Page 134 of Not Another Yesterday
There’s a blur of gray, then a black void on the screen. At the bottom of that darkness, there’s something small. Something that kind of looks like a jellybean.
And then it moves.
I blink. Once. Twice. It wasn’t just in my head. The jellybean is wiggling.
“Yes, you’re definitely pregnant, Cat. And here’s your baby,” Dr. Simmons says, cheerful and calm, as she freezes the image on the screen.
My eyes drop to Cat. She’s still staring ahead, watching the little wiggling shape inside her with a kind of stunned reverence. I squeeze her hand, and she slowly turns to meet my gaze. I can’t quite read her expression. There’s definitely shock there, but something softer, too—something achingly vulnerable. Tender.
“There’s a baby inside me,” she whispers, almost like she doesn’t believe it.
I nod, throat tight, swallowing hard.
“And this right here,” the doctor says, zooming in on a rapid flicker, “is your baby’s heart beating.”
She hits a button, and suddenly we canhearit—that fast, fluttering rhythm, like hummingbird wings.Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
Neither of us speaks. We just listen, both of us still, both trying to process what this really means: there’s a baby. A real one. Hers. And mine. Ours.Our baby.
Dr. Simmons takes some measurements, then grabs a few more stills before glancing up. “You’re eight weeks along.”
Okay, I know enough that pregnancy math means subtracting a week. Maybe two? I do the math automatically.
Montana. Right when we got back together. Memories flash through my brain—Cat in my truck, in my lap, breathless and urgent. Later in her bed, when I worshiped her slowly, when I thrust into her with deep, long strokes. In the barn when she demanded more, and I gave her everything. Or one of those other wild, desperate moments we stole from the world that week. So many times, like we seemingly couldn’t get close enough. I guess we did after all.
Dr. Simmons checks her calendar, then smiles. “How do you feel about a Christmas due date?”
Cat’s trying to contain the small smile tugging at her lips, but I notice it anyway. “Really?”
“Really,” Doctor Simmons says. “We’ll be able to determine the baby’s gender in about another seven or eight weeks.”
Cat shakes her head immediately. “I don’t want to know,” she says, then turns to me. “Is that okay?”
“If you don’t want to find out, we won’t find out.” My answer is easy, solid. Of all the things I’m uncertain of right now, I know this one thing for sure: I’ll follow her lead. I’ll be what she needs. She’s the one doing the impossible, the one whose body is already changing, already carrying the weight of something new. The least I can do is carry what’s mine.
Honestly, I don’t care if it’s a boy or girl. I just care that Cat’s okay.
“I want to see you again in a month,” Dr. Simmons says, already standing and gathering her things. “Until then, try to rest when you can. The nurse will give you some information up front. You’ll also need to have your blood drawn before you leave.”
She hands Cat a printout with four ultrasound stills. Cat stares down at them for a long moment before quietly taking my hand. I squeeze it, grounding us both, and guide her out of the office.
Cat
I can’t even begin to describe how surreal the past few days have felt, how strange this doctor’s appointment was. Even after seeing the baby on the ultrasound, hearing its heartbeat, Ronan by my side, holding my hand, it still feels like an out-of-body experience. There’s a human growing inside me.
My hands move to my stomach and I rest them there, even though there’s obviously no belly yet and no movement can be felt. I feel Ronan’s eyes on me and turn my head to look at him.
“I can’t believe we’re having a baby,” I finally say.
“Me neither,” he says with a sigh, his voice heavy. “How are you feeling?”
“Scared. Really scared. You?”
“Same. We’re going to have to figure out some stuff.”
I nod. We sure do. We fall silent then, each retreating into our own heads, into our own anxious thoughts.
The most immediate decision we’ll need to make is also the hardest, most difficult. It’s all I think about while Ronan navigates the sticky afternoon traffic. I run the scenarios in my head—us with a baby, us without a baby—even when we arrive at home, while Ronan makes us a quick lunch.
