Chapter 13 Willow
WILLOW
Plastic chairs are arranged in a semicircle facing a whiteboard. There’s a stack of yoga mats in the corner and a basket of rolled-up towels, neither of which instill any confidence that this will be “a breeze,” as Sean said.
I’m wedged between the men, my men—not mine but somehow…yes, mine. The plastic chair creaks under me, and Sean leans close enough for his breath to tickle my hairline.
“Front row seat,” he whispers. “Best view in the house, so it is.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Shut up.” He looks back to the front, a smile hiding from me, one ankle over his knee, charm pouring off him like cologne off a stranger walking by.
Declan catches the motion and frowns, protective even from three inches away. “You all right there?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Perfect. Couldn’t be better.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Of course he doesn’t.
Convincing Declan means building a PowerPoint presentation with twenty slides, footnotes, and probably a signed affidavit.
Already ramrod straight, he straightens his posture even further, military straight, and squares his shoulders like he’s about to run a drill.
The instructor, a cheerful woman in her forties with a cardigan that could double as a blanket, beams at the group and walks up to the front, clapping her hands.
“Welcome to Lamaze for multiples, everyone! I’m your instructor, Mabel.
Tonight, we’re going to practice some positions for comfort, learn about stages of labor, and—”
She stops when her eyes snag on Declan and Sean flanking me like bodyguards. “Oh. Double the support system. That’s wonderful.”
“Triple,” Sean says smoothly, jerking his chin toward the doorway.
I follow his gaze, and my heart stumbles over itself. Rowan. Lamaze is supposed to be about breathing—in and out, steady and calm—which makes it especially ironic that the second he walks through the classroom door, I forget how to do any of those things.
Rowan slips in like he’s allergic to being seen, quiet as a shadow, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks disheveled, his jaw rough with stubble. He walks up to us and stands behind me, his presence stifling and heavy over me.
Heat prickles across my chest. The last time we spoke, his words were sharp enough to leave bruises. Smarter than they are, he threw at me, like I was foolish for wanting more than cold distance, like they were foolish for giving it to me.
When he walked away from me, I was sure he was done, and I was ready to be done too. I didn’t think that he’d actually come to class, even though I invited him. But I feel a flicker of relief.
The truth is, I wanted this—his presence. Him. No matter how tangled it is. Maybe I wanted it even more because it was tangled, not as easy as Sean’s and Declan’s affection, something harder to get. Something hiding behind walls I have to break down.
Swallowing hard, I offer a weak smile to Declan, who seems to have noticed the ache permeating off me. Hope, betrayal, want, all knotted so tight I can’t separate one from the other.
Get it together, Willow. Your daddy issues are showing.
I focus back in on Mabel—the instructor with the frazzled, chaotic art teacher energy—and her spiel about stages of labor, dilating cervixes, and breathing rhythms. I do my best to focus, but it’s impossible when I’m bookended by a furnace on my left and a thundercloud on my right, with a phantom lurking behind me.
Halfway through, Mabel makes a comment about triplets being “rare but not necessarily high-risk if everything stays normal.”
Declan stiffens like someone just told him gravity is optional. His hand shoots up even as I shake my head wildly, and when the instructor kindly nods at him, he launches.
“Actually,” he says, his voice carrying that doctor’s edge I’ve heard in the hospital, “triplet pregnancies are always considered high-risk. The maternal and fetal complications multiply exponentially, and—”
“Declan,” I mutter, grabbing his sleeve. “Please don’t.”
But it’s too late. Mabel blinks at him, then tilts her head, curious. “You sound like you know quite a bit about this.”
“I’d hope so,” Sean interjects, grinning, “Or else MUSC is wasting a feck of a lot of money on him.”
Declan ignores him, focusing on the instructor with that intense, all-business gaze. “I’m a physician. Maternal-fetal medicine.”
Conversation slows to a hush. Partners exchange quick, curious glances. Mabel glances between Declan, Sean, and Rowan. “You’re with the program at MUSC. That new high-risk program! Aren’t you?” She interrupts herself, chuckling. “Wait. You’re not with the program. You are the program.”
There’s a ripple of recognition through the room—whispers, someone elbowing their neighbor. Great. Just great.
She brightens when the men nod. “Would you three be willing to come up here and talk to the class? Maybe answer some questions? I’m sure everyone would really appreciate hearing from specialists.”
I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Sean springs up immediately, always eager for a spotlight. Declan follows slowly, throwing a hesitant look my way. “You okay with this?” he mouths, and I shrug, wishing I were invisible.
Rowan shakes his head at them both, but Sean says, “If you don’t, how will everyone know you’re the smartest in the room?
” and Rowan rolls his eyes but starts walking, dragging his feet.
He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but the sparkle in his eye tells me it’s a facade, that he’s enjoying the attention.
He nods at Mabel as he walks up, a small bow of his head, and waves to the expectant mothers and their partners.
Sean does what Sean does—takes two steps forward, hands open, laugh already warmed up in his chest. “Evening, folks. I’m Dr. Sean Byrne.
This is Dr. Declan Murray and Dr. Rowan Carroll.
We’ll try to help demystify, not terrify ye.
” His accent makes terrify sound like a flirt.
“We’ll take any questions for as long as Mabel here will let us. ”
Declan stands a pace behind him, a wall in a nice button-down. He nods once, not smiling, like he’s about to enforce curfew with data. Rowan hovers off to the side near the cart of foam pelvises. I decide not to think too hard about the cart of foam pelvises.
Hands go up. Sean takes a question about epidurals and myths. Declan takes one about visitors and boundaries. Rowan handles induction timelines with multiples.
I sink lower in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, holding my shoulders in a self-soothing hug.
The embarrassment quickly subsides as I realize that the attention on them doesn’t mean attention on me.
If anything, it means less time doing breathing exercises while someone holds my ankles, or whatever a Lamaze class entails.
“Is it true that stress can bring on early labor?” someone asks.
Declan answers clinically. “There’s evidence that chronic stress hormones can impact outcomes, yes. Which is why support systems matter.”
“Should the dad cut the cord?” another voice pipes up.
Sean grins, sliding the mic toward himself metaphorically. “If he doesn’t faint first. Personally, I recommend it. Symbolic. Makes for good photos. Bonus points if you don’t pass out on camera.”
“Is circumcision beneficial?”
Rowan looks like he could yawn, his eyelids heavy and his expression neutral. “Beneficial to debate at Christmas dinner, if yer mad enough. Medically, it’s preference and culture.”
Laughter ripples through the room. Even I smile, despite myself.
And then it happens.
A woman tilts her head toward me and smiles. “I just have to say,” she says, projecting the way theater kids do, “it’s so cool all three of you showed up for your partner tonight. Modern love, right?”
Everything in me flushes. I feel that instant full-body heat of the kind of embarrassment you’ll still remember on your deathbed.
Silence snaps across the room. Declan goes very still, which is how Declan expresses ninety emotions at once; his shoulders notch tighter like he could shield me with anatomy.
Rowan’s eyes flick down, then away, as if he could fold himself into the nearest shadow.
If vanishing were a specialty, he’d have it.
Sean looks to me, waiting to see if I’ll handle it, but I can only manage to croak, “They’re not—we’re just—”
But Sean only leans down, stage-whispering into the mic that doesn’t exist, “She doesn’t like to brag, but we’re very progressive, sure.”
Soft laughter peals through the class. Declan goes rigid.
His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and his hand flexes like he wants to shield me from the assumption.
Rowan looks like he’s praying for spontaneous combustion.
His ears turn scarlet. He half turns toward the exit, like he’s genuinely considering bolting.
I, meanwhile, am actively planning my own fake death.
Maybe I can move to Canada under a new name.
I bury my face in my hands, cheeks blazing, wishing breathing really did come naturally.
Mabel, professional that she is, glides in. “We’re lucky to have so much support in the room tonight, period,” she says brightly. “No wrong ways to feel held. Okay, on to side-lying positions! Can we demonstrate with you, Willow?”
Startled, I blink and look around, like there might be another, unluckier Willow. “Um, sure,” I manage, and the word tastes dangerous. I nod, and suddenly three men are orbiting me, careful hands and measured inches.
“Okay, dads, can she borrow your hands for a minute?” she asks with a too-wide smile. Dads. The word catches me off guard, but when I look up, none of them look perturbed by the title.
Sean moves first, of course. He kneels at my feet, his shoulder brushing my shin as he drags a pillow into place. “Alright,” he says, eyes glittering. “Don’t worry, I’m deadly with props. Stagecraft minor.”
The class chuckles, but my throat is dry. His fingers graze my calf as he straightens the pillow, warm through the thin fabric of my leggings, and goose bumps bloom up my skin.
“Stagecraft isn’t a degree, lad,” Declan mutters, already at my other side.
He lifts my knees into position with practiced strength, adjusting me like he’s both guarding and commanding me.
His knuckles brush the inside of my thigh, and heat rushes through me so quickly I pray the flush only shows in my face.
“It worked for Shakespeare,” Sean fires back, smirking, but Declan ignores him, crouched close, his arm braced like a fortress at my back. “Is this okay?” Sean asks, softer now, like he’s tuned into the sudden change in my breathing.
“It’s fine,” I say, too quickly. It’s not fine at all. It’s molten.
Declan adjusts the pillow a fraction more, his voice dropping as he murmurs, “Better?” His eyes catch mine, sharp and unreadable, and something in my stomach coils tighter.
Mabel narrates, oblivious. “Notice how she rolls onto her side. Pillow at the back, one between the knees, and another under the belly if needed.”
Rowan has been lurking at the edge, trying to be invisible.
But when Mabel gestures for one more pillow, he finally steps forward.
His scent—clean soap and something darker—hits me before his hand does.
He kneels, steady, and slips the pillow beneath my arm.
His fingers barely graze my wrist, and it’s nothing really, but my whole body thrums anyway.
I try to keep my face neutral even as every nerve in my body is awake, alive, tuned to the three men who are supposed to be my doctors and nothing more.
“Partners,” Mabel narrates, “you’ll want to keep an eye on shoulders and jaw. If those are tense, the pelvis follows.” She nods at us. “Doctors, anything to add?”
Sean clears his throat. “If you clench your face, you clench your pelvis. There’s a reason we say ‘open mouth, open—’”
“—mind,” Mabel inserts cheerfully.
“—pelvis,” Sean finishes, deadpan, and half the room laughs while the other half blushes. I glance at his hands bracing the ball and have to stare at the ceiling for a second to keep my face its original color.
Declan adds, “This isn’t one-size-fits-all. Ask her if it’s helping.”
“Don’t tell her to relax,” Sean adds, and a wave of laughter washes the room.
Rowan pipes up, “The job of the partner is simple: be useful and be quiet, like.” He glances at me, a half second of heat and regret. I look away first.
A dad in the front snorts. “Tell that to my mother-in-law.”
“We’re tryin’, God help us,” Sean says solemnly, and the room laughs.
“Okay, dads, great job!” Mabel chirps brightly, and pillows are pulled out from under me, hands removed from me like live wires being clipped. “Let’s go over packing lists now.”
We move on. Everyone bends over their handouts.
I breathe in. I breathe out. The flush recedes enough that I can read nursing bras without combusting.
Packing lists. Hospital registration. The part where Mabel says, “If your plan changes, that doesn’t mean you failed,” and looks right at me without meaning to.
I have the sudden sense that in a different life, this could have been a normal night.
One partner, one birth, one steady future.
Class ends on a chorus of scraping chairs and zippers.
People drift over to ask the doctors things.
A mom asks Declan about car seats for multiples, and he becomes earnest in a way that would make me laugh if I weren’t trying to be a person made of poise.
Sean is mobbed by two dads asking about whether ice chips count as food.
Rowan pulls from his coat pocket a stack of printed resources no one asked for but everyone takes.
I breathe in. I breathe out. Tonight, at least, I did.