Doc’s basically got an emergency toolkit for checking out pregnant women.
I think it’s weird.
And kinda cool.
And definitely fucking handy, especially when going to a real doc or hospital isn’t in our best interest at this very moment.
Not that she’s not a real doc.
She is.
Sheobviouslyfucking is.
She’s just not…technicallyon the doc clock right now.
“She’s fine at the moment, Kipp,” Val sweetly reassures, summoning my stare.“The hisses and winces were just about the cool gel hitting her skin.”
“Cool gel?” the woman carrying our child severely chomps upon opening her eyes.“That shit would’ve had Olaf reaching for a warm towel.”
“Didn’t he sit in front of a fireplace?”questions our medical professional while unwinding the cord to her ultrasound tool.
Bunny poorly hides her smirk.“Point?”
“That for a snowman he makes shitty judgments?”her brother interjects into the conversation.
“See.”Doc kicks a chin in his direction.“He gets it.”
“AndI’mgonna get my boyfriend some more coffee,” I announce maneuvering out of the living room to the kitchen area.
“And Garcia,” Nolan firmly states, “is gonna tell us what he knows about our situation.”
Of course not what heactuallyknows.
Which is what we told him shortly after he arrived, long before his sister had.
Post picking up the minor evidence of our paths crossing with McAdams’, we filled up Nolan’s truck, towed my car home, and preceded to properly scrub ourselves of any and all filth related to the situation.
I mean likedeepdetailing.
Hair.
Balls.
Armpits.
Fingers.
Fingernails.
It was our girl’s continuous wincing and face scrunching that convinced us waiting to get her checked out by a doc was not an option.
Thankfully, she’s friends with one.
And thankfully that same one is not only aware of the situation but also related to our lawyer.
Is there some strange attorney, sibling privilege fine print in the legal manual that prevents her from being able to turn us into the red and blues?
Not that I think she would.