Chapter 14 Claire
Claire
The pregnancy tests sit on the bathroom counter, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I had been careful, and yet here I am—here we are.
Two pink lines, bold and undeniable, staring back at me as morning light filters through the frosted window. The bathroom feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in as reality crashes over me. My hands shake as I pick it up for the fifth time, as if looking at it again might change the result.
I’ve gone through three different brands, all positive.
The evidence lines up on the counter like soldiers—First Response, Clearblue, and a generic drugstore brand.
Each one declaring the same life-changing truth in their own way—two lines, a plus sign, the digital "Pregnant" that leaves no room to even think it could be a faulty interpretation.
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, the cold porcelain seeping through my thin pajama pants. My mind races through dates and possibilities, trying to pinpoint when this happened.
I've been careful with birth control—religiously taking my pills at exactly 8 PM every night, the alarm on my phone ensuring I never miss.
But antibiotics last month for that sinus infection.
.. God, how could I have been so careless?
The warning was right there on the label in bold letters, and still I didn't think to use backup protection.
The bigger problem makes my stomach churn beyond the slight morning sickness that's been plaguing me all week.
I've been with all three men regularly for the past two months so there's no way to know who the biological father is without testing.
The thought of asking them to submit to paternity tests, of turning this into some kind of medical process, makes me want to laugh hysterically. Or cry. Maybe both.
Stuart would demand to know immediately.
His need for control, for certainty, for everything to fit into neat categories would override everything else.
He'd probably have testing kits ordered within the hour, would research the most accurate labs, would turn this pregnancy into a puzzle to be solved.
If the baby isn't his, I can already see the shutdown, the withdrawal, the walls rebuilding higher than before. The progress we've made would crumble.
Jonathan would probably be thrilled regardless of biology—he's talked about wanting kids someday, usually when we're watching movies with happy families.
But he'd defer to Stuart if Stuart claimed primary rights, always the peacemaker, always willing to sacrifice his own desires for group harmony.
He'd be the fun uncle who lived in the same house, gradually accepting less while pretending it didn't hurt.
And Dane... Dane would intellectualize it, turn it into a philosophical discussion about modern family structures and the social construct of what being a father means, while his eyes revealed the hurt of potentially being excluded.
He'd write about it, transform his pain into prose, create fictional families that worked when real ones didn't.
A knock on the bathroom door makes me jump, my heart racing. "Claire? You okay in there?" Jonathan's voice, concerned and warm.
"Fine!" I call back, my voice pitched too high. I quickly shove the tests into the trash, covering them with tissues and the empty toilet paper roll. "Just... give me a minute."
"Okay, but breakfast is ready when you are. Made your favorite—blueberry pancakes."
The mention of food makes my stomach roll. I've been surviving on toast and ginger tea for days, hiding my nausea behind the claim that I’m just stressed out from work.
I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it settling me momentarily. In the mirror, my reflection stares back—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes from exhaustion that's been plaguing me all week. My breasts are tender and seem fuller.
The nausea I'd attributed to stress from building my practice. The tender breasts I'd blamed on PMS. The exhaustion I'd written off as too many late nights. All the signs were there; I just wasn't looking.
How do I tell them? How do I tell three men who've just figured out how to share me that now there's going to be a baby that only belongs to one of them—at least biologically? The delicate balance we've achieved would shatter instantly, right?
I emerge from the bathroom to find Jonathan still hovering in the hallway, leaning against the wall in his workout clothes, having clearly delayed his morning routine to check on me. The concern in his eyes makes my chest tight.
"You sure you're okay? You look pale." He immediately reaches out, pressing his hand to my forehead. His palm is warm. "No fever. But you should rest. Cancel your appointments today."
"I can't. I have three clients this afternoon. My one is finally making progress with her hip alignment, and—"
"They'll understand. Your health comes first." He guides me toward the stairs with a hand on my back, and I have to fight not to lean into his strength. "Come on, breakfast will help."
If only he knew that the smell of food might send me running back to the bathroom.
I make it through breakfast by pushing food around my plate, cutting the pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces without eating any, claiming an upset stomach when Stuart notices.
He's reading a medical journal while eating his precisely measured portions—egg white omelet, whole grain toast, exactly half a grapefruit. His morning routine never varies.
"You're not eating," he observes without looking up. "That's the third morning this week you've barely touched breakfast."
"Just not hungry. Think I'm fighting something."
Now he does look up, those gray eyes scanning me with a sort of clinical scrutiny that misses nothing. "You've been off all week. Fatigue, loss of appetite, you were dizzy yesterday. Maybe you should see a doctor."
"It's just a bug," I insist, but even I hear how weak it sounds.
"A bug that's lasted a week?" His tone is skeptical. "What are your other symptoms? Any fever? Body aches?"
"Stuart, I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're—" He stops, his eyes widening slightly as some internal calculation completes. I see the moment he starts adding things up—the fatigue, the nausea, the food aversions, my sudden hatred of coffee. He quickly connects the dots I'm not ready for him to connect.
Dane watches me over his laptop, and I can see him cataloging symptoms too, drawing conclusions with his usual attention to detail. He's too smart not to notice the pattern, but he says nothing, just closes his laptop and focuses on his tea.
"I should get going," I say quickly, standing too fast. The room tilts slightly, and I grip the chair back. "Lottie needs help with something."
"I'll walk you over," Jonathan offers immediately. “I haven’t talked to the old girl in quite a while.”
"No, I'm fine. Finish your breakfast."
I escape to Lottie's house, the January morning crisp and bright. The short walk between houses feels like miles, each step carrying me further from the moment I'll have to tell them.
But Lottie takes one look at me and knows. She's in her sunroom, wearing an outrageous purple floral caftan and wielding pruning shears like weapons against the dying roses. Geoffrey sits on a plump chair cushion, supervising.
"How far along?" she asks, setting down the shears.
"How did you—"
"Darling, I've watched enough friends go through it. You have that look—exhausted but somehow glowing underneath, like your body knows a secret your mind hasn't caught up with. Plus, you turned green when I mentioned making eggs yesterday when you came for brunch."
I sink onto the wicker couch. "Six weeks, maybe seven."
"And the father?" She settles beside me, her warmth a comfort.
"I don't know which one it is."
Lottie pours herself wine from the bottle she apparently keeps in the sunroom for "emergencies," despite it being only ten in the morning. "Well, this is delightfully complicated."
"This could ruin everything. They've just figured out how to make this work, and now—"
"Now you're having a baby. These things happen, even with careful planning. Especially when the universe decides you need a plot twist."
"Stuart will lose his mind. You know how he is about control, about needing to know everything."
"Stuart will adjust, just like he's adjusted to everything else about you that doesn't fit his rigid worldview." She takes my hand, her fingers warm and slightly gnarled from arthritis. "The question is, what do you want?"
"I want..." I pause, really considering, my free hand unconsciously moving to my still-flat stomach. "I want this baby. I didn't expect it, didn't plan it, but now that it's real... I want it. The timing is awful, the situation is impossible, but I want this child."
"Then that's all that matters. The rest is just stuff you can work out later on."
"Stuff that could destroy everything we've built."
"Or create something even better. You won't know until you try, sweet girl."
But this feels insane when I return that evening to cook dinner for everyone. We rotate cooking duties, and Thursday night is mine. I've been planning chicken stir-fry all week. The normalcy of the routine feels like a life raft in the storm of my thoughts.
I'm exhausted, fighting nausea that comes in waves, and trying to act normal while my world continues to tilt. The kitchen smells overwhelming—garlic and ginger that usually make my mouth water now turn my stomach.
I'm chopping vegetables when it happens.
The knife slips—not enough to cut myself, but enough that I drop it.
The clatter on the granite counter is explosive in the quiet kitchen.
I bend to retrieve it and suddenly the room spins violently.
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and I hear my own voice as if from far away saying "oh no" before the floor rushes up to meet me.