But I’m freaked. This is the first appointment that Tuck has come along for, and it’s the one that will reveal the sex of the baby—if we can reach an agreement about it. I want to know. He wants to be surprised. And this is the perfect illustration of the kind of people we are.
I’m the one who likes to be in control. If I know the sex of the baby, I can plan for it. Buy cute little girlie stuff or cute little boy stuff. Come up with names.
Tucker is a go-with-the-flow guy. He thinks we should just buy yellow clothes and be done with it.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about.” He squeezes my hand and leans in to kiss my cheek.
I give an involuntary shiver. His lips are soft and warm and I want to feel them against my mouth, not my cheek. I want to kiss his neck and suck on it until he moans. I want to slide my hand inside his pants, grip his cock, and stroke him off until he comes all over my hand.
Did I mention I’m horny as fuck?
I don’t know if it’s all the increased sensitivity or the three or so months of sexual dormancy, but holy hell do I need to get laid. Even the accidental brush of my own hand against my boobs gets me hot and bothered. I read that women are usually super aroused during the first trimester, but my sex drive didn’t kick into overdrive until the second one. Every time I see Tucker, I want to rip his clothes off.
And he knows it.
“You ready to be more than friends yet?” he murmurs.
I glare at him. “I’m telling you I’m nervous and you’re thinking about sex?”
“No, you’re thinking about sex.” He grins. “Your eyes are begging me to fuck you.”
I hastily glance around to make sure nobody heard that, but the other pregnant women are either talking to their partners or have their heads buried in baby magazines.
“Nope,” I lie. “My eyes are too busy worrying about what they’re going to see on the ultrasound. I read that we might be able to see the baby’s face, and the fingers and toes.” Panic flutters in my belly again. “What if it only has three fingers, Tuck? What if it doesn’t have a nose?” My breathing grows labored. “Oh my God, what if we have a mutant baby?”
Tucker hunches over and starts to shake. It takes me a second to realize he’s shuddering with silent, hysterical laughter. Wonderful. The father of my child is laughing at me.
“Oh hell. Goddamn, darlin’.” He’s wheezing as he lifts his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch The Hills Have Eyes last night.”
“There was nothing else on,” I protest. And I didn’t want you to leave.
I’m so pathetic. This past week, I’ve been finding reasons to have Tucker over. Like, “we need to research breathing classes,” and, “my back is killing me—do you feel like coming by to rub it?” and, “maybe I should have a water birth.” He urged me to reconsider that last one, but I wasn’t serious about it to begin with. The idea of my pregnant ass submerged in a tub full of water and childbirth fluids makes me want to throw up.
But because he’s Tucker, he’s driven to Boston every time I’ve called. In the back of my mind, I’m scared I’m taking advantage of him, but he keeps assuring me that this is what he signed up for.
“We’re not going to have a mutant baby.” His chuckles have subsided, and he’s holding my hand again. “He or she is going to be perfect. I promise.”
I nod weakly.
“Sabrina James?” a voice calls from the doorway.
“That’s me.” I shoot to my feet so fast that I wobble for a moment. Tucker steadies me by placing one muscular arm around my shoulders.
“That’s us,” he corrects.
We follow the pink-scrubs-wearing nurse down a wide, well-lit hallway. She guides us into an exam room and instructs me to sit up on the table. The ultrasound machine is already set up beside it, and my heart does an excited little flip.
“I really want to know,” I blurt out once the nurse leaves the room.
Tucker pouts. “But think about how exciting it will be when the doctor shouts out ‘It’s a boy!’ or ‘It’s a girl!’”
This is his go-to argument. But frankly, I don’t need any more excitement in my life right now. My home situation is already way too charged, what with Nana lecturing me daily about getting knocked up, chastising me for keeping the baby, and constantly reminding me that she’s not dishing out free childcare just because I’m her granddaughter. And of course, then there’s Ray, with his snide comments about my promiscuity, my fat stomach, and my stupidity for not knowing how to use a condom.
Ray, I don’t give a shit about. Nana…well, I’m sure she’ll come around once she holds her great-granddaughter or grandson in her arms. She’s always been a sucker for babies.
“I want to know now,” I whine, not caring that I sound like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum.
“How about this? We’ll Rock, Paper, Scissors for it.”
Yeah, we’re going to make great parents, all right.
“Fine.” I crack my knuckles, which makes him snicker. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
We count in unison. On three, we reveal our hands. He did paper. I did rock.
“I win,” he says smugly.
“Sorry, baby, but you lose.”