Page 40 of Interference
I feel like a real grown-up walking into the OB-GYN office knowing there is a baby growing inside of me. It has my nerves on edge. I want to bolt, but I know I can’t.
Brett is at my side, his hand on the small of my back as he leads me through the door and up to the desk.
He has been amazing through this whole thing. I don’t know what happened, but after our talk, he jumped right into daddy mode. He is all about the baby and, by extension, me. The attention is really quite flattering. I’m not sure how I feel about it, though. Part of me wants the attention, but part of me wonders if I’m letting myself fall deeper for the guy when I don’t even know my own mind right now.
How is that fair to him?
“Hi, can I help you?” a woman at the front desk asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
My throat closes up. I can’t speak.
Brett doesn’t hesitate to step in. “Hello. We have an appointment at ten for Emery Monroe.”
“Awesome. I just need you to fill out this paperwork.” She hands a clipboard with papers over to Brett. “And bring it back up to me when you are done. I’ll need an insurance card and ID as well to get you established.” She looks up at me.
I give her a weak smile as I reach into my bag, pulling out my ID and insurance card.
“Great. We already ran your number when you called it in, so I’ll need to collect your co-pay for your visit. It will be twenty dollars.”
Before I can pull out my card, Brett hands her his.
I don’t say anything, waiting until he is done before he leads me to a corner to fill out the paperwork.
“Okay, so full name. Emery Monroe. They want your middle name, too. What is it?” He looks up to ask me.
“Penelope,” I mumble.
He smiles. “It fits you. I like it. Date of birth is April fifth, 2004.”
I gasp. “How do you know that?”
“You told me once,” he says, filling in my demographics.
“When?” I ask, not remembering.
“After the fourth hockey game sophomore year,” he says absentmindedly.
I watch him as he continues to fill out the paperwork as if he didn’t just rock my world. He remembered something I only told him once, nearly two years ago.
“You’ve never wished me a happy birthday,” I mumble.
He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me. “You didn’t want me to. You wanted me to be a secret fling. I figured birthdays were too serious for you.”
He’s right. I don’t even know his birthday, but had he acknowledged mine, I might have ended our little arrangement. How does he know me so well?
“All right. Now they want to know your medical history. Any surgeries?”
“No,” I answer.
“Previous pregnancies?”
I glare at him. “No.”
He holds up his hands. “It’s asking. Do you want to read through it and fill it out?”
I grab the clipboard from him and spend the next ten minutes answering personal questions. When he takes it up to the front, I watch him go. He chats with the woman for a moment, but it’s not flirty like it would have been when we met. It’s only friendly.
Did I miss when he stopped flirting with other women?
