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I nod, taking a deep breath once she’s gone and push my yoga pants down my legs. I hurry to take off my panties and lay down on the table. Anson moves to sit in the chair next to my hand, and we reach for each other at the same time.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask him, and he nods.
“I love you, Lottie,” he says as he leans over and kisses my forehead. “We’ll get through this together.”
I nod, and the nurse comes back into the room. The lights are off, and she moves to the computer again.
“For this first appointment, we need to insert a wand to see the baby. After this though, every other ultrasound will be with the wand on your stomach.”
I take a deep breath, staring at the screen as the grainy black image is replaced with a small white circle.
“That’s your baby,” she says, pointing to a spot on the screen, and Anson’s hold on me tightens.
“I’m just going to take some measurements,” she says, and I nod distractedly as I stare at our tiny little bean.
The rest of the appointment is a blur. She takes some pictures, passing them to us before she leaves the room, and then Anson is dragging me into his lap, and we’re both staring at the tiny shots of our baby.
“So small,” he says, and I nod.
“Seeing it just made it so real,” I whisper, and he nods.
He kisses my forehead once more before he helps me get dressed, and then we head up to the counter to make our next appointment. I let Anson handle that as I stare down at the pictures. My phone has been buzzing all afternoon with messages from Goldie, and I know that I’ll need to send her pictures of the ultrasound scan soon before she starts calling.
“Are you hungry?” Anson asks as we head back out to his truck.
“Starving.”
“What would you like to eat?”
“Nachos and pickles.”
“Done.”
I laugh, wondering what he has in store for our date tonight. I sit back in the passenger seat, letting him take care of me as we weave in and out of traffic. He makes one stop, running into a little market, and then we’re headed toward the beach.
“This place has the best tacos in the whole city,” he promises as he leads me to the food truck.
I let him hold my hand as he orders for us, and then we carry our bags of food across the sand and find a secluded spot down by the water.
“Your nachos and pickles,” he says, brandishing a jar of pickles from the market bag and my takeout container of nachos from the food truck.
“Thank you!”
I let him open the jar of pickles as I start on the nachos, and I moan.
“This is so good,” I tell him, and he grins.
“I know. I found this place the other week and knew I had to bring you here.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence as he remembers that we weren’t talking a few weeks ago, and he clears his throat.
“I really am so sorry for—”
“I know, Anson. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Well, it’s not okay,” I agree, “but you’re never going to do it again.”
