The Knocked Up Plan(57)

“Sounds like you’ve got one healthy baby in there,” the doctor says with a smile as he wipes the gel off Nicole’s stomach. After a quick examination of her hand, he decides it looks like it’s sprained, but can be treated with ice, an ACE wrap, and, ideally, no ibuprofen. As he writes up his orders, I meet Nicole’s eyes once more. Neither one of us says a word. We just hold each other’s gazes, and I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing—our baby is healthy.

She flashes me a smile, and I return it with a goofy grin of my own.

Holy shit. Our baby is healthy.

I want to take a snapshot of this moment. I want to record every second of this strange and joyous connection I feel with her and the life growing inside her.

The doctor leaves us alone, and I bend my face to her belly and press the gentlest kiss to her skin. “Hi, baby,” I say, and I know, I fucking know, that I’m already in love with our child.



I take her home. I ice her wrist then reapply the wrap. I walk her dog around the block. When I return, I ask her if she wants me to spend the night.

“Yes.”

Romeo is already at the kennel since I leave on my trip the next day, so I don’t need to call the dog-sitter. I drop my keys with the tadpole charm on the living room table next to my phone. I take off my jeans and sweater, but that’s all. I’m not going to try anything with Nicole, given her damaged wrist. Besides, I’m not here to make a move on her. I’m here to take care of the mother of my child.

She wears fuzzy pajama bottoms with snowmen on them, and a black tank. Her breasts look bigger. I keep that thought to myself. Now is not the time to compliment those beauties. She slides under the covers, and after I brush my teeth with an extra brush she says I can use, I join her in bed. She yawns, then sighs.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey, you,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me tonight.”

“It’s the only place I wanted to be.”

She yawns again.

“All right, sleepy baby. Let’s make sure you get some rest.”

She flips to her side, and I move closer, draping an arm over her. “Is this okay? Does it hurt your wrist?”

“No. It feels good.”

“Yeah. It feels really good,” I echo.

Nighttime shrouds us, and shadows play on the dark walls.

“Did you like hearing the heartbeat?” Her voice is an imprint on the air. It feels like a wish. A hope.

I run my fingers through her hair and answer with my whole heart. “I loved it.”

“Me, too.” Her voice is feathery. “When I first heard it, I wished you could hear it, too.”

“Yeah?” I might be grinning like a fool.

“I did. I wanted you to experience it, too. It’s the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard.”

“It really is magical.” I press a kiss to the back of her neck, and before I know it, she’s asleep in my arms.

In the morning, it pains me to have to say good-bye. But work calls, and I’ve got to hit the road for a few weeks, right when I’m starting to feel so much for both of them.





Thirty





Nicole

Penny plucks the pouch of a pair of maternity jeans, pulling it taut like a slingshot. She fires and the blue cotton bounces. “Oh! Look at the stretchiness! This is such a winner.”

I narrow my eyes at her and deliver my absolute best you’ve got to be kidding me stare. “Those. Are. Hideous.”

Penny bats her eyelashes. “They’re a building block.” Her voice is pure innocence. “A stepping stone to mom jeans.”

“Did someone say mom jeans?” Delaney rushes to us with a shirt wadded in her hand. “Your mom jeans would go so well with your new peekaboo.”

She unfolds it with a ta-da and strikes a pose.

I mime gagging. The shirt has a cutout over the belly. “Why? Tell me. Why on earth does that exist? Who even authorized a cutout maternity T-shirt?”

Delaney cracks up. “If you were a fashion writer, you’d have to do a column on the five worst maternity items.”

Penny snaps her fingers. “I know one to include. That Christmas maternity shirt that said ‘Santa’s Favorite Ho.’”

I laugh. “That is totally going on the list.”

Delaney hangs up the holey shirt then adjusts her bright blond ponytail. “Have you found anything you like?”

I shake my head. “Not a single stitch of fabric. Am I just too picky?”

“No way. You can never be too picky with clothes,” Penny says, her brown eyes intense. “Let’s keep looking.”

We wander through the racks in the maternity section of a department store in Brooklyn that we traveled to for this purpose. The chichi maternity boutiques in Manhattan are just too pricey for items I’ll wear only a few times. As Penny considers a rack of tent-like shirts, my phone pings.

My Pavlovian response kicks in.

Butterflies descend into my chest.

I grab my cell and slide my finger over the screen.

Ryder: Look. I’m just going to be blunt here. That okay with you?

In the two weeks he’s been gone, our texts have veered from gentle concern over my wrist—it’s totally fine now—to flirty, so I have a hunch I’ll enjoy his bluntness.