Roxy
Liam flexes his fingers around my hand, almost crushing it. I don’t complain. I don’t breathe. I don’t dare to think.
The technician squirts gel on the wand and smiles at me before she starts the exam.
For three days in Guatemala, we teeter between the need to rush to the closest ultrasound and the caution of letting my body recover from the fever and the concussion.
This morning, we finally landed in New York, and our first trip was straight to the obstetrician.
I’m trying to stay calm, because this baby really doesn’t need more stress. But it’s hard. I want to ask the technician to hurry.
Liam leans in to kiss my forehead. A steady presence. A silent support. A reliable safety.
“I love you,” I whisper, still not used to the words but loving their grace.
“I—”
But he doesn’t get to finish. The steady thump fills the room. Loud. Fast. Healthy.
A sob rips out of me. Liam’s breath hitches, and he almost collapses on the bed beside me.
Ignoring the technician, he hugs me. Hard. Suffocating. Perfect.
“Okay, let us finish the exam.” The technician chuckles.
Liam straightens up. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Everything looks good at this stage. Unfortunately, the baby’s position?—”
“What’s wrong?” Liam interjects.
She smirks, probably used to all sorts of anxious parents. “Baby is showing me his or her bum, so I can’t determine the gender. We can poke them around a bit.”
“No poking,” Liam snaps. I widen my eyes, and he adds, “Thank you.”
“I’ll make a note that you don’t want to know the gender.” The technician removes the wand.
“We don’t?” I look at him.
“Do we?”
I know he would agree to whatever Iwanted. “I asked first.”
“I think I want to know. If it’s a girl, I need to get a gun permit…”
I swat my hand at him. The technician busies herself writing something on my chart.
“I want to know too.” I grin at him.
“Why don’t you schedule another appointment next week?” The technician leaves us.
Using the paper towel, I clean up, and I’m about to slide from the table, but Liam steps between my legs. “Not so fast.”
The way he looks at me with unrestrained hunger makes my core clench, wetness pooling between my legs. “What are you doing?”
He lifts my foot and puts it back into the stirrup, and then he does the same with my other foot.
I’m still covered by the paper sheet, but with him standing between my legs, I feel indecently exposed. And needy. So needy.
