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“Have you been taking the Diclegis we prescribed you?”
“Yes. Every night before bed.”
“Okay. Try taking two before bed and one in the morning. You can also take one in the afternoon if you’re still feeling nauseated during the day.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that this information would have been helpful some time ago, but I reel it in. It’s not like I can change the last month and a half of vomiting. It is what it is. No use crying over spilled milk and all that.
“Okay. I’ll definitely give that a shot.”
Dr. Simpson gives me a smile and grabs the handle on the bed. “Okay, let’s lie back and get a look at what’s going on with the baby.”
I do as she says, lying back as the bed does—not that I have much choice given my total lack of abdominal strength at this point—and she goes to turn the lights lower at the switch by the door.
Harrison reaches up and gives my knee a squeeze while her back is turned.
There’s no distinct reason for it—but the comfort of it feels good.
Dr. Simpson returns, wheeling the ultrasound machine closer to the bed and pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
I roll up my shirt and lay my arm across the top of my protruding stomach as she grabs the bottle of goo kept on the side of the cart.
Harrison watches avidly as she squirts it on my belly and then picks up the wand to spread it around. And within a few seconds, a hazy, white snow fills the screen at our side as she searches for the perfect angle to get a good look at the baby.
Having been here already, I find myself defaulting to watching Harrison rather than watching the screen.
I’d expect the baby to be giving me a stern lecture via instant nausea at the slight, but all in all, the little one seems content despite my diversion of attention.
A gentle, thumping whoosh fills the room as Dr. Simpson finds the peanut, and a tiny, wiggly human fills up the screen. Harrison’s face lights up in a way I didn’t know was possible. “That sound,” she says, “is your baby’s heartbeat.”
I’ve heard it before, back at my first appointment, but the sound of it still stops my thoughts in their tracks, and the sight of the little miracle living inside me makes my eyes well up a little with unshed tears.
“How’s it feel, Dad?” the doctor asks Harrison with a grin.
Slowly, I move my gaze from the screen to him again. When I get there, there’s no chance of turning back. Put intrinsically, Harrison is enraptured. The sound of his baby’s heartbeat has his own ready to thump right out of his chest. It’s written all over his face.
Without thinking, I reach out to take his hand, and he squeezes mine hard. I can’t help but smile. “Pretty incredible, huh?”
“It is, hands down, the best sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”
My heart flutters inside my chest at his words, and I have to blink my eyes several times to hold back the damn tears.
I suppose, if I had to pick a stranger to do this with, I could have picked a worse one.
Yeah…pretty sure you hit the jackpot of baby daddies.
Harrison
I’m pretty sure I’m the Clint Eastwood of Rocky’s living room. Lord knows when it comes to her staff—cough Heidi cough—I always seem to be In the Line of Fire.
A few weeks ago, I made my official move to LA, settling into an apartment in the same building as Rocky. It’s a nice place, spacious and full of all sorts of ritzy updates, but the true best thing about my new California pad is its convenient location to the mother of my child. If I haul some ass, I can be out of my door and inside Rocky’s living room in a minute flat. Four minutes, if I take my time.
All to Heidi Morris’s dismay.
How do I know this? Well, every time I’m in the same room with her, it is written all over her sour, condescending face.
I don’t generally toss around the word shrew in the name of the opposite sex, but in Heidi’s case, shrew is starting to become pretty fucking accurate. Sometimes, I have a hard time understanding why Rocky puts up with her bullshit, the snide remarks and bossy demands, but at the same time, I do realize Hollywood is an animal I have zero experience taming.
Although, I feel pretty damn confident, if I were a celebrity’s manager, I could do the job without being an asshole. But what do I know, right? I’m just a CFO of one of the biggest media conglomerates in the world.
Thankfully, right now, the shrew is currently occupied with God knows what, and I can keep Rocky company without having to dodge verbal bullets like I’m Neo from the Matrix.
