“You don’t. You can’t.”
“Let’s find out, then,” I offer, hoping she will see past her confusion.
“You don’t get to decide this for me. You don’t get to turn my body into a problem you need to solve.”
I step closer. Slowly. Carefully. “This isn’t control.” I sit beside her. “This is information.”
She sighs. “I’m not ready.”
I’m not sure if she is talking about motherhood or the ultrasound, but the vulnerability behind her statement shakes me to the core.
“I’m not standing on the sidelines while you do this alone.” I’m not sure if my words provide any solace, but I utter them anyway.
She swallows. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“You didn’t. I’m here anyway.” Tentatively, I touch her pinkie with mine. She doesn’t recoil. Thank fuck.
The silence stretches, thick and charged.
Finally, she turns her head to me. “You don’t get to bully me into this.”
It’s a tired rebuttal, but it’s her. Finally. A little glimpse of the strength that defines this woman.
“I’m not bullying you. I’m insisting.”
She huffs out a breath, rubbing her temples. “Jesus. You’re impossible.”
“I’m not leaving, Roxy.”
Her shoulders sag just a fraction. Exhaustion leaks through the cracks in her confusion.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says. “You don’t get to rewrite my life because of a maybe.”
This woman will fight for control until her last breath. “I’m not rewriting anything. I just want to know the baby is okay.”
She snaps her head toward me, worry and uncertainty forming a frown on her face. She studies me for what feels like several lifetimes. I don’t waver.
I’m not sure what tips the scales. It might be the determination in my eyes. It might be the calm I radiate that comes from I don’t know where. It might have nothing to do with me, but finally, she nods.
“Let’s do it,” she mutters. “But you don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to speak for me.”
“Of course.” I nod, relief flooding my veins.
I open the door. The technician reappears, scanning the room cautiously.
“We’re ready,” Roxy says, her voice cool, composed, reclaimed.
I stay where I am. Close enough to matter. Far enough not to crowd her.
Roxy lifts her gown, and the technician applies the gel and starts probing Roxy’s flat stomach.
My eyes dart between the machine, Roxy’s face, and her belly. She concentrates on the screen where we see… well, nothing.
My heart hammers in my temples. I flex my fingers, but it does nothing for my composure. Something is wrong.
The technician hums. Then she frowns. She clicks the keyboard a few times. She pushes the probe harder, Roxy’s skin folding.
I’m about to demand explanations when a sound fills the room. A somewhat erratic thump-thump.
