Onemore small proof that everything is different now, that my body is already changing to accommodate what's growing inside it.
I move through rooms I've lived in for more than a year, and they all look different this morning. The kitchen where Nick loves to cook for me, his hands moving with surprising grace over cutting boards and stovetops, the way he feeds me bites from his fingers and watches my face for approval. The living room where we've spent countless evenings tangled together on the sofa, his hand sliding beneath my shirt while some show plays unwatched in the background, both of us knowing how the night will end.
The bedroom where he’s thrust inside me like a man possessed and whispered sexy things against my skin while I shattered around him with his name on my lips. Where he's claimed me more times than I can count, where I've surrendered to him completely, body, heart, and soul.
My body warms at the memories, heat blooming low in my belly despite everything, even the cold war between us that began last night. My breath shallows. My skin prickles with sensation, as if I can still feel his hands skating over me. Even now—hurt and uncertain and carrying this enormous secret—I ache for him. That want never dims. It's become as automatic as breathing.
This baby was made somewhere in this home. In love. In passion. In all those nights when nothing existed but the two of us.
Whatever else is broken between us, this exists. This is real.
My feet carry me without conscious direction, and I find myself standing in the doorway of the small studio space Nick created for me. I love that he gave it to me, but I rarely use it. The room sits quiet and private, with northern light that would be perfect for painting if I didn't prefer the chaos and company of my East Harlem studio with Lita and Matt.
But now I see it differently.
My easel stands vacant, but I imagine a crib in its place. Creamy painted wood, clean lines, a mobile of soft felt animals suspended above. The blank canvases currently leaning against the wall give way in my mind’s eye to a cozy rocking chair, the kind you sink into at three a.m. with a fussy baby finally settling warm against your chest. Walls in soft dove gray. A plush rug underfoot where tiny knees will learn to crawl.
The room transforms in my mind, and a tender ache expands in my chest with the sweetness of it.
This child of ours will be so loved.
I imagine weekend mornings, the three of us. Nick at the stove making pancakes while I sketch at the kitchen table, a baby in a highchair between us reaching for everything with small grasping fingers. Bedtime stories read in silly voices, Nick's deep baritone attempting to sound like a princess or a dragon, making our baby girl or boy giggle.
I imagine first steps across this very floor, unsteady, triumphant, reaching toward us with absolute trust that we'll catch them if they fall.
And I imagine a strong, protective father who looks at our child the way Nick looks at me. Like we’re the center of everything for him. Like nothing else in the world matters.
If he wants this, that is. If he's ready.
The tender fear surfaces beneath the sweetness of my imagined ideal future. We never really talked about having kids. Not in concrete terms. It's always been a brief conversation that ends withsomeday, assumed but never examined, a future so distant we never bothered to bring it into focus.
What if he's not ready? What if this feels like a trap instead of a gift? What if the timing—just a handful of weeks before our wedding, and in the middle of everything feeling like it could fall apart—makes this news the worst thing that could happen now?
I want this baby. Fiercely. The certainty of that takes root so fast it steals my breath, sudden and undeniable and already immovable. I want to watch my belly swell with Nick's child. I want to feel those first fluttering kicks. I want to see his face when he holds our baby for the first time.
I just don't know if he does.
My phone chimes from where I left it and the nursery vanishes, the daydream shattering back into the quiet, empty room.
I know who it is before I check. My body responds to even the possibility of him. Pulse quickening, awareness sharpening, the magnetic pull toward Nick that's lived in my bones since the first night he touched me.
His name on the screen sends a jolt through me. Longing and guilt and fear and love all twist inside me, too many things at once, each bleeding into the next until I can't separate them. I read his text with my breath caught in my throat.
Just wrapped up my morning meetings. I want to come home. We need to talk.
My heart lurches, a single emphatic beat. I want to say yes. I want him here with me, right now, walking through that door with his eyes searching for mine the way they always do when he's been away too long.
