9. Anya #2
Jones appears at my desk with protein bars when I forget to eat lunch. Eric shows up at my apartment Tuesday morning with prenatal vitamins and a smoothie made with ingredients I can actually pronounce.
Vincent leaves a stack of pregnancy books on my desk, with specific chapters bookmarked in his careful handwriting.
By Friday, they've collectively decided I need better food options at work and have stocked the break room refrigerator with enough healthy snacks to feed a small army.
The gesture is so thoughtful and so excessive that I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
"You realize I'm not actually starving, right?" I ask Eric when he emerges from the break room with yet another container of something leafy and nutritious.
"Humor us." His smile is unrepentant. "We're new at this."
"All of you?"
"None of us have ever been fathers before. We're learning."
The simple honesty of his answer catches me off guard. These are men who run the largest fertility clinic in the state, who help other people navigate pregnancy and parenthood every day. But this—their own baby, their own experience—is uncharted territory for all of them.
Saturday morning finds us at a baby store that's bigger than my apartment and filled with more tiny clothes than I knew existed.
Eric gravitates immediately toward a display of onesies with ridiculous sayings—"Daddy's Little Tax Deduction" and "I'm the Reason We Can't Have Nice Things"—while Jones studies car seat safety ratings with the focus of a man researching medical equipment.
Vincent stands in front of a wall of strollers, comparing specifications like he's reviewing journal articles.
"Travel system compatibility," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "All-terrain wheels. Five-point harness system."
"It's a stroller, not a vehicle."
"It's a vehicle for our baby." He looks at me seriously. "Safety matters."
The our hits me harder than it should. Our baby. Not my baby or the baby, but ours. The four of us, together, already thinking like a family.
Eric appears at my shoulder holding a tiny yellow dress that would fit a doll.
"Look at this." His voice is softer than usual, and when I look at his face there's something almost wondering in his expression. "I can't believe something this small is going to be a person."
"A person you're going to spoil completely," I point out.
"Absolutely." He doesn't even pretend to deny it. "That's what fathers do."
Jones joins us, having apparently concluded his research. "We should register for the essentials. Car seat, crib, changing table."
"I'm barely past the first tri," I remind him. "We have time."
"Preparation prevents problems."
Vincent nods approvingly from the stroller display. "Early preparation is optimal. Especially for first-time parents."
"First-time parents," Eric repeats, like he's testing how the words sound. "That's us."
The three of them look at me, then at each other, and I watch the reality settle over all of us again. We're going to be parents. The four of us, navigating this together.
The house hunting starts the following Tuesday.
Jones has identified six properties in three different neighborhoods, all of them meeting his criteria for safety and school districts.
Eric has added his own requirements—natural light, outdoor space, room for the baby to play when they're older.
Vincent has cross-referenced everything with commute times to the clinic and proximity to pediatric care facilities.
The first house is beautiful and completely wrong. Too formal, too pristine, too much like a museum where you'd worry about leaving fingerprints on the surfaces.
The second house has the right bones but feels cold. Great kitchen, spacious bedrooms, but no warmth. No sense that people could build a life within its walls.
The third house is the one.
I know it the moment we walk through the front door. The living room has built-in bookshelves along one entire wall. The kitchen is big enough for all of us to cook together without bumping into each other.
There's a reading nook by the front window with a cushioned bench that looks like it was designed for curling up with a book and a cup of tea.
"Four bedrooms," the realtor is saying, leading us down the hallway. "Master suite, plus three additional bedrooms. Perfect for a growing family."
Jones examines the windows—good locks, security system already installed. Eric tests the natural light in each room, nodding approvingly at the way afternoon sun streams through the kitchen windows.
Vincent asks questions about the school district, the neighborhood, the age of the roof and the HVAC system.
But I'm already imagining the nursery.
Which room would get the best morning light? Where would we put the rocking chair Vincent will undoubtedly research and select with the same thoroughness he brings to everything else?
"What do you think?" Jones asks when we've completed the tour.
"I think it feels like home."
The words come out before I can second-guess them, and all three men turn to look at me with expressions that make my chest tight.
"Then it's home," Eric says simply.
That evening, while Jones handles the paperwork and Vincent researches mortgage rates and Eric starts planning which room will be the nursery, I sit in my apartment and try to process how completely my life has changed in the span of a week.
Three months ago, I walked into their clinic angry and defensive, determined to prove myself and get my inheritance back.
I had no intention of staying longer than necessary. No intention of letting them matter to me. Certainly no intention of falling into bed with any of them, much less all three.
Now I'm pregnant with one of their babies, house hunting for a place where all four of us can live together, and planning a future I never saw coming.
The three-month deal officially expires tomorrow. The arrangement was simple: work at the clinic for three months, prove I could be responsible, and they'd help me start my business.
The time is up. I've more than proven myself. They should be releasing my inheritance and wishing me well with my library café.
Instead, Eric is currently texting me links to nursery furniture. Jones called an hour ago to confirm tomorrow's doctor appointment. Vincent left a pregnancy nutrition guide on my kitchen counter when he stopped by earlier.
None of them have mentioned the end of the deal. None of them are acting like I'm supposed to leave.
I should bring it up. Point out that our arrangement was temporary and ask what happens next.
Instead, I find myself smiling at Eric's latest text—a photo of a crib that converts into a toddler bed "for long-term value"—and realizing I don't want to go anywhere.