Page 80 of Pinch

She pulls up her sleeves, turning to me. “Ready to get a look at what’s going on in there?”

“Yes.” I smile, feeling more relaxed than I have in a month.

The doctor takes the wand out and squirts warm gel on my midsection. Then she puts the half-moon-shaped wand on my flat stomach, and the large monitor lights up with a grainy, black and white field.

A black hole is in the center, and my breath catches in my throat when the profile of a blurry little baby-looking figure appears. We’re surrounded by the sounds of rhythmic swishing, and my hand tightens in Gav’s.

“This right here is your baby.” The doctor circles the bright white image with her pen. “And that sound is the heartbeat, good and strong.”

She taps on the keyboard, taking pictures, and my eyes fill.

Gavin leans closer to me, speaking softly. “You okay, Princess?”

I nod, blinking tears onto my cheeks and meeting his gaze. “I made it. I’m there.”

He slides a large hand around the back of my neck, pulling us closer as he presses his lips to mine. My heart expands, filling with so much love.

Dr. Barry uploadedour ultrasound pictures and video to our patient portal, and I’ve probably spent too much time gazing at our little boy or girl on the screen. Gavin was right. We’re at ten weeks, the baby is perfectly healthy, and we’re not due back for another month.

When I presented the latest portion of my graduate studies to my committee, both Dr. Cross and Dr. Becker commented on how healthy and glowing I am as we walked back to the lab.

Timothy scowled from where he sat, making notes on one of his tickling videos, which struck me as funny.

Daniel logged on and we discussed our division of labor this semester. It takes a lot of coordination to work with someone on the other side of the globe, but if it’s done well, we can keep a 24-hour surveillance going.

We both agree this semester we’re going to identify the exact tropospheric wind patterns carrying the disease. We’re manifesting. There’s always an increase in cases during the winter into spring months, and the windy season is just around the corner.

I’ve been getting home after dark most days. It’s my last semester, and my last chance to make any sort of contribution to the field, unless I continue and get my doctorate.

I was already on the fence about doing that, and now that I’m going to be a mom, I’m feeling less inclined to do it. Also, I won’t have the income from my scholarship, and I can’t imagine being a teacher’s assistant and a mom and working on a dissertation.

The house is dim when I finally arrive. Gigi left me a note on the counter saying she walked the dogs and put Princess Petunia in her crate. She also noted leftovers are in the microwave.

I step over to find a paper box of Mediterranean chicken with saffron rice and hummus waiting. It smells delicious and my stomach growls loudly. I’m about to dig in when I hear the bumping sounds of someone coming through the front door.

The guys had a game tonight, and I poke my head around the corner to see Gavin dropping his bag on the floor beside the stairs. He looks up, and when our eyes meet, the greatest smile curls his lips.

“Hey, Princess.” He crosses the living room to where I step into his arms.

He lifts me off my feet in a sweep, and my legs go around his waist. Carrying me into the kitchen, he sits me on the counter, leaning down to kiss the side of my neck, my jaw.

“I want to fill your Gavin-shaped hole, but I’ve got to eat something before I die.”

A laugh snorts through my nose, and I lift the box of leftover Mediterranean. “How do you feel about chicken shawarma, saffron rice, feta, and hummus?”

He groans in a way that lights my core. “I feel like put it in my belly now.”

“My thoughts exactly.” I lean over to grab the fork I set out on the counter.

He grabs a fork from the drawer beside my leg, and wefight over who can eat the fastest. At one point, we cross forks, which makes me laugh. The leftovers are gone so fast, I’m not sure we had enough.

Tilting my head, I wrinkle my nose at him. “Tater tots?”

“Please.”

I give his shoulder a little shove, and lean over to hit the preheat button on the oven. We’ll have to wait a few minutes for them to bake, but the edge is off our hunger.

He reaches into the fridge for a beer, nodding at the ginger ale in my hand. “Morning sickness?”