Page 38 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

The nurse leads us down a hushed hallway, all white walls and pale wood accents. The ultrasound room is surprisingly cozy, dim lighting, a lavender diffuser puffing gently in the corner, and a small screen mounted on the wall like we’re about to watch a very exclusive premiere.

There’s a changing nook behind a curtain where I switch into one of those pale blue paper gowns that makes everyone look like they’ve been gently unwrapped like a deli sandwich. I fold my clothes into a neat pile and slide onto the padded table, the paper beneath me crinkling in protest.

Grayson stands beside me, adjusting the height of his stool like he’s about to perform surgery. "You good?"

"Define good," I mutter. "I'm wearing tissue paper, half-lotioned, and about to see a tiny person somersault inside me."

The tech enters, a cheerful woman in her late forties named Sandra, with a bun so tight it probably knows state secrets.

“Alright,” she says, smiling. “Let’s see what your little mystery bean is up to today.”

She squirts the jelly onto my belly with zero warning. I gasp.

“Oh my god. That is criminally cold.”

Grayson winces in sympathy. “That looked illegal.”

Sandra just chuckles and presses the wand gently against my skin. The screen flickers, and suddenly, there it is, our baby. Wriggling like it’s got somewhere to be.

“There’s your little acrobat,” Sandra says proudly.

Grayson tightens his hold on my hand. “That’s... a whole human, with arms, moving.”

I blink, trying to process it. “It looks like a gummy bear doing jazz hands.”

Sandra hums as she measures things, clicking the mouse. “Strong heartbeat, and active. Definitely going to keep you on your toes.”

“She already does,” I say, glancing at Grayson, whose eyes are still locked on the screen like he’s witnessing the moon landing.

Sandra shifts slightly, squinting at the screen. "Would you like to know the gender?"

Grayson and I exchange a look. I nod.

"It’s a girl," she announces, smiling.

My heart does a slow somersault. I look over at Grayson, expecting a witty one-liner or a smug grin. Instead, he’s just... soft. His eyes glassy. His thumb brushing tiny circles against the back of my hand.

“A girl,” he whispers, like the words are sacred. “God help anyone who tries to date her.”

I laugh, tears pricking my eyes. “You’re going to be so annoying. She’s going to roll her eyes at you every day from age five to eighteen.”

“She’s going to be brilliant,” he says. “And terrifying, like her mother.”

I bite my lip, overwhelmed, my fingers tightening around his. “I think I love you more right now than I did ten minutes ago. And I really loved you ten minutes ago.”

He leans down and kisses my forehead. “That’s good. Because I’m never getting over this moment.”

We stare at the screen as our little girl flips and kicks and waves like she’s already running the show, and maybe she is.

***

We drive home in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after your world shifts in the softest, most seismic way. Grayson’s hand rests on my thigh, his thumb tracing idle patterns over my jeans while soft music hums through the speakers. I’m still a little gooey from the ultrasound gel, but emotionally? I’m mush.

Then we hit Lexington and cruise past a small playground tucked between two apartment buildings. It’s packed. Kids are screaming. Not cute squeals, feral banshee-level screaming. One toddler is climbingonthe slide, two boys are sword-fighting with sticks, and a frazzled woman is chasing a baby down the sidewalk while yelling something about sun-hats. Grayson slows the car just slightly, and we both stare.

“Oh god,” I whisper. “Is this... is this our future?”

A stroller topples over in the corner of the park, and a very small girl starts eating mulch.

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