24. BAILEY
Chapter twenty-four
BAILEY
The sparkling water is a problem.
Not because I don’t want it. I do. My stomach has been making aggressive choices all week, and alcohol is currently not an option for one enormous, life-changing reason.
The problem is that I’m sitting in a wine bar with five women who know me too well, and my glass is the only one at the table without wine or something festive enough to come with a garnish.
Jade notices before I’ve taken my second sip. Her gaze drops to my glass.
Then lifts to my face.
“That looks suspiciously clear,” Jade says.
“It’s sparkling water.”
“I can see that.”
Priya leans around her glass of red wine and looks at mine with immediate interest. “Bailey Sutton, are you voluntarily drinking sparkling water at a wine bar?”
“It has lime.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Maren’s eyes narrow a little, not suspicious in the dramatic way, more like she’s quietly collecting data. Sienna’s expression softens almost instantly, which is worse, somehow.
Emerson, beside me, says nothing because she already knows.
Which is obvious to everyone at the table in about three seconds.
Jade slowly turns toward her. “You know something.”
Emerson takes a sip of her drink. “I know many things.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I’m not usually accused of cute.”
“You are sitting beside Bailey, looking calm, while we are all questioning her reason for drinking water in a wine bar.”
“I like drinking water,” I say.
Priya gives me a look. “Not when a cocktail menu has cranberry, rosemary, and ginger in the same sentence.”
“That did sound good,” I admit, which is my second mistake.
The table goes quiet.
Jade sets down her glass. “Bailey.”
I look at Emerson, and she squeezes my knee under the table. Her subtle message of support.
Entirely unhelpful.
I take a breath. “I’m pregnant.”
Priya blinks once. “Oh.”
Jade’s hand flies to her mouth, then drops immediately, like she’s afraid the movement might seem offensive.
Maren’s eyes soften. “Bailey.”
Emerson’s shoulder presses against mine.
For about two seconds, nobody says anything, and weirdly, that is perfect. No squealing. No instant advice. No chorus of congratulations so loud it turns my panic into a party.
Just my friends sitting with me in the middle of the impossible thing.
Then Jade says, very quietly, “Okay. Tell us what lane we’re in. Excited, terrified, or should we order appetizers and give you a minute to breathe?”
I laugh.
It comes out shaky, but it counts.
“Terrified,” I say. “But appetizers might help.”
Jade nods like she has been given a mission. “Okay. Terrified, we can work with.”
Priya picks up her drink, then puts it down without taking a sip. “Does Finn know?”
“Yes.”
All eyes move to me, and I feel heat rise in my face. “I told him.”
“And?” Maren asks, practical but gentle.
“He said he’s in.”
Jade exhales hard enough to move the hair near her cheek. “Good answer.”
“It was,” I say.
That should be enough, but it’s not.
Because saying Finn said the right thing doesn’t explain the way his face went blank for half a second before panic turned into questions.
It doesn’t explain the way he held me after and told me he was here, with me, for this, and how badly I wanted to believe him before my fear started looking for loopholes.
Sienna watches me. “But?”
I close my eyes for half a second. “But I’m scared he only means it because he’s a good man.”
Priya’s expression sharpens. “That’s not a small problem.”
“No.”
Jade leans forward. “Did he make you feel that way? Like he was feeling trapped?”
“No.” The answer comes fast because it’s true. “No, he didn’t. He was scared, but he stayed. He listened. He held me. He said...” My throat tightens, and I look down at my glass. “He said the baby doesn’t make him choose me. It makes the choice matter more.”
The table goes quiet again, but softer.
Maren’s mouth curves faintly. “That’s a good line.”
“It was a good line,” I say. “Unfortunately.”
Priya lifts one brow. “Unfortunately?”
“Because now I have to deal with the fact that this particular hockey player is going to be in my life forever. Or at least for the next eighteen years.”
Jade’s mouth curves. “Terrible development.”
“I know.”
“Does he at least have redeeming qualities?”
I look down at my sparkling water. “Unfortunately, several.”
Sienna’s hand squeezes mine. “How are you feeling physically?”
“Tired. Nauseous. I can’t stand the smell of coffee, which feels like a betrayal.”
Emerson winces. “That one must hurt.”
“It feels personal,” I say. “Caffeine usually gets me through the workday. Now it’s a struggle.”
“Any appointment yet?” Maren asks.
“Not yet. I just found out a few days ago. I need to call.”
“Prenatal vitamins?”
“I bought some.”
“Good.”
Jade looks between us. “Are we allowed to ask practical questions, or is this one of those moments where practical questions are emotional land mines?”
“They’re fine,” I say. “Within reason.”
Priya smiles into her glass. “That means proceed with caution.”
Maren tilts her head. “For what it’s worth, Finn will probably never get a dad bod. He’ll be carrying a baby in one arm, a diaper bag in the other, and still somehow looking like he belongs on a fitness calendar.”
For the first time all night, the laugh that comes out of me feels almost normal.
“Early?” Sienna asks softly.
“About six weeks.”
“The wedding?”
I nod.
Jade’s mouth parts. “San Francisco?”
I nod again.
Priya looks down at her wine. “Well. That was an efficient weekend.”
“Priya.”
“What? I’m respecting the gravity of the situation and acknowledging the timeline.”
Jade’s protective face cracks. “She’s not wrong.”
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Jade says.
I don’t.
That’s part of the problem. I love them. I need them. I’m grateful they’re here. And I also feel exposed in a way I can’t quite defend against. Like suddenly, my body is public information to the people closest to me. Like everyone who loves me now gets to worry out loud.
I knew telling them would feel big.
I didn’t realize it would feel this crowded.
Maren, apparently reading enough of that on my face, tilts her head. “We can slow down.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
Jade immediately lifts both hands. “I’m done. No more questions.”
Sienna smiles. “We’re here. That’s all. For appointments, food, rides, distraction, whatever you need.”
“I don’t know what I need yet.”
“That’s okay.”
The rest of the hour is easier. They don’t push, which helps.
They also keep looking at me with faces full of tenderness, which does not.
We talk about Christmas plans, work schedules, Maren’s latest argument with Nico about whether wrapping gifts in newspaper is charming or lazy, and Priya’s insistence that white elephant exchanges reveal too much about a person’s character.
Jade offers to buy the baby a tiny leather jacket. I say absolutely not, and she says she’ll wait until the second trimester. I say still no, and she responds by saying we’ll revisit this later.
By the time we leave, the air outside is cold and wet, the sidewalk shining under strings of holiday lights. The women hug me one by one. Emerson waits beside me after the others head toward their cars.
“You okay?” she asks.
I look through the window at our empty booth, the glasses still on the table, my lime wedge sitting at the bottom of the sparkling water I barely drank.
“I think so.”
“That was a lot.”
“Yes, it was.” My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I pull it out.
Finn: I read that some babies are the size of poppy seeds this early. Do you think that’s accurate or one of those internet things people repeat because it sounds cute?
I stare at the text, then another one comes through.
Finn: Also, do you already have vitamins? Not telling you to take vitamins. Asking. Calmly. Like a relaxed person.
A third.
Finn: I am realizing this text may not read relaxed.
I press my lips together.
Emerson leans over. “Finn?”
I show her the screen.
Her mouth twitches. “He is not relaxed.”
“No.”
“But he’s trying.”
“He is.”
I type back.
Me: I have vitamins. Please do not start texting me product comparisons at midnight.
His reply comes fast.
Finn: Too late to promise that for the whole pregnancy, but I will not send you any more texts tonight.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Then another text appears.
Finn: Also, poppy seed feels too tiny to be a real measurement.
I laugh, soft and helpless, while Emerson watches me with a look that says she sees more than I’m ready to talk about.
***
By the next morning, Finn has discovered pregnancy websites, which is both sweet and deeply alarming.
The first text comes while I’m brushing my teeth.
Finn: Question. Are all prenatal vitamins basically the same?
I smile at the mirror before I can stop myself.
The second comes while I’m making toast.
Finn: Also, apparently, some car seats rotate now? Like office chairs, but for babies. Is that safe?
The third arrives before I’ve finished one slice.
Finn: Ignore me if this is too much. I’m trying to be normal, but I might be failing.
I stare at the screen.
Then the fourth appears.
Finn: Normal-adjacent.
I laugh, soft and unwilling.
For the first few days, it’s easy to be touched by it.
Finn asking what I need, and checking if ginger candies actually help nausea or if “ginger is one of those things people pretend fixes everything.” Finn sending me a link to a pregnancy app, then immediately following it with, Do not download this if it annoys you. Just trying to be helpful.
He is trying.
God, he is trying so hard.
And at first, I let myself enjoy it. The way he texts during breaks. The way he asks before sending more information. The way he remembers my shifts and doesn’t call when I’m working. The way he is careful with me without making me feel fragile.
But by Thursday, my phone has become a tiny pocket-sized Finn anxiety machine.
Finn: Is it too early to think about strollers?