Page 12 of Curvy Girl and the Bad Boy Cowboy

One ultrasound appointment.

One day at a time.

Thursday

Thursday arrives with the crisp edge of early autumn, leaves just beginning to turn on the maples outside the medical center.

I stand near the clinic door, checking my phone for the third time in as many minutes. 1:58 PM. My appointment is at 2:00, and Ethan is nowhere to be seen.

A flutter of anxiety rises in my chest. I've been here before—waiting for Ethan Covington, telling myself he's just running late, that he'll show up any minute now. I spent six months making these same excuses, each time believing them a little less.

"We have to check you in," the receptionist calls to me from behind her desk. "Dr. Mason doesn't like to get behind schedule."

"Just one more minute," I reply, peering through the glass doors that lead to the parking lot. No sign of his truck.

Since Monday, Ethan has been surprisingly... consistent. He showed up at 5:55 AM to help with deliveries, bleary-eyed but ready to work. He texted me each evening to ask how I was feeling. Yesterday, he even dropped off a pregnancy book that he said Jackson's girlfriend Sarah recommended.

I'd started to hope—dangerous as that feels—that maybe he really was changing.

Now it's 2:01, and that hope feels as fragile as spun sugar.

"Ms. Harper?" The receptionist's voice holds a note of impatience. "Dr. Mason needs to—"

The doors swing open, and Ethan rushes in, his hair windblown, his flannel shirt half-tucked. He's clutching something in his hand and breathing hard like he's been running.

"I'm here," he announces to the entire waiting room. "I'm here, I'm not late—" He glances at the clock on the wall. "Okay, I'm two minutes late, but there was a tractor accident on Route 16, and I had to detour past the old Simmons place, and there's a cow in the road—"

He stops abruptly, seeming to register the amused looks from the other patients.

"Hi," he says, softer now, turning to me. "I made it."

Relief washes over me so intensely it's almost embarrassing. "You made it."

"Ms. Harper?" the receptionist calls again. "We really need to—"

"Yes, coming," I say, moving toward the desk. Ethan follows, still catching his breath.

"I thought..." I murmur so only he can hear.

"That I wouldn't show?" He looks genuinely hurt by the suggestion. "I said I would be here."

Before I can respond, the receptionist slides a clipboard across the desk.

"Fill this out, please. Both parents, if you're both staying for the appointment."

Ethan takes the clipboard, studying the form with newfound seriousness.

"Both parents," he repeats, like he's trying the words on for size.

We sit side by side in uncomfortable waiting room chairs, and I watch as he carefully fills out his medical history. When he gets to "Family medical conditions," he pauses.

"My mom had high blood pressure," he says quietly. "And my grandfather had diabetes. Should I put that down?"

"Yes," I nod. "That's exactly what they need to know."

He continues writing, his handwriting neater than I expected. When he finishes, he hands me the clipboard, then suddenly remembers whatever he was clutching when he arrived.

"Here," he says, opening his palm to reveal a small paper bag. "I got you something."

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