Page 13 of Justice

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to pull him back in for another kiss. "I think I have an idea," I manage to say, my own voice barely above a whisper.

His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "We should go," he says reluctantly, though he makes no move to step away. "But later…" He winks.

The promise in his voice sends a shiver through me, anticipation coiling low in my belly. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Let’s find out what our baby is.” He kisses me one last time on the forehead and closes the door.

The drive to the clinic passes in a blur of anticipation and nerves. As Christopher guides me through the entrance, his hand warm and steady against my lower back, I'm struck by how surreal this all feels. The waiting room is a sea of rounded bellies and expectant faces. Some women glance up, curiosity flickering in their eyes before they return to their phones or magazines.

I can't help but notice a few shocked expressions, probably due to my young age. A familiar pang of self-consciousness twists in my gut, but I push it aside. Christopher's presence beside me is a silent shield against the judgment.

As I fill out the paperwork, my hand trembles slightly. The reality of what we're about to learn hits me in waves. Holy shit, I'm really pregnant. And Christopher is here, solid and unwavering. I steal a glance at him, warmth blooming in my chest at the intensity of his gaze as he scans the room.

We settle into the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the drone of a game show providing background noise to the tense atmosphere. I try to focus on the excitement of our gender reveal surprise for my parents later, but a prickling sensation at the back of my neck distracts me.

Turning slightly, I catch an older woman giving us the side-eye. Her lips are pursed in obvious disapproval, and I can practically feel the judgment radiating from her. I take a deep breath, willing myself to ignore her, but Christopher's body tenses beside me. His jaw clenches, and I know he's noticed her judgmental stare too.

The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until finally, the woman's voice cuts through the air like a knife. "How long have you two been married?"

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to snap back. Christopher's hand tightens on my thigh, a silent reminder of his support. When I open my eyes, his expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the storm brewing behind his gaze.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

The woman clutches her belly dramatically, as if we might snatch her unborn child at any moment. She glances around the room, seeking an audience for her performance, but finds only disinterest.

Undeterred, she clears her throat and adjusts her designer outfit, an ensemble that seems wildly out of place for a doctor's appointment. "Well, I just wanted to know," she scoffs, her voice dripping with disdain. "You both seem like children, that's all."

I feel Christopher's muscles coil beneath his shirt, ready to spring. His voice drops an octave, a clear warning. "Why is it any of your business, lady?"

The woman's eyes narrow, her lips curling into a sneer. "I'm just a concerned citizen! What kind of parents would let this girl get pregnant? Do you even have a job?"

Each word is a barb, designed to wound. I shrink into myself, wishing I could disappear. Christopher, however, seems to grow larger, his presence filling the small waiting room.

"If you don't sit your ass down and shut your fucking mouth, you're not going to like what I do or say next," he growls, the threat clear in his tone.

The woman's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before her face hardens once more. She looks down her nose at us, her voice dripping with venom. "I think CPS should be called the second your baby is born. Do you know who the father even is? You’re children," she spits the last part, a smug smile twisting her features.

The words hit me like a physical blow, anger and hurt warring inside me. Before I can stop myself, a bitter laugh escapes my lips. "Children?" I echo, incredulous. "You don't know anything about us. Maybe you should mind your own business."

Christopher steps forward, his body a wall between me and the woman. His voice is cruel when he speaks. "You really should be careful about making assumptions. You have no idea what we've been through or what we're capable of."

The woman hesitates, her bravado faltering as she catches the malicious glint in Christopher's eye. She glances toward the door, as if weighing her escape options, before squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin defiantly. But when she speaks again, her voice has lost its edge.

"I still think it's irresponsible," she mutters, more to herself than to us.

Just then, a nurse emerges from the back, clipboard in hand. "Janice Davidson?" she calls out.

The name strikes a chord in my memory, and suddenly I'm connecting the dots. A saccharine smile spreads across my face as I turn to the woman.

"Oh, your husband works at McGuire's restaurant, doesn't he?" I ask, my voice dripping with false sweetness.

Her eyes narrow, suspicion warring with pride. "He owns it," she corrects me, tossing her hair with a smug little smirk. Without another word, she sashays out of the waiting room as if she's walking a red carpet instead of linoleum tiles.

As soon as the door swings shut behind her, Christopher and I dissolve into laughter. The tension that had been coiling in my chest releases in a rush, leaving me giddy and lightheaded. Christopher drops back into the chair beside me, his large hand engulfing mine as he laces our fingers together.

"Did you see her face?" I giggle, leaning into him. "I thought she was going to combust when you told her off."

Christopher's chest rumbles with a low chuckle. "Serves her right, sticking her nose where it doesn't belong." His thumb traces soothing circles on the back of my hand, and I feel the last of my anxiety melt away.

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