Pretty Little Mistake

I’ve spent the past two weeks in a rotating state of shocked and ill.

Morning sickness is a bitch, and so is hiding it from my best friend. I’m lucky that she’s a deep sleeper and too focused on getting ready for work to notice me puking my guts up. It helps, too, that I’ve always played music in the bathroom when I get ready in the mornings, which masks any sounds she might hear.

As I hustle down the street toward my doctor’s office, I’m caught off guard by the tall, frazzled man getting out of a taxi.

Stopping dead in my tracks and nearly getting knocked down because of it, I gape at my baby daddy, who glowers at me.

“What are you doing here?” I stutter, coming out of my shock.

“You told me you had your appointment today, and I said I wanted to be here.”

“I . . . I never told you where my doctor was.” He has me rattled, showing up like this. It’s like seeing some sort of mirage in the desert, but instead of water, it’s a handsome man on the streets of Manhattan.

He rolls his sleeves up his forearms, those blue eyes of his rendering me immobile. “I have my ways.”

I tug my purse back onto my shoulder. “Are you in the Mafia?”

He snorts. “Not likely. Now, are we going in, or do you want to stand on the street all day?”

I still can’t wrap my head around Beckham showing up here. Does he have a tracker on me? Maybe he slipped an AirTag in my purse or something? I should probably check later. I wouldn’t put it past him.

I don’t have time to dwell on those thoughts, because I do need to head into the building. I’ve been to this practice before, but it’s my first prenatal appointment, the one to confirm my pregnancy and I guess see the baby? I have no clue when it comes to this kind of thing. My experience with anything baby is zilch. That makes all this even more terrifying. I’ve already ordered some books on parenting, but I doubt that’ll be enough to prepare for what it’s actually like.

“All right.” I sigh, like his presence is a complete hindrance. Though, deep down, I think I might be glad to have his support. I haven’t told anyone yet. Definitely not my parents or my brother. I figure I’ll tell Laurel after this appointment. As for my family . . . I want to put that off as long as possible, not because I’m ashamed but because I don’t want to hear their disappointment. “Let’s go.”

Beckham falls into step beside me, not saying a word. I can feel his irritation, though, and it manages to make me feel bad enough that I utter a surprising apology. “I’m sorry. I should’ve given you the address.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “you should have. Neither of us asked for this, but we’ll handle it. Together.”

Hearing him say that warms my heart but takes me by surprise at the same time. Beckham is utterly confusing.

We reach the building, and I expect him to hold the door open for me, but he flashes me one tiny smirk before going in first and letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.

Prick.

I’m pretty sure this stuff is a game to him now.

I don’t show any emotion, appearing unbothered by the gesture just to ruffle his feathers.

Inside, we take the elevator up in silence. He follows me down the hall and into the office.

It’s a sleek and modern facility—I remember thinking the first time I came here for my annual exam that it seemed like the kind of doctor’s office you’d expect to go to for Botox, not to have your vagina probed. Abstract paintings of babies and pregnant women line the walls. I’m not sure I’d even know that’s what the art was if it weren’t in an OB-GYN office.

“You can go sit.” I point to a chair, hoping he’ll listen and park his butt. Luckily, he does, allowing me to check in and give myself a moment to regroup after his surprising appearance.

“Hi.” The woman behind the reception desk smiles. “Wells, right?”

“Good memory,” I say, hoping she can’t detect the nervous quiver in my voice. “Lennon Wells.”

“Ah, right here. It looks like you already filled out the forms we needed for this visit online and we have your insurance on file from last time, so I’ll get you checked in. Take a seat, and the nurse will call your name when they’re ready.”

“Thank you.”

I turn to see where Beckham has snagged a place to sit. He holds a parenting magazine delicately between his fingers, like he’s horrified he’s even touching it.

Bracing myself, I join him. “Whatcha got there?” I tap the magazine.

He exhales a shaky breath. “Just some light reading.” He shows me the cover with an expecting mother and headlines saying things like, What You Should Know about Breastfeeding to Do It Right, Is Your Baby Sleep-Regressing? We Have the Tips and Tricks You Need!, and How to Baby-Proof Your House for Your Bundle of Joy!

“Sounds stimulating.”

He snorts, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table with the others. “Stimulating is how we got into the predicament in the first place.”

He’s not wrong. I press my hand to my flat stomach, marveling at the fact that there’s a whole tiny human in there. I always wanted to be a mom, but later, after I lived my life and settled into work, found a great man, and got married, then lived our life for a while before adding a baby to the mix.

I look at Beckham, taking in his profile—the sharp jaw dotted with stubble, his long lashes and full lips. This is the man I’m having a baby with. Teenage Lennon would be jumping up and down over this news; adult Lennon feels . . . well, I don’t really know how I feel.

I think I’m still in too much of a state of shock to be able to process my feelings on the whole situation yet.

“I guess this isn’t what Jaci intended when she sent us on that trip,” I remark.

He surprises me by chuckling. “No, I guess not. It’s not what we expected either.” He turns to look at me, briefly giving me a flash of the worry and fear in his eyes before it’s gone. Stifling another laugh, he says, “How much you want to bet those condoms from the hotel were expired or something? I didn’t even think to check them.”

“It doesn’t matter how it happened now.” I grip the arms of the chair, my nerves settling in. “Regardless, we’re in this situation.” I pause then, giving him a contemplative look. “You know, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t suggest I just . . . take care of it.”

He rears back like I’ve slapped him. “Do you think so little of me? I mean, I’d support your decision, but I would never pressure you to do that.”

My breath is shaky when I exhale. “You realize this is forever, right? No matter what, we’ll always be in each other’s lives.”

He wets his lips, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah, I know.” He almost looks more scared about that fact than us having a whole child. I should probably be offended, but I’m too stressed to care.

“Wells?” a nurse calls out a few minutes later.

This is it. Even though there’s no doubt I’m pregnant, this confirmation seals it, and there’s no going back.

I stand up slowly, Beckham rising alongside.

It shocks me beyond belief when he takes my hand, giving a small squeeze like he’s trying to remind me that I’m not alone.

Together we make our way across the room to the waiting, smiling nurse. Beckham releases my hand when I have to step on the scale for my weight. After, I’m sent to the bathroom for a pee sample; then we’re led to an exam room, where I answer more questions from the nurse. She takes my blood pressure and leaves us for me to take off my pants.

Beckham clears his throat from the chair in the corner. “Why do you have to . . . um . . . depant?”

I snort at the way he phrases it. “I’m assuming they’re planning to do a transvaginal ultrasound.” I reach for the button on my jeans.

“A what?”

He doesn’t look away as I undress, but what’s the point? He already knows what I look like naked.

“It’s an ultrasound they put inside you when the baby is small.” At least that’s what the Google search told me when I looked up what I should expect for my first appointment.

“That’s horrifying.” He actually looks a bit pale at the thought.

I grab the sheet to cover my bottom half and sit down. “That’s horrifying? You know your penis has been in there, right?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t ever call my cock a penis again—that’s offensive.”

“That’s the correct term.” I find myself smiling. Why is bantering with him so much fun?

“A penis is—”

There’s a knock on the door, and he shuts up.

“I’m ready,” I call out.

The door swings open, revealing my doctor. Dr. Hersh is in her forties with dyed bright-red hair that usually has streaks of another color—this time it’s purple. I could never pull off the look, but she does it effortlessly.

“A penis is?” she prompts, fighting a smile. The nurse enters behind her and closes the door.

Beckham blushes, adding to my previous amusement.

“How we got into the predicament in the first place,” I answer for him, and he shoots me a glare. “What?” I shrug, the paper sheet beneath me crinkling. “It’s true, and it’s not like she doesn’t know where babies come from.”

Dr. Hersh laughs, her nurse also stifling a laugh while Beckham covers his face.

The doctor scoots over to my side on her rolling stool. “The urine test came back positive. Since you’re here, I’m going to send in my ultrasound tech to check things out and make sure everything looks good. Overall, how have you been feeling?”

“Sick,” I admit, biting my lip. “I know that’s normal, but it sucks. Sometimes it hits me during the day too.” I try not to think about how the smell of Ethan’s tuna sandwich sent me running for the bathrooms only a day ago while we were at work.

She nods emphatically. “That’s how it is for some women. If it gets worse and you can’t make it through tasks, please reach out to us, and we’ll talk about what we can do.”

She runs through some more questions and gives me a pamphlet, and then we’re left to wait for the ultrasound tech.

My eyes follow Beckham’s movements in the chair. How he leans forward, leg jostling.

“Are you nervous?”

His head whips in my direction, and I swear there’s a bit of sweat on his brow. “Huh? Me?”

“You seem jittery.”

He leans back, rubbing his hands on the legs of his pants before crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a lot to take in. I mean, we knew, but this . . .”

“Makes it real?” I finish for him.

He exhales in a gust, tugging on the longish strands of hair on top of his head. “Yeah. A baby. That’s big. Huge. How are we going to handle this? You’re so calm.” He sounds almost accusatory.

“Are you kidding me, Beckham? I’m terrified, but what am I going to do about it? This is what’s happening, so I have to take it one day at a time. I can’t look at the whole picture right now, or I’m pretty sure I’ll have a panic attack.”

He crosses one ankle over his knee. His fidgeting is amusing, since he’s normally the picture of ease. “Have you told your parents?”

I snort, nearly choking in the progress. “No, definitely not.”

He raises a brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t want to hear their disappointment, or a lecture. I’m an adult. I made the decision to have sex with you, and while we used protection, there’s always the chance of something happening, so here we are.” I raise and lower my hands in defeat. “I don’t think you understand my family at all.”

Something flashes over his face—a shadow of pain, I think—and he looks away with his jaw ticcing. I struck a nerve. “Believe me, I know exactly what kind of people they are.”

My lips fall into a frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

There’s a knock on the door, and then the tech is wheeling in an ultrasound machine. I don’t take my eyes off Beckham, how tense he is now.

After the tech explains things, she gets the ultrasound probe out.

Beckham’s eyes widen, but he says nothing, just rubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to keep himself calm. I wonder if he’s regretting coming now. I hope not. I’m actually thankful for his company. Not that I plan on admitting that to him.

The tech checks some things out before turning the screen so we can view it.

“See this black area right here?” She points. “That’s the sac, and this right here”—her finger moves down the screen to a tiny gray blob—“is your baby.”

There’s nothing indistinguishable in that splotch on the screen, and yet I feel a fierce surge of love and protectiveness flood me.

“What the hell?” I sniffle, fanning my face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.”

“It’s okay,” she assures me with a smile. “Totally normal. You see that flicker right there?” I squint to make it out. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat. It’s too early to hear it, but sometimes you can see it.”

I only cry harder, and when I look over at Beckham, I see him wiping away a tear, his lips parted in awe.

“I’ll print some out for you guys. I have everything I need, so I’ll get these to Dr. Hersh, and she’ll pop back in before you go. You’re free to get dressed.”

When she leaves the room, I sit up to put my pants back on, but suddenly there’s a hand in front of me holding a tissue.

I take it from him and use it to dry the last of my tears. “Thank you. This is insane, right?”

He stares into my eyes, not saying anything for a moment, which lets my mind wander. I wonder if our baby will have brown eyes like me, or blue like him.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Insane. Life changing. It’s a pretty little mistake.”

“A mistake?”

He nods, cupping my jaw in a surprisingly tender way. “The best one we could make.”

I bite my lip nervously. “Are we ready for this?” There are so many things we’re going to have to figure out over the coming months, especially since we’re not together.

“Probably not,” he admits, stepping away and allowing me to get up. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And somehow, I feel like he’s right, and that in some strange way everything will be okay.