They’ll also measure its heartbeat, which is a very good indicator of how healthy the fetus is. At this stage, a healthy heartbeat means I’ll likely carry this baby to term. But a sluggish one, coupled with a baby that measures smaller than expected, could mean bad news.

I’m nervous. But more excited. I cling to that excitement like a drowning woman clinging to a life preserver she’s just been tossed. The uncertainty and the anxiety about everything have been relentless lately. It’s nice to feel good about things for a change.

Nice, and confusing, if I’m being honest. I (clearly) have very mixed feelings about impending motherhood.

I love the idea of starting my own family. But I hate the way I feel, physically and mentally.

I’m excited to teach my son or daughter all the things my parents taught me—the things I wish they’d taught me, too. But I would kill for a perfect margarita on the rocks. Salt, silver tequila, serious deliciousness.

I miss uninterrupted sleep. I get up at least once a night to pee now.

I miss feeling sexy.

I love waking up refreshed and dried out. No hangover, no alcohol or cigarettes giving me a day-after headache.

I miss being master of my thoughts. My emotions. My body.

The alarm on my phone goes off at 1:55 P.M. I finish the email I’m working on, make a few notes in my planner, and pack up to go.

Then I wait.

And wait.

2:05. 2:12. 2:22.

My appointment is in less than ten minutes. The drive to my doctor’s office takes twenty.

We’re going to be late.

Really late.

I shoot Greyson a text, but get no response. I try calling him too. He doesn’t pick up.

Just when I start to panic—and get pissed off—I hear the familiar growl of an engine outside. Irene, my TA, leans back to look out the window.

“Who is that?” she asks, leaning back a little farther.

I grab my phone off my desk. “Blue Yukon?”

“Yup. Guy behind the wheel is—” She lets out a low whistle. “God. Literally a god.”

I grin. “As in Jesus?”

“As in Achilles. The one played quite memorably by Brad Pitt.”

Scoffing, I rise to my feet.

“You have the essays?” I ask.

Irene blinks. Turns back to her desk and sets her hand on a neat stack of papers. “On it. I’ll type up my thoughts. I’ll also enter the participation grades for Rom 101 and send out an email about next week’s office hours. Anything else?”

“You’re the best. I’d also love some ideas on topics for Rom 101’s exam paper. I’m thinking something to do with endings—happily ever afters—and what we expect from them as readers.” I slide the straps of my tote bag over my shoulder. “I’ll have my phone if you need me. Otherwise, see you in the morning.”

Irene nods, a small smile playing at her lips.

“Just out of curiosity—does Achilles out there belong to you?”