Seventeen

 

Inhale, Exhale

 

 

February 18, 2011

Montreal, Canada

 

Outside, a fresh layer of snow dusted the ground as the pale gray sky pressed gently against the horizon. Snowflakes clung to the glass, melting in slow rivulets. Inside, warmth filled the loft, rich with the scent of brewing coffee mingled with the sweet aroma of chocolate chip pancakes sizzling on the stove.

 

Jon leaned against the kitchen island, a mug cradled in his hands. His eyes, keen and observant, tracked his wife as she moved with practiced grace. The faint shadows under her eyes betrayed a night spent chasing sleep that never quite came. He’d seen this before—excessive cooking was one of her tells when nerves got the better of her.

 

“Mornin’,” Jon rumbled, his voice a warm, low note that always seemed to soothe the frayed edges of her nerves. He crossed the kitchen, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo.

 

Ari offered a wobbly smile. “Morning, yourself. Pancakes are almost ready. Eggs and bacon are on the table already.”

 

“You feeding an army?”

 

“Well, the four of us needed to eat. And Cliff and Gunnar will be here soon.” She flicked a glance toward the window, then back to the skillet. “I’m sure they’re tired of room service.”

 

“Right. How’d you sleep?” he asked gently, but he already knew the answer. The stiffness in her shoulders, the slight hitch in her movements—tells she’d never admitted to. She was running on fumes and stubbornness.

 

She set the last pancake on the platter and leaned against the counter, a strand of her dark hair falling across her face. “Like a baby,” she lied, the words brittle to her own ears. Taking a long, deliberate sip from her smoothie, she added, “Or, you know, a baby who’s cutting their first set of teeth.”

 

Jon set his mug down with a soft thunk and wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, we’ve been through this. Dr. Laurent is the best. And it’s just a precaution, remember.”

 

She closed her eyes briefly, then pressed her forehead to his. “I know. I know all the rational things. I just wish my nerves did too.”

 

A joyful sound cut through the underlying hum of anxiety. Lily, an effortless blend of Jon’s calm and Ari’s fire, gurgled happily in her highchair as Meatball, ever the opportunist, licked the remnants of syrup from her sticky little fingers.

 

Jon laughed softly, pulling away just enough to glance at their daughter. “She’s going to turn that dog into a diabetic.”

 

Ari smiled for real this time—small, but honest. “He’s been her shadow ever since her first banana.”

 

The sound of footsteps padding across the wood floor drew their attention toward the alcove.

 

“Smells like a diner in here,” Stephanie called, her voice still gravelly from sleep. She padded in barefoot, wrapped in an oversized hoodie. “Please tell me there’s coffee. And bacon.”

 

“Yes, to both. Oh, and there are eggs too,” Ari replied, handing her a plate from the cabinet.

 

“Wow. I haven’t seen you cook this much food since that time at your house in Half Moon Bay.”

 

“Yeah, well, I tend to get carried away when…” Ari began, her voice faltering just slightly.

 

Stephanie cut in, cheerful and oblivious. “Today’s the big—”

 

She paused, catching the subtle shake of her father’s head from across the room. Right. Not now. “—the big chance to see if Lily and I will even out the teams,” she pivoted, without missing a beat.

 

“Not today,” Ari said, grateful for the redirect. “But in a few weeks.”

 

“Have you thought about names? Boy or girl?”

 

“Don’t need girl names,” Jon said matter-of-factly.

 

Ari sighed dramatically. “Here we go again. He’s convinced it’s a boy.”

 

Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Right. Because modern medicine is cool and all, but his gut feeling? Totally unquestionable.”

 

Jon smirked. “Some people have instincts. Others have sarcasm. Guess which one gets the job done?”

 

“Whatever, Dad.” She brushed past him to refill her mug.

 

Ari smirked as she picked off a piece of bacon and popped it into her mouth. “You also thought she was going to come out singing a Stones song. So, partial credit at best.”

 

Jon pointed his fork at her. “The Stones thing’s just a matter of time.”

 

Stephanie dropped back into her chair, cradling her mug. “Okay, so if you’re so sure it’s a boy, what’s the name, oh wise one?”

 

“Easy. Diesel.”

 

Ari blinked. “Like… Vin?”

 

Jon didn’t flinch. “Like power. Diesel. One word. No middle name. Just Diesel.”

 

Stephanie groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re not naming a baby, Dad, you’re casting the next Fast and the Furious spin-off.”

 

“If you think you have a better suggestion, let’s have it.”

 

“Fine.” Stephanie narrowed her eyes, mock-serious. “If we’re going full action-movie energy, I vote for Maverick or Goose.”

 

Jon turned to Ari with a raised eyebrow and a crooked grin. “Top Gun’s one of Ari’s favorite movies. What was that quote you would always say?”

 

Ari rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. He knew damn well she wasn’t about to share that with Stephanie sitting right there. Instead, she looked him dead in the eyes and said, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

 

Lily let out a delighted shriek from her highchair, flinging a half-mangled piece of pancake toward Meatball, who caught it midair with practiced ease.

 

“Okay, wild child, that’s our cue.”

 

Ari scooped Lily up with ease, unbothered by the smears of syrup now decorating her arm. “Time to get you cleaned up before Cliff and Gunnar get here.”

 

Lily giggled and clung to her, little hands patting Ari’s cheeks like she was already in on the joke. Jon leaned in to press a quick kiss to the top of Lily’s head and then one to Ari’s temple.

 

“We’ve got this.”

 

Ari nodded as she headed toward the stairs. “As long as you don’t name her brother Diesel.”

 

“Still not off the table,” he called after her, grinning.

 

Behind them, Stephanie muttered into her mug, “God help us.”

 

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

The drive to Dr. Laurent’s office was a blur of traffic lights, honking horns, and slushy February streets. The city rolled past in shades of gray and salt-streaked metal. Cliff drove with his usual calm precision, hands steady on the wheel, sunglasses perched on top of his head.

 

In the backseat, Jon sat beside Ari, his hand laced tightly with hers. He hadn’t let go since they left the loft—a constant, grounding force. She sat quietly, gaze locked on the world outside her window. People rushed along the sidewalks, coats pulled tight, faces red from the cold or from life… or both. Each of them moved with purpose, entirely unaware of her—of the storm sitting just behind the tinted glass. She wondered, for a moment, if anyone else on that street was headed to a doctor’s office, their stomach in a knot, their mind replaying every what-if.

 

But that thought passed quickly. Her own worries crowded out the rest.

 

The SUV slowed in front of 450 Saint-Gabriel Street—a building she was all too familiar with. It had held both happy and difficult times for them over the past year and a half. Cliff pulled to the curb, already climbing out before the engine had fully shut off. He moved around to her side without a word and opened the door with a quiet click.

 

“Lucy,” he said with a slight smile, offering a hand she didn’t really need—but appreciated anyway.

 

She took it, letting him help her out of the car even as Jon joined her on the sidewalk, their fingers finding each other again without effort.

 

The cold bit at her cheeks—sharp, real, grounding. She inhaled once, slow and deep, then looked up at the building.

 

“Ready?” Jon asked gently.

 

No. Not even close.

 

But she nodded.

 

The sterile scent of disinfectant hit her the moment they stepped into the office—a smell that always, without fail, triggered a wave of nausea. The waiting room was a stark contrast to the lively chaos of the street. Soft classical music played, a futile attempt to soothe frayed nerves.

 

“Mrs. Bongiovi? Dr. Laurent will see you now.”

 

Ari’s breath hitched as she pushed herself off the chair. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Jon gave her hand a squeeze as they followed the nurse down the hall.

 

When they reached the examination room, they were greeted by Dr. Laurent. “Ariana, Jon. Good to see you again. Ready to get rid of that pesky line?”

 

“More than ready,” Ari said as she sat on the examination table, the crisp paper crinkling beneath her. She could feel Jon’s gaze on her—a warm blanket against the chill of the room.

 

The procedure to remove her PICC line was quick. A small tug, a faint sting, and then a sense of lightness, like something had been lifted.

 

“There we go,” Annie, the nurse, said, applying a small bandage.

 

“Now, for the amniocentesis,” Dr. Laurent said, with kind eyes and a reassuring smile.

 

Her breath caught again. This was it—the reason for the knot in her stomach and the tremors in her hands. She laid back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the cool gel spreading on her belly, a cold shock against her skin.

 

“Just a little pressure, Ariana,” Dr. Laurent’s voice was calm, soothing. “Deep breaths.”

 

Jon was right there by her side, one hand intertwined with hers, the other a solid, comforting weight on her shoulder. She could feel the slight tremor in his touch—subtle but present—betraying his own quiet concern.

 

It felt like an eternity, though in reality it was mere minutes. Dr. Laurent’s voice guided her through it all, telling her to breathe. “Almost done, Ariana. Just a little more.”

 

She felt a tear slip down her temple, tracing a path into her hair, as the pressure eased and the needle was withdrawn. She opened her eyes, meeting Jon’s gaze.

 

“All done,” Annie said, wiping the gel from her abdomen. “You did great.”

 

Ari nodded a silent thanks and sat up slowly. The immediate physical discomfort was gone, replaced with something else. The waiting. The uncertainty. The hardest part.

 

“We’ll have the preliminary results in a few days. Full results in a week or two,” Dr. Laurent said, looking up from his tablet. “Are you wanting to know the gender?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

“Perfect. I’ll give you a call once I have the results.”

 

“Thank you, Dr. Laurent,” Jon said, extending a hand to the older gentleman.

 

“You’re very welcome. I’ll talk to you soon.”

 

When they had the room to themselves, Jon pulled her into a tight hug. She buried her face into his shoulder. She didn’t cry—not fully—but a soft choke escaped her, a sound of profound relief and lingering anxiety.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Jon murmured into her hair.