Chapter 29
SLOANE
Sunday arrives too quickly.
"You're going to love everyone," Tucker says as he drives us to his parents' house. His hand rests on my thigh, warm and familiar. "They're all excited to meet you officially. As my—" He pauses. "As the mother of my kids."
Not as his girlfriend. Not as his partner. As the mother of his kids.
Which is accurate. That's all we are, and it’s my choice.
So why does it sting?
He glances at me and must notice something in my facial expression. “What’s up?”
I sigh and close my eyes, gathering my thoughts. “Am I going to be the only person of color? I just need to prepare myself if there are three dozen white people.”
He scratches his chin as he waits for a light to turn. “Well.” He proceeds through the intersection. “Cara is Latina. But yes, everyone else is white.”
"Did you tell anyone?" The question comes out sharper than I intended. "About me?"
"They've seen pictures." He glances at me, confused. "I didn't think I needed to make an announcement."
"You didn't." I look out the window, watching the pristine Squirrel Hill houses pass by. Of course, he didn't think about it. Why would he? "I just like to know what I'm walking into."
My babies are going to be Black, like me. They're going to grow up in this family, surrounded by all this whiteness, and I'll be the one making sure they know how to navigate that safely. I need to find community. The pressure of all of this feels heavy.
"They're going to love you," Tucker says for the third time.
The Stag house is huge—a sprawling colonial in one of Pittsburgh's nicest neighborhoods. Expensive black sports cars are already parked along the driveway. Through the windows, I can see people moving around inside.
"Ready?" Tucker asks, squeezing my hand.
No. "Yes."
The house is chaos.
That's the only word for it. People everywhere—dogs, too. Voices overlapping, laughter, someone singing Taylor Swift songs off-key in another room. Tucker's hand is on my lower back, guiding me through the crowd, making introductions.
"Sloane, this is my brother Odin. Odin, Sloane."
"Nice to officially meet you," Odin says. He's a psychologist on the Fury's behavioral health staff—but has mostly been a referee for Tucker and Josh’s … interactions. "How are you feeling?"
"Good. Tired, but good."
“I’m pretty clueless about parenting stuff, but let me know if you need any resources for anxiety or—"
"She's fine," Tucker interrupts. "Not everyone needs therapy, O."
They bicker good-naturedly, and someone else is pulling me toward the kitchen. Judge Juniper, smiling and warm, put a glass of sparkling cider in my hand.
"Sloane! Come meet everyone. This is Tim’s wife Alice—"
A short woman with graying hair and kind eyes. "Lovely to meet you, dear. Tucker's been gushing about you for months."
"And some of the gals, Cara and Thora—"
Two women in their twenties, both athletic-looking. Cara grins. "We've already volunteered to babysit. I'm going to take them jogging in one of those fancy running strollers."
"They'll be infants," I say weakly.
"Babies love jogging!" Cara insists. "Right, June?”
I recall that Judge is a rower. She shares stories about jogging through all of her pregnancies while other women file into the kitchen for snacks.
"And I'll teach them to bake," Thora adds. "Cookies, cakes, bread—"
"They'll be babies," Aunt Alice interjects. "Maybe start with purees."
"Details." Thora waves a hand.
My head is spinning. More introductions—Tucker's brother Alder, and his girlfriend, Lena, the team dentist. His other brother Gunnar and his wife Emerson, who's glowing and can't stop touching her own barely-there baby bump.
"We just found out!" Emerson smiles. "Twelve weeks! I feel so great.”
The kitchen erupts in conversation. Mr. Stag makes his way into the kitchen and starts giving out bear hugs.
"Another grandkid!" Mr. Stag booms. “I’m totally winning this race, Tim-bo. Three to nil!”
Uncle Tim and Tucker’s Uncle Thatcher start arguing that this isn’t the sort of thing they should compete over. I silently wonder if there’s anything this family doesn’t compete over.
"Congratulations," I say to Emerson, who beams at me.
"Thank you! I'm so excited. I think I'm going to take some time off when the baby comes. Really be present for those early months, you know?"
"That's wonderful," Judge says warmly. "There's nothing wrong with prioritizing family."
Mr. Stag nods enthusiastically. "Best decision your mother and I ever made, me staying home with you boys. You can't get that time back."
My chest tightens. I smile and nod, like this is fine, like I'm not drowning in the implication that good parents stay home. Neither Tucker nor I have any plans to leave the workforce.
More people. Tucker's cousin Stellan mentions that he met someone. More cheers. Someone's brought another dog. The noise level is overwhelming.
"Sloane?" It's Judge, touching my arm. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine. Just—it's a lot of people."
"Let's sit down." She guides me to the living room, to a comfortable chair. People gather around—well-meaning, loving, overwhelming.
"So about childcare," Mr. Stag says, pulling out his phone with a calendar app. "I'm thinking Tuesdays and Thursdays, I can take the babies. Juniper has court those days, but I'm free."
"And I can do Mondays," Aunt Alice offers. "Cara, you're off Mondays, right?"
“In the off-season, yes.”
"We should set up a rotation," Judge says. "Make sure Sloane and Tucker have consistent support."
They're planning. Making schedules. Deciding when they'll take my babies without asking if I want that.
"What about nighttime?" someone asks. "We should set up a night rotation."
"I can help with that," Lena volunteers. “Especially when the Fury are on the road.”
"And I can set up laundry service,” Emerson says. “This company, Green Cheeks, does cloth diaper delivery—"
"Wait." My voice comes out too loud. Everyone stops and looks at me. "I appreciate all this, but—we haven't even discussed—I mean, Tucker and I need to figure out what we want first."
"Of course," Judge says smoothly. "We're just offering options. You don't have to use any of this."
But the planning continues. Who's good with infants. Who has experience with twins. Someone mentioning their friend who had preemie twins, and here's what worked. Someone else bringing up sleep training.
I know this is the point of a helping shower.
Apparently. But it all just feels like a hot mess.
I’m out of control, and I’m sweating. How am I going to be a present parent?
Will I even see these children with 30 other people fighting over who gets to raise them?
This is the total opposite of what I’m familiar with, and it doesn’t feel right, either.
I’m a damn Goldilocks with no idea what “just right” would even look like.
Tucker is across the room, talking to his brothers. He's laughing at something Alder said, entirely at ease in this chaos.
He doesn't notice I'm drowning.
"Sloane," Odin says quietly, sitting down next to me. "You okay? You seem overwhelmed."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
I force a smile. "Just tired. Pregnancy is exhausting."
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "If you ever want to talk—professionally or just as Tucker's brother—I'm here."
"Thank you."
The afternoon drags on. More food, more conversation, more plans being made for my life. Someone asks about names. Someone else asks if I'm hoping for boys or girls. Someone mentions Tucker's childhood and how wild he was.
"But he's settling down now," Ty says proudly. "Having kids does that to a man. Makes him grow up."
Like I'm a life event that's happening to Tucker. A catalyst for his maturation.
Not a person with my own dreams, my own goals, my own life.
By the time we leave, I have a headache, and the babies are kicking like they can feel my stress.
"That was so great,” Tucker says in the car. "Everyone loves you."
"Mm."
"You okay? You're quiet."
"Just tired."
He squeezes my hand. "Let's get you home. I can give you your afternoon O, charge your batteries.”
Home. His apartment. That I live in. That he pays for.
"Actually," I hear myself say, "I have a lot of reading to do tonight. For class."
"Oh. Okay." He sounds disappointed. "Want me to pick up dinner anyway? You need to eat."
"I'll grab something later."
We drive in silence. Tucker's hand stays on my thigh, but it feels heavy now. Possessive rather than comforting.
Back at the apartment, Tucker heads to his room to change. I go to my room—his room that he gave me—and close the door.
Then I sink onto the bed and try to breathe.
The walls are closing in. This beautiful apartment, this comfortable life, this family that wants to absorb me—it's all closing in.
I pull out my laptop and open my epidemiology reading. Try to focus on mortality rates and statistical analysis. Try to remember who I'm supposed to be.
Sloane Campbell. Future public health professional. Someone who helps others, who makes a difference, who doesn't need to be rescued.
But when I look around this room—at the expensive furniture, the closet full of maternity clothes Tucker bought when he noticed I was crammed into his shirts, the drawer full of prenatal vitamins and snacks he keeps stocked—all I see is dependence.
I haven't paid for anything in months. Haven't bought my own groceries. Haven't made a major decision without Tucker's input.
The babies kick. I put my hand on my stomach, feeling them move. They're getting so big. In a few months, they'll be here. Real, actual humans that I'll be responsible for.
How am I going to take care of two babies when I can barely take care of myself?
I close my laptop, lie back on the bed, and stare at the ceiling.
There's a soft knock on the door. "Sloane? I ordered Italian anyway. It's here if you want some."
"Thanks. Maybe later."
A pause. "You sure you're okay?"
"Just tired."
"Okay. I'll be in the living room if you need anything."
His footsteps retreat. The apartment goes quiet.
I should get up. Should eat dinner with him. Should have sex with him because that's what we do now, that's what we've been doing every day for weeks.
But I can't move.
I'm pinned here by the weight of everything—school, pregnancy, Tucker's family, Tucker himself. By the slow, creeping realization that I've done it again.
I've disappeared.
Not into Josh's controlling demands this time. Into Tucker's overwhelming generosity instead.
But the result is the same.
I'm not Sloane Campbell anymore. I'm Tucker's baby mama. The mother of his children. The woman living in his apartment, eating his food.
I'm becoming one of those women. The ones my grandmother warned me about. The ones who need a man to survive.
The thought makes me feel sick.
I roll onto my side, curling around my belly. The babies kick against my hand.
I'm supposed to be different. Supposed to finish school, get a good job, help people. Supposed to prove that I'm not my mother, that I can take care of myself and my children without needing a man to rescue me.
I walked into this with my eyes open. I chose this.
Which somehow makes it worse.
I cry until I'm exhausted, until the babies stop kicking, until I finally fall asleep fully dressed on top of the covers.
And I dream about running away.
The next morning, Tucker is gone before I wake up. There's a note on the kitchen counter.
Morning skate, then team meeting. There's breakfast in the fridge. Text me if you need anything. -T
I throw the note away and make my own breakfast—eggs and toast that I force myself to eat even though my stomach is churning.
I have class at ten. Professor Newman’s office hours at two. Then a study group at four.
My life. My schedule. My goals.
I cling to that thought all day.
During Professor Newman’s office hours, we discuss my final project.
"Maternal health disparities are a huge topic," she says. "You'll need to narrow it down. What specifically interests you?"
"Access to quality prenatal care," I say immediately. "How income and race affect outcomes. How could we improve the system."
"Excellent. Very timely, given your personal experience." She smiles at my belly. I had meetings with my professors at the beginning of the semester to talk about my health and any accommodations I might need.
Everyone wants to support me.
But their support feels like another word for dependence.
I leave her office feeling worse than when I arrived.
I go home—to Tucker's apartment—and find him in the kitchen cooking dinner.
"Hey!" He turns, smiling. "How was your day?"
"Fine."
"I'm making chicken and vegetables. Thought you might want something light." He moves toward me, clearly intending to kiss me. "Missed you today."
I step back before he can reach me. "I need to work on my project proposal."
His smile falters. "Oh. Okay. I'll save you a plate."
I retreat to my room and close the door.
A few hours later, Tucker knocks on the door. "Sloane? You haven't eaten. I'm worried."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Talk to me."
"I'm just stressed about school."
A long pause. "Can I come in?"
No. "Okay."
The door opens. He stands in the doorway, looking uncertain. It's strange, seeing him like this—he's usually so confident.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks. "You've been distant."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then what's going on?"
Everything. Nothing. I'm drowning and I don't know how to tell you.
"I'm just tired," I repeat. "And I have a lot of work to do."
He studies my face. "Is this about my family? Were they too much?"
Yes. "They were fine."
"Sloane—"
"Tucker, I really need to work on this proposal. Can we talk later?"
He looks like he wants to argue. But then he nods. "Okay. I'll be in the living room if you need me."
The door closes.
I'm alone again.
And I realize: this is how it's going to be. Me pushing him away because I don't know how to need him without losing myself. Him giving me space because he doesn't understand what's wrong.
We're going to keep circling each other, getting closer and pulling apart, until the babies come and force us to figure out what we are to each other.
But by then, it might be too late.