Something had shifted between us that morning. I felt it, even if I couldn't name it. A new weight. A new closeness. The kind of intimacy that came from seeing someone at their lowest and staying anyway.
I was just being a friend.
That was the line. And I stayed on my side of it.
CHAPTER 9
Grace
The weeks blurred together,and Owen became the fixed point.
He brought ginger candies because he’d heard they helped with nausea. Prenatal nutrition books slowly took over my counter. One Saturday, he showed up with a yellow legal pad full of questions for my first doctor’s appointment, his careful handwriting filling every line.
"Owen." I watched him flip throughWhat to Expect When You're Expectinglike it contained classified intelligence. "You know this isn't a test, right? There's no certification at the end."
He didn’t look up. "Did you know morning sickness usually peaks around week nine? Should start easing up soon."
I didn’t know what to do with him. With this version of Owen, who’d appointed himself my pregnancy research assistant, who texted reminders to take my vitamins, who knew my appointment schedule better than I did.
So I let him. Because pushing him away felt harder than letting him stay. And because beneath the exhaustion and fear, his steady presence had become the thing holding me together.
He drove me to the first ultrasound.
Doc Martinez's office was in the medical building on Main Street, the same place I'd gotten my vaccines as a kid, the same waiting room where Gran had held my hand before my first tetanus shot. Owen sat beside me in one of the plastic chairs, knee bouncing, looking more nervous than I felt.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Fine." His knee kept bouncing.
The nurse called my name. I stood, and Owen stood with me, then hesitated.
"Do you want me to…" He gestured vaguely toward the exam room.
I should have said no. But the truth was, I didn't want to see that screen by myself. I didn't want to hear whatever news was coming without someone beside me.
"You can come in if you want."
He hesitated for only a second before following me inside.
Doc Martinez was a man in his late sixties with kind eyes and steady hands, the kind of calm competence that made you believe everything would be fine. He'd delivered half the babies in this county, including me.
"Let's take a look," he said, squeezing gel onto my stomach. The wand was cold. I flinched.
The screen flickered to life.
Static at first. Gray-and-white shapes that meant nothing. Then Doc Martinez adjusted the angle, and suddenly there it was. A flutter. A pulse. Something tiny and alive, nestled in the center of the screen like a secret the universe had been keeping.
"Strong heartbeat," Doc Martinez said. "About 160 beats per minute. Exactly what we want to see."
I couldn't speak. I could barely breathe. That flutter on the screen was a person. A person I was making, somehow, despite everything.
Owen leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on the monitor. Something moved across his face that I couldn't read. Wonder, maybe. Or something more complicated.
"Everything looks good," Doc Martinez continued. "You're measuring at about eight weeks. Due date looks like late December, give or take."
Owen asked questions. Nutrition. Complications. Warning signs to watch for. His voice was steady, practical, while mine had apparently stopped working. I was grateful. My mind was too foggy to think straight, still caught on that flutter, that heartbeat, the reality of what was growing inside me.
Afterward, in the parking lot, Owen handed me a tissue I didn't realize I needed. My face was wet.
