Chapter 3
Emma
Wednesday - Oh crap. I might be pregnant.
I'm staring at my desk calendar counting backwards and the realization hits me like a freight train—fourteen days late. I'm never late.
Except apparently I am. Two weeks late. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours of not noticing because I've been too busy drowning in work to pay attention to my own body.
The merger offer from Preston & Associates sits on my desk, taunting me with its thick stack of papers and professional logo.
I should be reviewing it. Instead, I'm counting backwards on my calendar like a woman possessed, triple-checking dates that don't change no matter how many times I look at them.
My stomach lurches.
I barely make it to the bathroom before throwing up. Again. This is becoming a very unfortunate pattern.
When I emerge five minutes later, pale and shaky, Maggie is standing outside the bathroom door with her arms crossed and an expression that says she knows exactly what's happening.
"Still a stomach bug?" she asks, her tone making it clear she doesn't believe that for a second.
"Must be something I ate for breakfast."
"At five in the morning?"
I freeze. "How did you know—"
"Your car's been in the parking lot since dawn." Maggie gestures toward the window overlooking the street. "I saw you arrive when I got my coffee at the bakery. That was over an hour ago."
Damn small towns and their inability to let anyone have privacy.
"I had work to catch up on," I say, moving past her toward my office.
"Emma—"
"I'm fine, Maggie. Really."
I close my office door before she can interrogate me further, lean against it, and take several deep breaths. The merger offer practically glows on my desk, demanding attention I can't give it because my brain is currently spiraling through approximately nine million worst-case scenarios.
Preston & Associates wants to absorb my practice. They're offering partnership, resources, support staff, a salary that would make my law school debt weep with joy. The benefits package includes excellent health insurance, generous maternity leave, and—
I stop that thought before it can fully form.
Focus on work. That's what I'm good at. Work is controllable. Work makes sense.
I don’t work. Instead, I pull up the merger terms on my computer and start reading.
The contract is fair—more than fair, actually.
I'd keep my client list, maintain autonomy over my cases, but gain access to their infrastructure.
Two associates to help with the workload.
An actual support staff. Regular hours instead of eighty-hour weeks.
It's everything I should want.
Except accepting it means admitting I can't handle my practice by myself.
That Emma Dawson, who proved everyone wrong by going solo straight out of law school, who built a successful practice from nothing, who represents Fortune 500 companies and wins cases that make the legal journals—that Emma Dawson needs help.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brennen.
Brennen: Em, please. I need your vote. Friday is the deadline.
I shove the phone in my desk drawer next to my emergency pickle stash.
Yes. I have an emergency pickle stash now. Don't judge me.
I pull out the jar and twist off the lid, the vinegary smell making my mouth water in a way that should probably concern me. The pickles are salty and crispy and exactly what my traitorous body is craving.
"Emma?" A few hours later, Maggie's voice comes through the door. "The Preston partners called again. They want an answer by end of week."
Of course they do. Because apparently everything in my life needs to be decided by Friday.
"I'll call them back," I say through a mouthful of pickle.
"Are you eating pickles?"
"No."
"I can hear the crunching."
I swallow. "Fine. Yes. I'm eating pickles. Is that a crime?"
Maggie opens the door without knocking—a privilege she's earned after working with me all these years—and stares at the jar in my hands.
"That's a lot of pickles," she says carefully.
"I like pickles."
"You had pickles for breakfast."
"Your point?"
Maggie's eyes narrow. Then she glances at the merger offer on my desk, back to the pickle jar, then to my face. The wheels are turning.
"Emma—"
"I'm taking a long lunch." I stand abruptly, shoving the pickle jar back in the drawer. "Don't wait for me."
"But you have the Henderson deposition at two—"
"I'll be back by then."
I grab my purse and keys and flee before Maggie can ask any more questions that I'm not ready to answer.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in Hibiscus Harbor wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap like I'm some kind of celebrity avoiding paparazzi.
In reality, I'm just a small-town lawyer trying to buy pregnancy tests without running into anyone I know from Pelican Point who might mention it to my brothers or their wives or my husband or literally anyone with a functioning mouth.
I park three blocks from the pharmacy. Three blocks. Like I'm on some kind of covert operation.
Miles would probably find this hilarious. Miles, who actually ran covert operations as a Navy SEAL. Miles, who I'm currently hiding a potential pregnancy from because I'm a mature adult who handles things well.
The pharmacy is blessedly empty except for an elderly woman examining reading glasses without reading glasses on and a teenage cashier who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
I grab a basket and try to look casual as I browse the aisles. Shampoo. Lotion. Vitamins. And then—pregnancy tests.
So many pregnancy tests.
I grab five boxes. Five. Because apparently, I need confirmation from five different manufacturers that my life is about to completely change.
At the register, the teenage cashier perks up when she sees my purchases.
"Oh my gosh, are you pregnant?" she asks, her voice carrying across the entire store.
"Shh!" I glance around frantically. The elderly woman is now very interested in our conversation.
"Sorry," the cashier stage-whispers. "But this is so exciting! My sister just had a baby—actually, she had twins! She knew right away because she was SO sick. Like, all day every day. Are you sick?"
"I'm fine."
"She couldn't keep anything down except crackers and ginger ale. And ice cream and pickles! She ate so many pickles. Do you like pickles?"
I stare at her. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because twins run in families! And if you're buying five tests, you must really want to be sure. That's what my sister did. She took like eight tests because she couldn't believe it."
"I'm not having twins." I’m probably not even pregnant because I’ve had zero ice cream. Makes complete sense.
"That's what my sister said!" The cashier scans the tests with enthusiasm that should probably be illegal. "And then—boom—two babies. The ultrasound tech was like, 'Surprise!' My sister cried for an hour."
"That's terrifying."
"Right? But also kind of cool. I'm an aunt times two!" She bags the tests with more force than necessary. "That'll be forty-two dollars and eighteen cents."
I pay in cash, grab the bag, and practically run to the bathroom at the back of the pharmacy.
The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. I lock myself in the single-stall bathroom and lean against the door, clutching five pregnancy tests like they're grenades about to explode.
This is it. This is the moment that either confirms my suspicions or proves I'm just stressed and paranoid and really need to stop googling symptoms at work.
My hands shake as I open the first box. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.
The instructions are all basically the same. Pee on stick. Wait three minutes. Blue line means pregnant. Pink line means pregnant. Plus sign means pregnant. The word "PREGNANT" in digital letters means pregnant.
I really wish there was more variety in the messaging.
Five tests later, I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with my back against the wall, watching the results develop on the toilet tank like I'm waiting for a bomb to detonate.
Test one: Blue line appears. Pregnant.
Test two: Pink line. Pregnant.
Test three: Plus sign. Pregnant.
Test four: Another plus sign. Very pregnant.
Test five: The digital one with the actual word. PREGNANT. 3+ weeks.
I stare at them lined up in a neat row. Five positive tests. Five confirmations that everything I suspected is true.
I'm pregnant.
Miles and I never discussed kids. Never had the "do we want children someday" conversation.
We've been married for a few years and perfectly happy with just us.
We travel. We work. We have wine nights and lazy Sunday mornings and a life that doesn't include diapers or daycare or any of the thousand things that come with babies.
What if he doesn't want this?
What if he does want it but I'm not ready?
What about the merger offer? Preston & Associates is expecting an answer by Friday. The same Friday Brennen needs my Celtic Knot vote. The same Friday everything in my life apparently needs to be decided.
And my career—how am I supposed to run a practice while pregnant?
I can't run a solo practice while pregnant.
I can barely run it now without being pregnant.
The eighty-hour weeks, the constant stress, the never-ending pile of cases—how am I supposed to handle that with morning sickness and doctor's appointments and eventually a baby?
The merger starts to make more sense. Partnership with support. Maternity leave. Resources to actually have a life outside of work.
But accepting it means admitting I'm not Superwoman. That I can't do everything alone. That Emma Dawson needs help.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands and open my text thread with Miles. He sent me a message an hour ago.
Miles: How's your day going?
Normal. Casual. The kind of text message you send your wife when you don't know she's currently having a complete breakdown in a pharmacy bathroom twenty minutes from home.
I want to call him. Want to hear his voice. Want him to tell me everything's going to be okay, and we'll figure this out together.
But if I hear his voice right now, I'll break down. And I have the Henderson deposition at two. And a career that's depending on me to hold it together.
Also, I really want more pickles.
That thought—absurd and ridiculous and totally inappropriate given the magnitude of what I'm dealing with—makes me laugh. Then cry. Then laugh-cry while sitting on a pharmacy bathroom floor clutching five positive pregnancy tests.
I'm pregnant. I'm merging my practice. I'm voting on Celtic Knot's future. And apparently, I'm developing a pickle addiction that would concern any reasonable person.
My phone rings. Miles.
I stare at his name on the screen, my finger hovering over the answer button. But I can't. If I answer, I'll tell him. And I'm not ready. I need time to process this. To figure out what I want. To make a plan.
I text back.
Me: In meeting, call you later.
Liar. I'm a liar sitting on a bathroom floor surrounded by pregnancy tests.
I gather the tests, shove them in my purse with the receipt, and wash my hands thoroughly. My reflection in the mirror looks pale and terrified and nothing like the confident attorney who won a three-billion-dollar case two days ago.
The drive back to the office happens on autopilot. I don't remember getting in the car or pulling out of the parking lot. My brain is spinning through scenarios and timelines and the conversation I need to have with Miles.
If I tell him. When I tell him.
God, I have to tell him.
But first, I need to stop at the store for more pickles.
I pull into the grocery store parking lot and sit there for a minute, staring at the steering wheel. The merger offer is in on my desk. The positive pregnancy tests are in my purse. Brennen's texts are piling up in my phone.
Everything's converging on Friday. Every major decision I need to make, every life-changing choice, every admission that I can't handle everything alone—all of it crashing together in less than seventy-two hours.
I grab my purse and head into the store, making a beeline for the pickle aisle.
A woman in her sixties gives me a knowing smile as I load my cart with pickle jars.
"First baby?" she asks.
I freeze. "What?"
"The pickles." She gestures at my cart. "Classic pregnancy craving. I ate them with all three of mine."
"I just really like pickles."
"Sure you do, honey." She pats my arm. "Congratulations. It's terrifying and wonderful all at once."
I watch her walk away, her words echoing in my head.
Terrifying and wonderful.
I grab three more jars of pickles and head to checkout. The merger offer is in on my desk. The positive pregnancy tests are in my purse. Brennen's deadline is Friday. Miles is waiting at home. And I'm standing in the pickle aisle like pickles are going to solve any of this.
They won't. But at least they taste good.