And hope.
Possibility.
All laid out before us. And we promise each other, silently, in this moment to love and protect our little bean with everything we have.
Then the lights come on. Noah and I both blink in shock, jarred by the suddenness of it. Doctor Lee is placing the ultrasound printouts into an envelope and shutting down the machine. She reminds us of our next appointment, makes her goodbyes, and then she’s gone. It takes another moment before I manage to come back to myself enough to realize that Noah’s still clutching my hand and I’m still spread eagle in the stirrups. He shakes his head as though shaking himself out of the same stupor and then helps me down from the exam table. Then, just like before, he spins around to face the door while I change.
We’re both silent as I grab up my purse and tuck the envelope inside. There’s a palpable tension that remains in the room–though it’s not necessarily a bad one–more … awed. We’ve both been utterly changed by this appointment, this experience.
“Pass me my pee jar,” I say innocently.
And just like that the tension’s broken. Noah’s shoulders drop and he rolls his eyes, but he dutifully hands me the container.
???
He takes hold of my hand again as we leave the medical building, and I’m not mad about it. It feels natural, right, and I don’t let myself think about why that is. We’ve just shared something special and I figure that’s reason enough for now.
Back in the car, I keep casting glances over at Noah. The soft smile that lingers on his face is unbelievably attractive, not just because it lightens his otherwise harsh features, but because I know our baby put it there. I can’t stop grinning, myself, so I totally get it.
“This is a pretty cool car,” I say, after a while, because I need something else to think about, and because it is.
“Thanks,” he says, not taking his eyes from the road.
“It’s sexy. Bet you got laid in here a ton.”
“It’s my most prized possession,” he offers, ignoring my last comment. “I rebuilt it with my grandfather when I was a teenager.”
“You did?” I ask, impressed.
“Mm-hmm,” he nods. “Pops was my best friend in those days … and the only positive male role model I think I’ve ever had.” His voice is wistful and a little sad.
“I’m sorry, I know your childhood wasn’t all that great. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to–I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful for you,” I say quietly.
“No,” he says, quickly glancing over at me, “it’s okay. He was thebestpart of my childhood. It’s only painful because I miss him, but … it’s nice to remember.”
I reach over and squeeze his hand where it rests on the gear shift–this hand-holding thing is starting to become a habit, but he doesn’t seem to mind it much either.
“I feel the same way,” I offer, “about my abuela. She basically raised me. I had two deadbeat parents. Haven’t seen my dad since I was about five. Good old Jimmy Sage ducked and ran when things got tough. And my mom … my mom’s been hooked on drugs most of my life. She bounces in and out of it as she pleases, though I haven’t seen her in years at this point and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“That must’ve been really hard.”
I nod. “My abuela was the only stable influence I had. I probably would have ended up just like my mother if it weren’t for her. She passed almost six years ago now, and I miss her terribly. I inherited The Bean from her, though it wasn’t The Bean back then.
“I remember … it was a diner, wasn’t it?”
“La Cafetería Cecelia. It was really popular when I was a kid, but it wasn’t doing very well by the time I took over. She’d been sick for years at that point and had let it fall into disrepair. It was run down and I had no real passion or talent for cooking–at least not the way that she did. So, I did my homework and decided that a café would be more profitable in our small town and a bakery would appeal more to the tourists. Plus we already had another diner.” I shrug. “Ididkeep her famous cocadas on the menu though, to honor her, and they’re still a big hit.”
“So you essentially built The Bean from the ground up?”
“Yep. Blood, sweat, and tears. It was a real struggle, and I almost didn’t get the loan I needed. But … I persevered, and here we are.”
“You should be really proud of yourself,” Noah says softly.
I smile. “Thanks. I am.”
We’ve arrived back at The Bean and I direct him to pull around to the rear where the stairs leading up to my apartment can be found. I have a small fenced-in courtyard with a bistro table and a lone Japanese maple that my abuela and I planted when I was a kid. Its leaves are electric-red in the warm September sun and the small pots of herbs I keep–because she always did and I don’t have the heart to stop planting them year after year–have gone to seed.
Noah puts the car in park and turns to me. “So, I guess we were both technically raised by our grandparents. Hey–looks like we actually have something in common,” he jokes, and the corner of his lip tips up in that smirk of his that I used to hate but am now somehow really starting to appreciate.
