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He silences me when his head whips in my direction, and a fire roars to life behind his eyes. “Stop right there,” he warns a little menacingly. “We have a lot to figure out, but I’m not going anywhere.”
I let out a sigh of relief at that. I’m scared to do this at all, but the thought of having to go through it alone is another level of fear.
“Have you thought about going to see your doctor?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Call now,” he demands. “See if you can get in today.”
“I don’t know how this works,” I admit.
“I do. Well, sort of. My sister-in-law has a kid, so I witnessed a bit of the process through them. And they’d be open to any questions we have.”
“Your sister-in-law…as in the coach’s wife?” I ask, pointing out the obvious flaw in his plan without saying a word.
“Oh,” he says a little dejectedly. “Yeah. But don’t you think we’llhaveto tell your dad eventually?”
“Eventually, yes. We’ll find the right time to do it, but I don’t think the middle of the season is that time, do you?” I ask.
He blows out a breath. “It depends how far along you are, Des. You might start showing soon, and then what? Your dad will have questions about who did this to you.”
He has a point. The last time we had sex was mid-October, which would put me close to the two-month mark. And if I’malready two months along and didn’t even know it, I wonder what sort of damage I’ve done. I haven’t been drinking or partying much because I haven’t felt like it. In truth, I’ve mostly felt sick and exhausted.
He’s right, though. I should get to the doctor to get everything checked out.
The mere thought of making the call is terrifying.
“What can I do?” he asks softly.
I stare at the floor a long time before I clear my throat. “Call the doctor.”
He stands without saying a word and walks into the other room. I follow him, and he glances around until he spots my phone. He picks it up and carries it to me. “Unlock it and tell me the name of your doctor.”
I do both, and he dials a moment later.
It’s a small act that feels like it lifts some of the weight off my shoulders.
“I’m calling to make an appointment for one of your patients, Desiree Dixon,” he begins. I listen to his end of the conversation, and he nods at me to sit down. He turns off the burner on the stove where the soup is bubbling, and he moves around the kitchen as he talks on the phone, locating the bowls and spoons and carrying my lunch over to the kitchen table.
“Thanks, we’ll see you then.” He hangs up the call, and he turns to me. “We have an appointment today at three, so eat your soup, and then we’ll go.”
I stare at him as I try to reconcile Asher, the guy who wears dinosaur shirts and can make me see stars with his tongue, with this man who’s taking control and making sure I know he’s not going anywhere.
The thought pulses heat behind my eyes, and the chicken soup he made me isn’t just for my upset stomach. It feels like it’s also for my very soul.
We arrive at the doctor, and after a full exam, we find out I’m about seven weeks along and the baby is growing on schedule.
The baby.
It’s been a mere few hours, and the thought that there’s an actualbabyforming inside me hasn’t really hit me yet. The thought of the wordbabydidn’t even come into my brain until I heard it at the doctor.
Pregnant, sure. I’m pregnant. Okay, fine. But what happens at theendof that pregnancy?
Then I have ababy. Then I’m amom.
I’m not ready to be a mom. I always sort of thought, sure, someday down the road, and it was easy to kick that can down the road hard and fast.
I never thought it would benow.
