His wife stared down at it, her name and date of birth printed along the side. This was it—the moment of truth.
She squeaked a nervous laugh. “Well, we conquered shit shovels. What’s a little pee in a cup?”
Before he could reply, the maddening hum of the office went dead quiet. Not even a baby farted.
Georgie’s eyes went wide, and her cheeks grew crimson. “I dropped the s-word in front of a bunch of children, didn’t I?”
The entire waiting room stared at them. Even the receptionist sat motionless, her hand pressed to her chest.
He needed to handle this—and fast.
“My wife didn’t say a bad word. She said ship shovel. Ship with a p. You know, the shovel you’d use when you need one on a ship. Ship with a p—definitely, not a t.”
Had crickets not been smart enough to avoid this place, they’d be chirping.
“I’m going to go pee in the cup and have my blood drawn,” Georgie said, going from beet-red to dishwater gray as the noise returned to the level of heavy metal concert meets Sesame Street.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You should do great with the pee part. You’ve had plenty of practice this morning.”
She frowned up at him. “Jordan, why don’t you sit down. I’m sure they’ll call you back when they get me into an examination room.”
Sit down and shut up, asshat!
He knew that’s what his wife wanted to say—or would have said—if she weren’t freaking out about the possibility of gestating a human on top of making sure she didn’t drop another bad word in front of the baby brigade.
What was wrong with him?
Actually, he could answer that.
This place!
On TV, couples went into a tastefully decorated doctor’s office where pregnancy advice was dispensed over a mahogany desk without a chorus of wailing children or crashing toy cars.
Then, the penny dropped.
He was pregnancy book smart.
He understood the biology and the physiology of a pregnant woman’s body. Still, when it came to having hands-on experience with an actual pregnancy or understanding the intricacies of fetal development, he was as clueless as the dad chasing his half-naked kid around in circles.
He tried to block out the noise and steadied himself. He needed to stay calm. He might not know anything about growing a baby, but they could learn. They’d figure it out.
“We’ve got this, Georgie,” he said, drawing his thumb down her jawline as his heart fluttered, freaking fluttered in his chest.
How he loved this woman—his true north. If someone had asked him a year ago where he’d be at this time, never in a million years would he have thought it would be here, married to the love of his life, most likely preparing for a baby.
Not just a baby, their baby.
“Okay,” she answered on a shaky breath.
He held her misty gaze. “Messy bun girl, no matter what they tell us today, we’re in this together. You and me.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You know the Emperor of Asshattery would be nothing without his Empress to call him out whenever he acted like—”
“A giant asshat,” she whispered lovingly, finishing his sentence as the corners of her lips curled into the hint of a grin.
“Ms. Jensen-Marks?”
They turned to see a stone-faced nurse, standing near the entrance to the pregnancy side of the office.
Georgie blew out a slow breath. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” she said, then nodded to the woman and followed her back.
He watched her go, wishing he could join her. There wasn’t much he could do. He could hold the pee cup for her. But it might look weird if they tag-teamed the urine sample portion of the visit. Like a warrior accepting defeat, he scanned the alien world of the ob-gyn waiting room, looking for the safest place to sit. Carefully, he navigated his way through a Lincoln Log minefield, passed a child banging his fist on a toy steering wheel’s horn as if he were training for a baby road rage competition, then took a seat across from a trio of men.
“Look, fellas! Fresh meat!” a red-cheeked, heavy-set man said with a wide grin.
Jordan stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t take offense,” the guy said, wrangling a toddler. “From the way you were talking to your wife, we could tell this is your first trip to the pregnancy rodeo.”
Jordan cleared his throat. “We’re not sure she’s pregnant. There’s a good chance I should be over there,” he replied, gesturing with his chin toward the quiet zone.
“Did she do the pee test at home?” a man with a shock of red hair asked.
“Yes,” he answered, wondering why the hell he didn’t tell this guy to mind his own business.
What was it with this place? Did everyone know everybody’s business around here? Was there some unspoken rule that once one was relegated to this side of the office, all privacy disappeared?
“And you got the plus or the two lines?” came the third man with a little girl sitting on his lap, sucking her thumb.
“Or did you get one of those fancy tests with a little computer screen that says pregnant? Joanie loves those,” piped the dad, chasing a half-naked toddler.
“She used the kind with two lines,” he answered.
“And both lines showed up?” the redheaded man asked.
“Yeah.”
The jovial man slapped his leg. “She’s pregnant.”
Jordan looked from man to man before settling his gaze on the proclaimer of pregnancy. “Are you a doctor?”
“A dentist,” he answered with a shrug.
Jordan nodded, not sure if that counted.
“Do you want a natural birth or will you guys opt for an epidural?” the man chasing the child asked.
This twenty-questions was worse than listening to that kid bang out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the toy steering wheel’s horn.
“I’m not sure yet,” he answered.
“And preschools—you need to get on the wait-list for the good ones,” the dad with the little girl offered, then blew a raspberry on her belly.
“We don’t even know if we’re pregnant,” he stammered.
The redheaded man waved him off. “It doesn’t matter if you’re pregnant. My wife and I got our name on the wait-list for the advanced toddler baseball clinic before we’d even conceived.”
“You had no kid but put a fake kid on the wait-list?” he asked, trying to keep the cynicism out of his voice.
The man leaned forward. “That’s how the game is played.”
“You’re kidding!” he whisper-shouted back.
“No, sir! I am not! You need to act now. How far along is your wife?”
Jordan closed his eyes, his mind spinning, trying to calculate the date. His pregnant clients simply told him how far along they were in their pregnancy. But to calculate the due date, he vaguely remembered that you had to measure the duration starting on the first day of the woman’s last period—or something like that. He’d have to pull out his physiology manuals when they got home and brush up.
He rubbed his temples. “Six weeks, maybe a little more?”
The dentist dad’s eyes went wide. “Six weeks! That’s an eternity, man!”