Chapter 7 Perry
PERRY
The room is warm and small and far too organized for all the chaos that just happened in it. Two bassinets sit beside my bed, identical, unreal. My sons. The word still feels theoretical, like I’m borrowing it from someone else’s life.
Sons. My sons.
There’s a soft knock at the door before I can spiral too far into that thought. “Come in.”
Olivia bursts through like she’s been holding herself together in the hallway and finally gets to fall apart.
Her dark hair is thrown into a messy bun, mascara slightly smudged, eyes already shiny.
She drops her purse on the chair and heads straight to the bassinets, hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch something sacred. “They’re tiny.”
“They were bigger coming out, I promise you,” I mutter.
She snorts and looks at me then—really looks at me. “How are you?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
She arches a brow. “That bad?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I feel like I just got hit by a truck and handed a lifetime subscription to responsibility.”
She laughs softly and then immediately wipes her eyes. “That tracks.” She sighs, looking at the boys. “This is messy as fuck, Perry.”
“Yeah. It is.” We let that sit between us for a second because messy doesn’t even begin to cover it. “I just gave birth,” I continue, staring at the ceiling now, “to my ex-boyfriend’s father’s twins. Who happened to be the doctor on call when I got here.”
Her mouth drops open. “He delivered the boys?”
I nod once. The effort wipes me out.
“And he doesn’t know…anything about this?”
“No.”
She presses her lips together, nodding slowly, like she’s trying to sort the insanity into manageable piles. “Perry,” she says gently. “That’s…deeply fucked up.”
I snort a laugh. “I know.”
“And you’re okay?”
“Okay is a distant mark on the horizon at the moment, Liv.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Emotionally?”
I hesitate. “When I was in labor,” I admit, my voice lower now, “I wanted to tell him.”
Olivia freezes. “Tell him what?”
“Everything.” About Jason. About the party. About the twins. About the fact that he already knows me in a way he doesn’t realize. “I was in so much pain. And he looked at me like I was just…a patient. Like I was anyone. And for a second, I wanted to ruin that. I wanted him to know.”
Olivia sits down slowly. “Is that such a bad idea?”
I shake my head hard. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because this”—I gesture weakly to the bassinets—“is mine. Ours. This is a secret you and I are taking to the grave.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s dramatic.”
“So am I.”
She studies me for a long moment, then glances at the twins again. “You’re not just dramatic,” she says softly. “You’re terrified. Understandably so.”
I swallow. Maybe I am. The terror of it all hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m sure there’s more to come.
Olivia pulls the chair closer to my bed and sits like she’s settling in for a long argument. “Okay. Let’s unpack this.”
“I just had two humans exit my body. Nothing is getting unpacked right now.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I glance at the twins again. One of them squirms slightly, making a soft, offended noise.
My heart jolts like someone pressed a panic button inside my chest. I whisper, “I hate that sound. Makes me think something is actually wrong. I know it’s not—he’s obviously fine. But my chest clenches every time.”
“That’s the hormones.”
“I know,” I mutter, wiping at my face. “I cry when I look at them. I cry when I don’t look at them. I almost cried because the nurse brought me apple juice.”
“You’re not a crier.”
“I am well aware.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “So,” she says, getting back to the topic at hand, “you wanted to tell him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because he was steady. Because he didn’t flinch. Because when he told me I did good, it felt like something real instead of performative.
I shrug instead. “Because I was in pain.”
“And why else, because I know it was more than that.”
I look at her, and for a second I consider lying. But Olivia has known me since my sophomore year. She knows my tells.
The words scrape out of me. “He looked at me like I was capable. Not fragile. Not messy. Just…capable. Like an equal of some kind, not like a girl who made the worst decision of her life and has to live with the consequences.”
“And that made you want to confess you crashed his New Year’s Eve party and slept with him in his son’s bed and are now mother to his kids?”
“When you list it out like that—”
“It’s the truth.”
I swallow again. “Maybe I wanted to ruin this. Like, giving birth is supposed to be this magical thing—and it was—but I’m a ruiner, Liv. That’s what I do. It’s who I am. It’s why I live for drama, why I fuck up—”
“No, it’s not.” Her voice is sharp, like her eyes. “You do those things because you think you don’t deserve anything good in your life, so you ruin them. And it’s bullshit, you self-sabotaging nut job.”
I sigh and roll my eyes to my sons. My sons.
Olivia leans back, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s not thrilled about solving. “You realize that Damian has a right to know.”
I stare at the ceiling. “I realize that. Intellectually.”
“And?”
“And I can’t handle that conversation right now.”
Her voice softens. “Because you just gave birth?”
“Yes. Because I just gave birth. Because I’m exhausted. Because I don’t know who I am in this equation yet. Because it’ll ruin his life, Jason’s life, and therefore, my sister’s life. The truth is a bomb.”
“He’s their father, and you’re their mother. You know where you fit in this.”
The word hits differently when she says it. Mother.
Holy shit.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.
“You’re doing fine.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She smiles faintly. “You’ve had nine months to think about this.”
I shoot her a look. “Pregnancy brain is not strategic planning time.”
“You literally engineered a revenge baby. Two of them.”
“I did not engineer—”
She lifts a brow.
I exhale sharply. “Fine. I engineered a situation. But I did not anticipate this.” I glance down at the twins again. At their tiny hands. Their matching frowns. “And I definitely didn’t anticipate him being my doctor.”
“That part,” Olivia says firmly, “is cosmic.”
“No,” I say quietly. “That part feels like punishment. But I guess it shouldn’t be that unexpected. Snow Valley is small enough that something stupid like this was bound to happen.”
She reaches for my hand. “Or maybe it’s an opportunity.”
I shake my head. “No. This stays between us. No one else knows what happened that night. No one else needs to.”
Olivia looks like she wants to argue more, but before she can, there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I call out.
The door opens, and there he is. Dr. Baylock. Damian. Silver at his temples, blue eyes steady. He’s still in scrubs, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled, like the night hasn’t let him rest either.
He glances first at the bassinets, then at me, then at Olivia, assessing in that quiet, competent way he has. “How are we doing?”
I swallow. “Alive.”
“That’s a good start.” He steps closer to the bassinets, peering down at the twins with something that looks dangerously like awe. I watch his face as he takes them in—really looks at them.
Does he see it? No. There’s nothing to see yet. They’re squishy and red and indistinguishable from a hundred other newborns he’s probably delivered.
“They’re strong. Both of them.” He turns his attention back to me. “Pain manageable?”
“Yeah. It’s…a little less now.”
He nods, satisfied. “Have you decided on names yet?”
The question hits like a wave.
Olivia looks at me. I look at the twins. We had ideas. A running list. But nothing felt right. “Not yet,” I admit.
He glances down at them again, thoughtful. “You don’t have to rush. But sometimes saying it out loud helps.”
Olivia perks up. “Okay, I like this. Doctor-assisted naming.”
He huffs softly. “I’m not sure I’m qualified.”
“You literally just delivered them,” I point out the obvious. “You’re overqualified.”
He studies the first twin, the slightly squirmier one. “He looks like a Nicholas.”
The name lands in my chest with startling clarity. I blink quickly and nod. “Nicholas. That feels right.”
“And the other?” Olivia prompts.
Damian shifts his attention to the second baby, who’s sleeping more peacefully. “Graham? Or maybe that’s too formal.”
“Actually, I think I like that for the other one. Nicholas Graham Lawson,” I say slowly, testing it.
“And him?” Olivia asks, pointing at the unnamed twin.
Damian tilts his head. “He’s quieter. Observing. Walker, maybe.”
My throat tightens. It clicks into place like it’s been waiting. “Walker Finn Lawson.”
The room goes still for a second. Damian looks at me, and there’s something softer in his expression now. Something almost…proud. “They’re good names.”
“They are. Thanks for that.”
He straightens. “You should get some rest. I’ll send a nurse in with blankets for your friend.”
Olivia beams at him. “You’re my favorite doctor.”
He smiles politely, then teases, “Don’t tell the others.” He gives me one last assessing look—gentle, clinical, distant. Then he leaves. The door shuts.
And the air rushes back in. I can breathe again.
Olivia waits exactly three seconds. “He has the right to know.”
I stare at the ceiling. “I know.”
“You just let him help name his own kids. Without him knowing it.”
“I did not—”
“You did.”
“I cannot handle that conversation right now,” I say slowly. “I am stitched. I am exhausted. I am leaking from places I don’t want to discuss. Let me have some time.”
Olivia snorts despite herself. “That’s fair.”
“And if I tell him,” I continue, turning my head to look at her, “then this becomes real in a way I’m not ready for.”
“It is real.”
“I know it’s real. I’m looking at them.”
Nicholas shifts in his sleep, tiny fist curling near his face. Walker makes a soft sighing noise that goes straight to my spine.
Holy. Shit. I’m a mom.
Olivia softens, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve had nine months to figure this out.”
“I was busy being pregnant,” I shoot back.
“You were busy avoiding it.” She’s not wrong.
I exhale slowly. “I thought I’d feel more prepared by now.”
“For what?”
“For this.” I gesture weakly. “For the weight of it.”
She nods, thoughtful now instead of confrontational. “You don’t have to tell him tonight.”
“No.”
“But you will tell him?”
I hesitate. Because the answer isn’t no. It’s not even maybe. It’s just not yet. “Yes,” I say finally. “Eventually.”
Olivia studies me like she’s measuring the honesty of that. Then she nods once. “Okay. Eventually.”
Silence settles, softer this time. I look down at my sons—Nicholas Graham and Walker Finn. My sons. The names feel real in my mouth.
Nicholas stirs, eyes fluttering briefly before settling again. Walker’s tiny mouth opens and closes in his sleep like he’s dreaming of something already.
Tears prick my eyes without warning.
“Oh no,” Olivia says gently.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, even as one spills over. “I’m just…overwhelmed.”
She reaches for my hand, squeezing once. “That’s allowed.”
I nod, wiping at my face again.
Down the hall, a cart rattles past. A nurse laughs softly at something. Life continues outside this room, unaware that my entire universe just shifted on its axis.
“I think,” I say quietly, “Damian’s right.”
Olivia raises a brow. “About?”
“We should get some sleep.”
She smiles faintly. “Look at you, taking doctor’s orders.”
“Shut up.”
She pulls the blanket around herself in the chair as a nurse slips in quietly to dim the lights. The room softens into shadows.
I adjust the bassinets closer to my bed, unable to stand the distance. I reach out and brush my fingers lightly over Nicholas’s cheek, then Walker’s tiny hand. I close my eyes, the weight of exhaustion finally winning.
The last thought of the night is that I am not ready for any of this.
But I’ve always thrived on improvisation. I can do this.
Probably.