Page 147 of Even Exchange

A little sack comes on the screen, and I gasp. “Is that their tiny head?”

“Yep,” Doctor Rigou says.

This is for real.

“Baby Caruso is pretty cute,” Noah says to me, and we share a teary smile.

We’re family.

“How can you tell?” I ask Noah teasingly. “I’m only eight weeks.”

“I’m going to switch to an abdominal ultrasound,” Doctor Rigou says, removing the big wand, and my vagina is grateful.

“Because it’s ours,” Noah says as I cover my legs with the sheet and push up my shirt, exposing my stomach. “It’ll have your eyes and my great sense of humor.”

“Oh god, this baby is in trouble,” I say with a laugh as Doctor Rigou squirts the cool gel on my stomach, rubbing it around with the much smaller, much less invasive probe and pulling our attention back to the cute baby blob on the screen.

This is the best day of my life.

“So…” She taps around on a computer, her tone making me nervous. “You actually look to be around fifteen weeks.”

Every single bit of oxygen leaves my lungs at once. My eyes bounce from the screen to Doctor Rigou to Noah, then back to the screen.

“I’m sorry,” Noah says, hand squeezing mine. “Did you sayfifteenweeks?”

“Yes,” she says, gliding the probe over my stomach. “I can even tell you the gender right now if you’d like?”

“Really?” I ask, my voice a whisper, glancing at Noah, whose face is white as a ghost, eyes glued to the screen.

“Yes,” she says, gaze meeting mine. “Would you like that?”

I nod, body trembling. Has it gotten colder in here?

“See these three little lines?” She points a finger on the screen and smiles. “Congratulations. It’s a girl.”

Tears blur my vision, my brain running on overdrive while she finishes answering rapid-fire questions from Noah. About what? I have no clue. A printed ultrasound is placed in my hand as we leave the room.

Noah guides me to the parking lot and helps me in his truck, buckling me in without a word.

My eyes fall to my hands containing the first photo I’ll ever have of my daughter.

The photo that confirms how real this all is.

My finger traces her little body. She’s so perfect.

The gestation stamp pulls me back to reality.

15 weeks. 3 days.

Noah climbs in the truck, and our eyes connect. The agony behind his slices through me.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Looks like we’re not family after all.

30

NOAH

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