“Morning,” he said, his voice rough like he hadn’t slept either.
“Morning,” I managed.
Mama stood, coffee cup in hand, and studied him with that sharp, knowing look she’d perfected over fifty-three years of reading people. “You taking care of my baby?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Amai said without hesitation.
“Good.” Mama nodded slowly. “Because if you don’t, I’ll find out where you live.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Amai’s mouth—brief, genuine. “I believe you.”
Mama looked at me. “You call me when you get done.”
“I will, Mama.”
She kissed my forehead, squeezed my hand, and went back inside. The screen door banged shut behind her, leaving Amai and me standing in the early morning light.
“You ready?” he asked.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I was ready for any of this. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
The drive to Dr. Beaumont’s clinic was quiet at first. Amai kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the center console between us. I stared out the window, watching the Seventh Ward wake up—corner stores opening, people heading to work, kids waiting for the school bus.
Normal life.
My life used to be normal too. Before the divorce. Before the contract. Before Amai Landry walked into my world and turned everything upside down.
“You eat?” Amai asked, breaking the silence.
“Toast. Mama made me.”
“Good.”
I glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable. He looked like a man bracing for impact, like he was preparing himself for something he couldn’t control.
“You okay?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. Just kept his eyes on the road, his grip on the steering wheel steady. Then, quietly, “Ask me after we know for sure.”
My hand moved to my stomach without thinking. Still flat. Still the same. But different now. Changed in ways I couldn’t see yet but could feel in every cell of my body.
Amai’s hand left the center console and found mine. His fingers laced through mine, warm, solid, and grounding. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at me. Just held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And he didn’t let go.
Not when we pulled into the clinic parking lot. Not when we walked through the front doors. Not when the receptionist checked us in and told us Dr. Beaumont would be with us shortly.
He held my hand like he was afraid if he let go, I’d disappear.
The blood draw was quick. The phlebotomist was efficient and kind, chatting about the weather while she tied the tourniquet around my arm and found the vein. I watched the vial fill with dark red blood—proof of what the pregnancy tests had already told me.
“Results should be back in about twenty minutes,” she said, pressing a cotton ball to the puncture site. “Dr. Beaumont will go over everything with you.”
Twenty minutes felt like an eternity.
Amai and I sat in the waiting room, his hand still holding mine. I could feel the tension radiating off him—controlled, contained, but there. He was a man used to being in control ofeverything, and this was something he couldn’t control. Couldn’t fix. Couldn’t negotiate or intimidate into submission.
All we could do was wait.
