Chapter 42 Desiree Dixon

Shaking the Pee Stick

A shudder races through me. I’ve barely had time to register for myself that this is my new reality. I certainly wasn’t ready to share it with the guy who walked out on me because he’s scared of my father.

I clear my throat as I study him carefully. “Well, the good news is that it turns out it’s not the stomach flu after all.” I’m trying to make the air in here feel a little lighter, but I can’t help wondering whether that really is the good news after all.

He stares across the small space at me, his jaw slightly slackened and his face pale as he moves to sit on the edge of my tub.

“I…uh,” he begins. “I don’t know what to say.”

I sit beside him. “Join the club.” I suck in a breath and lightly pat my stomach. “This is yours, by the way. I haven’t been with anybody…”

He nods and presses his lips together. “Neither have I.”

My brows dip together. “Really?”

He shakes his head. “How could I when all I could think about was you?”

My face softens at his words, but I can’t just let him off the hook. “Then why’d it take you so damn long to get in touch with me?”

He sighs. “I was scared, Des. I am scared. And this?” He shakes the stick, and I want to tell him that I actually peed on it if he’d like to set it down, but it seems like the wrong moment. He sighs. “This is fucking terrifying.”

I nod my agreement. I’m only twenty-five. I’m not ready to start a family, least of all with someone who’s already a proven flight risk.

Yet it’s our reality, and we’re going to be connected together regardless of whether we give this another try. Still, I give him the out.

“I haven’t had time to digest it. I just took the test about an hour ago.” I clear my throat. “But if you don’t want—”

He silences me when his head whips in my direction, and a fire roars to life behind his eyes. “Stop right there,” he warns a little menacingly. “We have a lot to figure out, but I’m not going anywhere.”

I let out a sigh of relief at that. I’m scared to do this at all, but the thought of having to go through it alone is another level of fear.

“Have you thought about going to see your doctor?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Call now,” he demands. “See if you can get in today.”

“I don’t know how this works,” I admit.

“I do. Well, sort of. My sister-in-law has a kid, so I witnessed a bit of the process through them. And they’d be open to any questions we have.”

“Your sister-in-law…as in the coach’s wife?” I ask, pointing out the obvious flaw in his plan without saying a word.

“Oh,” he says a little dejectedly. “Yeah. But don’t you think we’ll have to tell your dad eventually?”

“Eventually, yes. We’ll find the right time to do it, but I don’t think the middle of the season is that time, do you?” I ask.

He blows out a breath. “It depends how far along you are, Des. You might start showing soon, and then what? Your dad will have questions about who did this to you.”

He has a point. The last time we had sex was mid-October, which would put me close to the two-month mark. And if I’m already two months along and didn’t even know it, I wonder what sort of damage I’ve done. I haven’t been drinking or partying much because I haven’t felt like it. In truth, I’ve mostly felt sick and exhausted.

He’s right, though. I should get to the doctor to get everything checked out.

The mere thought of making the call is terrifying.

“What can I do?” he asks softly.

I stare at the floor a long time before I clear my throat. “Call the doctor.”

He stands without saying a word and walks into the other room. I follow him, and he glances around until he spots my phone. He picks it up and carries it to me. “Unlock it and tell me the name of your doctor.”

I do both, and he dials a moment later.

It’s a small act that feels like it lifts some of the weight off my shoulders.

“I’m calling to make an appointment for one of your patients, Desiree Dixon,” he begins. I listen to his end of the conversation, and he nods at me to sit down. He turns off the burner on the stove where the soup is bubbling, and he moves around the kitchen as he talks on the phone, locating the bowls and spoons and carrying my lunch over to the kitchen table.

“Thanks, we’ll see you then.” He hangs up the call, and he turns to me. “We have an appointment today at three, so eat your soup, and then we’ll go.”

I stare at him as I try to reconcile Asher, the guy who wears dinosaur shirts and can make me see stars with his tongue, with this man who’s taking control and making sure I know he’s not going anywhere.

The thought pulses heat behind my eyes, and the chicken soup he made me isn’t just for my upset stomach. It feels like it’s also for my very soul.

We arrive at the doctor, and after a full exam, we find out I’m about seven weeks along and the baby is growing on schedule.

The baby.

It’s been a mere few hours, and the thought that there’s an actual baby forming inside me hasn’t really hit me yet. The thought of the word baby didn’t even come into my brain until I heard it at the doctor.

Pregnant, sure. I’m pregnant. Okay, fine. But what happens at the end of that pregnancy?

Then I have a baby . Then I’m a mom .

I’m not ready to be a mom. I always sort of thought, sure, someday down the road, and it was easy to kick that can down the road hard and fast.

I never thought it would be now .

I schedule some follow-up appointments, and we sit in the car in the parking lot in total silence. Not even the radio is on as we both stare straight ahead at the cars racing by us on the street on the other side of the parking lot.

I think we’re both feeling a sense of whiplash.

I know I am, anyway.

“Congratulations,” he finally says softly.

I grunt a little. “I could say the same to you.”

He reaches over and takes my hand in his. “I know this is scary, Des, but you won’t be alone.”

Tears fill my eyes at his words—not at how sweet the sentiment is, but at the fear of what comes next.

It’s nice he’s saying I won’t be alone for the pregnancy, but how can I not dread the idea of a future when the baby is here and we’re still not a guarantee? I realize nothing is a guarantee, but he’s already proven he’ll run when things get too scary. How do I know he won’t run again?

I don’t. And even if he doesn’t, I think about my own father’s warnings when it came to life in the league and being with a football player. He wasn’t around for half the year when I was a baby. Was my mom alone and scared? It’s not something we’ve ever talked about.

My own heart has already been broken by this man once, and I’m not sure I can walk into all the risk of Asher Nash when there’s a baby involved.