Page 67 of Dance with the Devil
“Do you remember that burrito we had in the Mission District that night?”
I nod as my mouth waters. I’ve had a lot of cravings this pregnancy so far, and burritos are one of them.
“What if we take another trip up to San Francisco for the weekend?”
My lips part. “Really?”
He tilts his head and kisses my hand again. “Really.”
“Spread your legs, Francesca. You might feel a bit of pressure.”
I watch as Dr. Hartfield inserts the ultrasound, and I hold my breath for several seconds. Suddenly, a loud whooshing sound fills the room.
“That’s the heartbeat,” the doctor murmurs, squinting at the screen. “Everything looks good. See that?” she asks, pointing to a small blob. “That’s your baby.”
I’m mesmerized as she takes measurements—as the heartbeat sounds through the small room. When I turn to look at Dante, he’s looking down at me with pure adoration.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, kissing my hand again. “I love you so much.”
A tear slips down my cheeks. “I love you, too.”
“Baby is measuring perfectly at just over eight weeks, which puts your estimated due date at…” she huffs a laugh. “December 25th.”
My mouth drops open. “Really?” When I look over at Dante, he’s watching the screen with reverence and awe. It makes my chest ache, and I’m suddenlysoworried I’m going to lose this baby, too.
“Really.” She removes the ultrasound wand and prints a few pictures of the baby for us to take home. Once I’m cleaned up, she helps me sit up. “I’d like to take some blood work, just to be sure you don’t have any blood clotting disorders. That can cause the placenta to detach early. I’m also going to have you come in more often since you’re a bit more high risk and I want to do some additional monitoring. That means coming in every other week instead of every four weeks. Keep doing what you’re doing—baby is perfectly healthy.”
Emotion clogs my throat as she turns to Dante, but I don’t hear what they’re saying over the rush in my ears.
A few minutes later, the nurse returns to take some blood, and then the appointment is over. We walk out of the medical building and I’m carrying the ultrasound picture of our baby. It suddenly feels so real, and when Dante opens the passenger door for me, I burst into tears.
Warm arms envelop me as he kisses the top of my head, and we stand there as I let it all out. Everything from the last two months. The lastthree years. I didn’t realize how scared I wasthat something would be wrong today. That I was defective, or that there would be no heartbeat after what happened to me.
But everything is fine.
When I’m done crying, I feel lighter than I have in years. Dante helps me into the passenger seat of his Jaguar, and as we get on the freeway, I realize we’re going in the opposite direction of my house.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, looking over at him.
“I’m taking you to lunch. Your mom called me this morning, and I invited her.”
Something warm and affectionate passes through me. Ever since he met my mom a few weeks ago, they talk all the time, and have become fast friends. She knows what happened in San Francisco—the PG version, at least. And unlike Ari, who took a few weeks to warm up to him, my mom instantly befriended him.
“But I have to work?—”
“I’m still your boss,” he says from the driver’s seat. “So I’m giving you a long lunch break.”
I roll my eyes as I smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“After lunch, I thought we could stop by the dealership.”
“What dealership?”
“You can’t keep driving your Fiat with a baby. You’ll need something bigger, and honestly, so will I,” he says, tapping the leather steering wheel.
“But you love your Jaguar.”
It was true. When Dante moved in over a month ago, he’d sold his other cars and had driven his convertible Jaguar down to my house. It’s still strange to see his shiny, fancy car sitting next to my ten-year-old Fiat. And I soon learned that Dante loved cars—and had sold them all to move in with me.
