Page 20 of Unbound

“You’re measuring at fourteen weeks and two days,” Sandra says, smiling. “Do you want to know the sex?”

“You can already tell that?” Eden asks.

“It’s early, but I’m pretty sure about this one. We’ll have to confirm when you’re closer to twenty weeks.” She keeps swiping the remote over her belly and getting different angles. “Your due date is July 17.”

The doctor takes a seat on the round stool. “All your current symptoms sound normal. Drink lots of water. Sleep as much as you can. My normal little speech is just that you obviously shouldn’t be smoking or drinking alcohol. Stay away from soft cheeses and raw fish and eggs. Any other concerns?”

“I’m having some trouble sleeping,” Eden says.

I turn to her, hearing this for the first time. I wish she had told me.

“That’s not unusual. Many women report more vivid dreams during pregnancy. I’m sure with the nausea, it isn’t your first thought, but I would recommend more sex. It helps some women sleep better.”

He turns to me with a knowing smile. “I always tell first-time dads not to worry about hurting the baby, son. I get that concern quite a bit. Sex is perfectly safe during pregnancy. Many women actually have increased libido, especially during the second trimester.”

Eden’s fingers tighten on mine. I interlace mine with hers, nodding.

“Okay,” is all I can think to say. I shift my stance, needing to move my body with the sudden tension in the room.

“If you’d like, I can write the sex down and put it in a sealed envelope. That way, you’ll have it if you decide to have a party.”

“Yes, please,” Eden says.

“Well, that’s really all we need to discuss. We’ll see you back in four weeks.” Dr. Shiner stands and exits the room.

Eden is quiet on the drive home. The appointment wasn’t until three p.m., so I took off the rest of the afternoon.

“Anything in particular that sounds good for dinner?”

She sighs, staring out the window. “Fried chicken?”

I pull through the drive-through of my favorite fried chicken spot.

When we get home five minutes later, she walks inside and collapses on the sofa. I push the coffee table closer to her and set out the chicken, French fries, fried pickles, ranch dressing, and white gravy.

She stares at it for a few minutes before nibbling on a piece of chicken and collapsing into a puddle of tears on the sofa. I stare at her for five whole seconds before convincing my limbs to move toward her.

“Hey. Whoa. What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

I sit next to her, reaching out to grab her hand. She’s fully sobbing now, shaking her head at me and covering her face with her hand. I wait patiently for her to calm down, squeezing her hand reassuringly. I don’t know how to handle a crying woman. I just want to fix it, and I can’t fix it if I have no idea what’s wrong.

“Talk to me, Sunshine. Are you sick? Are you worried about the baby?”

She sucks in a ragged sob, dropping the chicken on her plate. “I’m … frustrated.”

She sits up fully, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Her green eyes are shiny and beautiful as she faces me.

“What are you frustrated about? Is it because you’re not sleeping?”

She nods, pursing her lips. “Partly, yes.”

“Is it my bed?”

“No, no, of course not. Your bed feels like a cloud. I love it.”

“It’s the best bed.” God, I miss my bed.

“It really is.”