9. #2
His voice cuts through it—not urgent, not sharp. Just steady.
I lift my head too quickly and the room tilts. I grab the arm of the chair to steady myself.
Grant stands in the doorway.
He takes one look at me and doesn't ask what's wrong.
"Hey," he says quietly. "How are you? good to see you."
I pull my mouth into something that might pass for normal.
"I'm good," I say, because it's what I always say.
Grant doesn't comment.
"We can head back," he says, stepping aside.
I push myself to my feet before he can offer help. My legs wobble, but I catch myself, straighten, keep moving.
Down the hall.
Count the steps.
Grant opens his office door and gestures me inside. I walk in on muscle memory alone.
The door clicks shut behind us.
That's when it breaks.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just a quiet shift—like whatever I was holding together finally slips.
I swallow. It doesn't help. I reach out for the arm of the chair trying to steady myself.
Grant turns toward his desk, then stops.
"Naomi," he says softly.
I look up too fast. The room swims.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, even as my breath turns shallow, uneven. "I just—"
The sentence disappears.
Grant sets his tablet down on the desk and then moves in front of me.
"Sit," he says gently.
I do, because my legs are already giving up on me.
He crouches in front of the chair—close enough that I don't feel alone, far enough that I don't feel trapped.
"Hey," he says. "You're here. You're in my office. It's just us."
My hands buzz, useless. My heart is too loud.
"Breathe with me," he says. "In through your nose."
I try. It's shaky.
"Good. Again. Don't force too much if you can't."
We breathe together. Once. Twice.
The panic doesn't disappear—but it loosens, like something unclenching just enough to let air back in.
"That's it," Grant says quietly. "You're doing good, keep going for me."
A tear slips free.
I wipe at it immediately, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
He shakes his head once. "You don't need to apologize."
I press my lips together, my chin trembling.
"I thought I had more time," I say. "I thought I could—"
My voice breaks.
Grant stays exactly where he is. "Take a second," he says. "I'm listening."
I inhale, then rush it out before I can lose my nerve.
"I don't want a baby."
A slight confusion takes over his face.
"I don't mean never," I say quickly. "I'm not saying I don't want kids at all."
"Okay," he says. "So what are you saying?"
"Not like this," I say. "Not now. Not when it feels like it's already decided and I don't get a say."
"Decided by who?"
I hesitate, "Rodney. His team. The image."
Grant nods slowly. "And where do you fit into deciding that?"
I let out a short, humorless laugh. "I don't."
He studies my face. "Have you told Rodney this? That you don't want a baby yet."
The question lands heavy.
"I wish it were that simple," I say quietly. "It's not a conversation. It's just something that happens and I'm expected to adjust."
"What do you think would happen if you didn't?"
The room feels very still.
"I don't know," I say. Then, more honestly, "But I know it wouldn't go well."
"And how does that make you feel?"
The answer slips out before I can censor it. "Scared."
Grant's expression sharpens—not alarmed. Focused.
"Scared how?"
I look away. My arms wrap around myself.
"Like it would make things worse," I say. "Like it would cost me something I can't afford to lose."
Grant exhales slowly. "That's a lot to carry by yourself."
Something in me gives.
"I keep telling myself I can get through it," I say. "That if I stay quiet long enough, something will change."
"And now?" he asks.
"Now it feels permanent," I whisper. "Like once this happens, there's no undoing it."
Grant nods slowly. "That sense of permanence—especially when it isn't your choice—can hit the nervous system hard."
I glance at the clock, suddenly aware of how much space I've taken. How much I've said.
"I'm being dramatic," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to—"
"Naomi," he says gently, cutting me off. "You're not being dramatic. You're describing a loss of control."
Something in my face shifts before I can stop it. My throat tightens. My eyes burn.
"I try so hard to be who he wants me to be," I say, my voice wobbling. "And I still feel like I'm failing."
The first tear slips free.
Then another.
I scrub at my face, frustrated with myself, breath stuttering as I try to rein it back in. I don't look at him. I can't.
Grant doesn't rush me.
He doesn't speak.
Then—carefully—he opens his arms.
That's when I break.
I lean forward, and he pulls me in just enough—steady, grounding, one hand settling between my shoulder blades like an anchor.
I cry into his jacket, quiet and contained.
When it passes, I pull back, embarrassed, wiping my face.
"I'm sorry," I start.
"I was hoping we were past apologies," he says softly.
A weak laugh slips out of me. "Right. Sorry— I mean. Not sorry."
That earns a small smile. "You're forgiven," he says.
He stands, and I follow a second later.
I take a breath. It comes easier this time.