The technician takes measurements, explaining little details as she goes. The curve of the head. The tiny spine. The flicker of movement that makes all three of us gasp like fools.
After a while, she says, “Everything looks perfect so far. Would you like some pictures?”
“Yes,” all three of us say at once.
She laughs. “I’ll print several.”
When she hands over the little black-and-white images,I clutch them to my chest like treasure.
Mason holds one carefully between his thumb and forefinger, looking terrified he might damage it.
“This is coming with me everywhere,” he says.
Brookes glances over. “You’re not putting it in your wallet. You’ll ruin it.”
“I’ll laminate it.”
“You're not laminating the baby.”
“It’s a picture of the baby.”
“It’s still the baby.”
I laugh so hard the technician has to remind me to hold still so she can wipe the gel from my stomach.
We won’t be able to find out the sex for a few more weeks, and part of me is tempted to leave it as a surprise. I don’t think Brookes will survive that. He’s desperate to see if his mother has developed some kind of psychic grandmother ability.
If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Melissa Rose.
If it’s a boy, he’ll be John Richard, after both our fathers.
And somehow, already, both names feel like love.
***
After the appointment, we drive into town instead of going straight home. I’m craving burgers, extra pickles, and a strawberry milkshake thick enough to require both a straw and a spoon. Neither man argues when I ask. In fact, Mason looks relieved to have a mission.
“Burger. Pickles. Milkshake,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Anything else?”
“Fries.”
“Obviously.”
“And maybe onion rings.”
Brookes nods seriously from the passenger seat. “Abalanced meal.”
“I’m growing a human,” I say from the back seat. “The human wants options.”
Mason catches my eye in the rearview mirror, and his smile is so soft it steals my breath.
“Then options it is.”
We settle into a corner booth at the old diner on Main Street, the one with red vinyl seats, chrome-edged tables, and a jukebox in the corner that hasn’t played anything recorded after 1998. The place is busy with the lunch crowd, full of clattering plates, sizzling burgers, and the sweet smell of frying onions.
Heads turn when we walk in.
News travels fast in Rockwell Ridge, and a pregnant woman flanked by both Fletcher brothers is prime gossip. I see the glances. The tilted heads. The whispered comments behind coffee cups.
