Aeron came home one evening, spotted pregnancy symptoms in the search bar of my Google home page, and promptly went back out for a test. The following day, a sonographer confirmed that I was nine weeks and three days pregnant. I don’t know who counted on the calendar first—me, or Aeron—but when we landed on the suggested conception date, we both knew the baby wasn’t his.
I cried harder than he did. It’s important that you know that, important that I remember.
Of course, the doctors explained these dates can be wrong sometimes. A couple days earlier and things would be so different, but then a couple of days earlier, I’d been merrily popping my pills. I’m responsible like that.
Or I was, until Abel Hart.
“Nineteenth…” The nurse draws lines on the screen with her fingers. “Uh-hhuh. Looks accurate to me. Keeps you at twenty-two-plus-four.”
Silence.
Cold serpents writhe beneath my breast bone. I don’t know what’s worse; that the rape is still inside me, still growing like a cancer, or that I love it anyway. It. Him or her. They’re hollowing me out from the inside. I have a habit of doing this, loving the things that hurt me most.
Aeron gives my hand another squeeze. “Seventeen weeks to go.”
The nurse clicks her tongue against her teeth. “It’ll be over before you know it. Do you want to find out the sex?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Aeron corrects. “Yes, we do.”
She laughs. “Miss Reeves? What’s the verdict?”
The fluorescent hospital light bleeds into my vision. I put a hand up to rub at my tired, stinging eyes; I’ve suffered with headaches these past months. “Ah…okay. Go on then.”
Aeron gives the nurse a charming grin. “I usually get my way.”
“Like that, hmm?” She winks at me.
Yes. It is.
“Okay then. Let’s see…”
Aeron leans in to kiss my jaw. He drags his teeth gently across my skin, still stroking my fingers in an upward motion reminiscent of an insolent fuck. “Fifty bucks says it’s a girl.”
“Now you’re just copying me.”
“Great minds, sweetheart.”
What would we do with a boy, another little Lore clone with a writhing ball of contradictions where his Hart ought to be? There are nights when I wake up sweating, still haunted by the image of Ash with a bloodied knife in his hands. His swift assurance in using it, the quiet determination he’s exhibited since…if I told you I understood, I’d be lying.
What would that girl be like, though? Would she be better? Or worse…?
The nurse hits a spot to the left of my navel and gently presses down. For the first time, the baby responds, squirming away from the wand in a ripple of sloppy, wet sensation.
She chuckles to herself. “Well hello there, Baby Lore. Think you could do me the decency of staying still?”
“She’s vicious,” Aeron observes. “Kicks the shit out of me if I go anywhere near her.” Sometimes, at night, he kisses his way up from between my thighs and rests his cheek on my growing belly. The creature inside trembles with annoyance, its tiny limbs assaulting him with comical force.
Or at least, I tell myself it’s comical. Anything else breeds doubt and panic, and like any sly addiction, if I succumb to them, they’ll never leave.
The nurse jabs the screen some more. “You know, I think she is indeed a she.”
He squares his shoulder with triumphant glee. “See? Told you.”
She’s vicious.
“Congratulations. Everything’s looking fine.” The nurse puts the wand down. She produces a turquoise paper towel and scrapes the jelly from my stomach, patting dry as she goes. “Do you have any ideas for names?”
“Not yet,” I tell her.
We haven’t got that far. There’s a part of me, a figure curled up in the corner of my mind, who would like to name her Rachel. But Aeron would never go for that. Can you imagine his face…?
“Well.” He presses his lips together. “Our nanny already suggested Khaleesi.”
I let out an embarrassingly loud groan, and then cringe back into the pillow.
The nurse cocks an eyebrow. “Not a fan, I take it?”
Aeron gives a theatrical sigh. “She’s British. Loses her shit over anything that wouldn’t fit in at Downton Abbey.”
“I see.” She gives me another knowing wink.