The Knocked Up Plan

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”

Nicole says those words over and over again, like a mantra.

Or like she wants me to shut up because I can’t stop asking if she’s okay. With one hand on her shoulder and the other on her lower back, I gently help her to her feet.

“Are you okay?” I ask again. My heart screams in my chest. Nerves skate up the back of my neck. If I was worried when Simone fell on her butt, that was nothing compared to now.

Once she’s upright, I set a hand on her belly, feeling the small curve for the first time. I flinch inside, but not because I’m freaked out. My reaction is because she feels so different, of course, than she’s ever felt before. Gone is that flat belly. In its place is this blooming roundness that’s unexpectedly . . . attractive. But the awareness of what’s behind this curve brings an even sharper reminder of the stakes. A life. I have no clue what I’m doing with my hands on her stomach. I’m not a doctor. I can’t feel if the baby is okay. But I’ve got to do something.

“I’m fine, Ryder. I swear.” She shakes out her wrist, wincing. “But . . .”

“But what?”

She sucks in a breath as if she’s in pain. “My wrist really hurts.”

“We’re going to the ER. Now.”

Steve strides over. “You okay?”

“I’m totally fine,” she says.

“She’s not,” I snap. “Her wrist is sprained.” I have no clue if that’s the case, but it feels true, and I’m taking her to the hospital.

I grab our coats and guide her through the bar, my arm wrapped around her like a shield.

We make it to the doorway, and I slide her coat onto her arms then put my leather jacket on. Once outside, I hail a cab and tell the driver to take us to Mercy Hospital.

All I can think about is her and the baby, and if the baby’s going to be okay. But I don’t want to say that out loud. I don’t want to scare her, don’t want her to know my mind is zipping to terrifying conclusions. On the drive to the hospital, I chatter on about Steve and his swing, and I smooth her hair, and I stroke her arm, and I tell her that we’re just being cautious by going to the ER.

“You’re crazy,” she says, meeting my gaze. “You’re worried for nothing.” She’s trying to reassure me, and I will have none of that. It’s my job to take care of her.

“You fell on your wrist and can barely move it.”

And I’m terrified about our baby.

I catch my breath, inhaling sharply.

Holy fucking shit.

I’ve never thought of her baby as mine.

Not till now.

But there it is. I’ve thought it. It’s moved from a shapeless, formless concept to the concrete way I see the life growing in her belly. Ours. Now that the new possessive pronoun is in my head, it won’t exit. It echoes as we reach the hospital.

Our baby.

“Are you okay?” she asks when I’ve gone quiet.

I shake off the new thoughts. “I’m good. Let’s get you checked out.”

We head inside. We aren’t seen quickly, and I suppose I should take that as a sign that she’s fine. An hour later, she’s called in, and I rise to join her when the curly-haired nurse gives me a steely glare. “Just the patient.”

“But she’s eighteen weeks pregnant,” I say, and those are magic words. The nurse’s expression transforms, and even though she surely knows Nicole’s knocked up since Nicole disclosed it when we checked in, I bet there’s something about hearing the guy with the pregnant woman say it aloud that activates a sympathy bone. The nurse doesn’t know I’m the donor. She figures I’m the dad, and that’s good enough to give me full-time access to the mom-to-be.

She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You can come with her. But be quiet.”

I mime zipping my lips.

Ten minutes later, the nurse has taken Nicole’s blood pressure and vitals, and says an ER doctor will be here any minute. She leaves, and I’m alone with Nicole, who’s perched on an exam table, cradling her wrist in her lap.

“You know I’m fine, right?” she asks, gently chiding me.

“That’s why we’re here. To make sure.”

“I’m okay. I told you I’m okay.” But she doesn’t sound annoyed. She sounds like she wants to reassure me.

“It’s not just you, Nicole. It’s you and the baby.” I gently place my hand on her belly, and touching her bump feels as good as it did the first time. She smiles and presses her hand on top of mine.

“How does it feel?” she asks, her voice soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh lights and sharp noises beyond the curtain.

“Amazing,” I whisper.

“I know, right? I’m barely showing, but every day my little bump astonishes me.”

“Has the baby kicked yet?” Hope rises in me. The hope that she’ll say yes, and that I might feel it.

She shakes her head. “Not yet. Probably another month.”

I turn my hand over and thread my fingers through hers. It feels so right to hold her hand.

Another smile is my reward, and so is the swift appearance of a doctor, striding into the room.

“Dr. Summers.” He extends a hand. He’s young, and his hazel eyes are kind. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

He wheels a machine closer to the table, grabs an ultrasound wand, and slicks some gel on Nicole’s belly. As he roams her stomach like a man trawling the beach for buried treasure, he stares at the screen.

Naturally, I stare at the screen, too, jaw agape.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking baby.

Holy perfect baby. It’s all curled up, but I can see the shape of the baby’s head. The curve of the back. The knees tucked up.

It is awesome, and I don’t mean awesome like the sandwich I had for lunch was awesome. Seeing your baby is awesome in the true sense of the word—I am filled with astonishment.

That astonishment coils into something even more intense when a noise bursts into the room. It sounds like hoofs beating.

I. Can’t. Breathe.

I’m listening to our baby’s heart, and it’s the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard. I swear it moves through me, stirring up an unexpected kaleidoscope of emotions that’s magnified when I meet Nicole’s eyes. They’re wet, filled with happy tears. It’s almost too much for me to take, and I blink, looking away. When I do, I realize it’s because my eyes are threatening to fill with tears, too.

My throat catches, and I swallow roughly.

It’s as if I’ve been punched in the gut, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels shockingly wonderful, and I want to remember this moment forever. I want to recall every second of my own amazement.

“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.