Page 48 of Honest Boys Don’t Play

“I hope so.”

I sound like such a pessimist these days. I can’t say I’ve ever been an overly bubbly personality, but lately I feel like I expect the worst of everything.

When my name is called, my heart gives a jolt and after getting my weight and blood pressure, I’m put in a room and handed an orange-colored drink with strict instructions that once I start, the quicker I can drink it the better, but that it has to all be gone within five minutes.

“It’s been too long since I’ve chugged anything,” I gripe.

Luke chuckles and gives my back a reassuring rub. “You’re going to do great, B.”

I take a deep breath and take my first swallow of the liquid. It’s sweet, but not the sickly sweetness I was expecting and I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“How is it?” he asks.

“Nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be,” I admit.

I manage to finish the drink quickly, well within the five-minute window of time.

“Now, we wait,” I declare. It’ll be an hour before my blood can be drawn for the test.

We’re left alone in the room to wait for the time to pass. The waiting makes me even more jittery than I was before, but Luke tries his best to distract me, talking about everything from childhood to his love of hockey and his nerves about going pro, to our impending move to Nashville. I appreciate his efforts. There are a few times I want to beg him to shut up, but I know that’s just my nerves getting to me, so I keep my mouth shut.

Logically, I know it’s not the end of the world if I fail the test. Gestational diabetes is common and manageable. But I can’t help feeling like if I don’t pass then I’ve somehow failed my baby. I know that doesn’t make any logical sense, but it’s how I feel.

“Hey.” Luke’s voice is soft and coaxing, as is his hand when it lands on my knee with a gentle rub. “Everything is going to be fine.”

I inhale a deep breath and put my hand over top of his. He immediately flips his hand and laces our fingers together.

“Do you really believe that?”

He shrugs. “My worries are a little more…” He twists his lips and the edges of his cheeks redden. “Ridiculous.”

“Oh, Luke.” I cup his cheek with my free hand. “If it’s worrying you then it’s not ridiculous.”

He stutters a laugh. “Trust me, it is.”

“Tell me,” I coax. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better to talk about it.”

Somehow, I swear his cheeks get even redder. “I keep thinking you’re going to go into labor and we’re not going to be able to make it to the hospital in time and I’m going to have to deliver our baby.” He lets loose the words in one quick string of consciousness. When I don’t say anything at first, he adds, “See, I told you it was ridiculous.”

“No.” I turn to him slowly, my eyes undoubtedly bugging in horror. “I hadn’t even contemplated that possibility.”

“Fuck,” he curses lowly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you’re going to be stressing about that.”

“No, no. I’ll be fine,” I lie. “I mean, the chances of that happening are probably very small, right?”

“Apparently it’s uncommon in first pregnancies, yes.”

“See, we’ll be fine.”

The doctor chooses that moment to knock on the door and enter, and I have to say I’m grateful for the distraction.

“How are you feeling, Bertie?” she asks, eyes on the papers in front of her.

“I’ve been doing well. Getting more energy. I’ve been walking a few miles every day.”

She smiles at me and adjusts her glasses. “Good, I’m thrilled to hear that. And Dad”—she turns her attention to Luke— “how are you doing?”

“Great,” he replies.