Page 26 of Upshot

We sit in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Just once, I want to find a doctor’s office with lounge chairs to hang out in. Warming, massaging, and reclining preferably.

Rand seems to make these chairs look at least somewhat habitable. The way he flips through the messages on his phone would have anyone believing he does this every day. Only his bouncing leg gives him away.

“Ms. Caraway?” a nurse asks from the door.

“Thank goodness. If even one more woman undressed you with her eyes, I was going to have to thump someone,” I say, standing from the torture chamber chair.

“Really?” Rand looks at me with a goofy grin. Great.

“Don’t get any ideas. I just don’t like the attention, that’s all,” I snarl.

“Says the woman on the fifteen-story banner across from my office,” he smirks. I would punch him, but he takes my hand to lead me down the corridor behind the nurse before I can. It’s such a sweet gesture. I wish he’d knock it off.

We’re led to the cutout in the hallway that houses the bane of my existence: the scale.

“Hop up here, sweetie, so I can get your weight,” the nurse chirps. I remember a time when those words didn’t strike fear in my heart. I turn to look at Rand, but he’s turned his back to me. He’s smart enough to suddenly find a painting hanging on the wall of great interest.

Doesn’t matter, though. She announces my weight aloud for all to hear. Rand doesn’t say a word as he turns to follow us to the room.

The nurse finally leaves after taking my vitals.

“I’m the size of a cow,” I mumble.

“You’re crazy,” Rand answers. The look on his face is one of genuine astonishment, and I should probably be irritated by his assessment, but I’m not. It’s the sweetest thing he could have said.

“You’re as gorgeous now as the first time you sat down next to me. No, wait. I think you’re even more stunning now.” Okay, the sweetest thing. He is racking up more brownie points than you can shake a stick at. Yeah, I don’t know what the limit on that stick is either. Anyway, it was a nice thing to say.

“Hello, Brontë,” Dr. Hoffman says, walking in. “And who is this?”

“Henry Randolph,” he says, sticking his hand out.

“The proud father?”

“Yes,” he answers. The corners of his mouth twitch up right before a smile breaks across his face. “Very proud.” Oh my god. If my ovaries weren’t already otherwise occupied, they would have melted into little heart eyes.

But, back to the real world. Rand moves nervously to my side as I lay back on the table.

“Let’s see what this little one is up to,” Dr. Hoffman says, pulling the ultrasound machine toward her. She squirts way more jelly on my belly than I would think necessary.

Suddenly, the room is filled with the sound of a fluttering heartbeat. It coincides with the color leaving Rand’s face. I’m torn between betting on him passing out or running. Fortunately, he does neither.

“Here’s the head,” the doctor continues. She measures the baby’s body bit by bit. “Looks like we’re right on schedule. Baby is healthy.” She stops and turns to us. “Do you want to know the sex?” I look at Rand. He’s staring at the static on the screen with saucers for eyes.

“Mmmm, can we think about it?” I’m not sure he can process anymore and not crack completely.

“Of course, it’ll be in the file. You can call later if you decide you want to know.” She wipes the jelly off my stomach and helps me up. “Everything looks great, Brontë. I’ll see you next month.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She leaves. Rand’s staring at the other side of the room. His hands move automatically to help me off the table, but I don’t think there’s anyone home in there.

Based on his current reaction, I’ll be amazed if he sticks around. I’m sure the West Coast is looking pretty good right now. He follows me to the reception desk. When I’ve scheduled the next appointment, we continue outside.

“Do you want me to drive?” I ask.

“No.” He looks at me like I’ve suggested he ride on my back the whole way home. Yeah, he’s about to do a rabbit right back to San Francisco.

I settle in the seat, and he points us toward Dansboro Crossing. We ride the entire way home in silence. I don’t mind. I enjoy the wildflowers that dot the hills. When we pull up outside my house, he jumps out to escort me to the front door. Even in a stupor, he’s a gentleman.

“I’ll see you. Okay? I’ve got to go. Peter is coming to town,” he says. I nod, but he’s already walking quickly back to the car. His face has morphed from pasty white to a sickly green.

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