Her blue eyes go wide. She recovers fast, but I catch the flash of concern.
I used the money Gianna wired for my work in New Falls to book this. A private scan. No medical records are being recorded. I just need to know this little one is okay. That the stress and the sleepless nights and the nausea that never seems to stop haven't done something I can't undo. I’m trying my best to eat everything I think a growing baby needs, but I’m careful not to look anything up online.
She leads me down the hallway and into a room. Bright lighting makes my head pull. There is a bed with paper on it. The ultrasound machine humming quietly beside it.
"So you think you're around twelve weeks? Is that right?"
I nod. "Y-yes."
The nerves almost consume me as I stare at the bed. My legs feel like they might give out. Every fear I've been carrying for the last five weeks, every sleepless night, every wave of nausea I hid from Hudson, every moment I pressed my hand against my stomach in the dark and whisperedplease be okay, please be okay—all of it is right here in this room, about to be answered by a screen I can't bring myself to look at yet.
"Go ahead and lie back for me, sweetheart."
I lie down. The paper crinkles. I stare at the ceiling and count my breaths. In for four. Out for four. The way Ace taught me.
Breathe, baby. You've got this.
His voice. Always there. The one thing nobody can take from me. Sometimes I just lay in bed and watch the push up video he sent me. And then I cry.
The sonographer comes in. She talks me through everything as she sets up, and I nod along even though I can't hear half of it over the blood roaring in my ears.
After pulling up my T-shirt, she puts the freezing gel on my stomach. I flinch.
"Sorry about that. Let's see what we've got."
She presses the wand against me, adjusting the angle. The screen fills with gray and white shapes that mean nothing to me. Static. Shadows. I grip the edge of the bed and hold my breath.
And then it’s there.
A shape. A real, recognizable shape. Not a flicker of light like when the screen first turned on. Ababy.A tiny, curled-up, impossible little human with a head and a body and arms and legs that I can actually see.
"There's your baby," the sonographer says, and she's smiling, but I can't look at her because I can't look at anything except that screen.
The heartbeat fills the room. Thudding through the speakers with a rhythm that sounds nothing like mine.
Our baby has his heartbeat.
I shatter.
The tears come so hard and so fast, I can't see. My whole body shakes on the table, and the paper tears under my grip, and I'm sobbing in a way that scares me. This time, not from sadness, not from fear, but from the sheer overwhelming force of loving something so completely and so instantly that it rewrites every cell in your body.
This is Ace's baby. Mine and Ace's. Made on a ranch in Arizona under the stars by two people who never stopped loving each other. I guess it must be our little miracle, seeing as I have no idea why my birth control didn’t work.
"Everything looks perfect," the sonographer says gently. "Strong heartbeat. Measuring right on track. You've got ahealthy baby in there. And you’re right. Eleven weeks and four days."
I press both hands over my face and cry harder. Perfect. Healthy. Strong. All the words I needed to hear. All the words I've been terrified I wouldn't.
"Would you like some pictures printed?"
I nod. I can't speak. She hands me tissues, and I mop my face while she clicks through the images, selecting the best angles, printing them on that strange, shiny paper that ultrasound photos always come on.
She hands me three copies. I hold them with both hands, staring down at the grainy black-and-white image of my child. This tiny, perfect thing that doesn't know about the mess its mother has made. Doesn't know about Hudson or LA or the deal or the lies. Just knows my heartbeat. Just knows the sound of my voice. Just knows it's alive and growing and safe inside me.
And I will do everything in my power to protect it.
"Thank you," I whisper. "Thank you so much."
I tuck two copies into my purse. The third I hold. I can't put it down. I stare at it as I walk down the hallway, memorizing every curve and shadow with a smile on my face.
