Chapter 4
Miles
Ineed Emma's car keys to move her car, so I'm definitely not snooping when I find the CVS receipt in her purse. Definitely not. Okay, maybe a little.
She blocked me in the driveway again—a habit she's had since we moved in together, parking wherever is most convenient without considering that other people might need to leave. Usually, it's endearing. Today it's inconvenient because I have a wine review deadline and she's still in the shower.
Her purse is on the kitchen counter where she dropped it tonight night after coming home late. Again. She's been working ridiculous hours lately, even by Emma standards. Yesterday she worked at home until almost nine, claiming she had to finish reviewing contracts.
When I asked if she wanted dinner, she'd stared at me blankly for a solid ten seconds before saying, "I already ate."
"What did you eat?"
"Food."
"Emma—"
"Pickles. I ate pickles. In the car. Don't judge me."
So yeah. My wife is definitely going through something.
I dig through her purse looking for keys—past the lipstick, the mints, the protein bars she never eats, the portable phone charger—and that's when my fingers brush against paper. A receipt.
CVS Pharmacy, Hibiscus Harbor. Today’s date.
I pull it out, already knowing what I'm going to find but needing to see it anyway.
Five pregnancy tests. One bottle of prenatal vitamins. Total: $42.18. Paid in cash.
I stare at the receipt for a solid minute, my brain processing the information in that methodical way I learned during SEAL training. Assess the situation. Consider the intel. Draw conclusions.
Hibiscus Harbor. Twenty minutes away instead of the pharmacy here in Pelican Point.
Five tests, not one.
Cash, not our credit card.
Prenatal vitamins.
She took the tests. Got results. Has been carrying this knowledge without saying a word.
That hurts more than I expected.
I sit on the edge of our bed, still holding the receipt, listening to the shower running in the bathroom.
She hasn't told me.
I understand fear. I remember my first combat mission, that same paralyzing terror when you realize everything's about to change, and you have no control over what happens next. The difference is, I had training for combat. Nobody trains you for this.
The shower turns off. I shove the receipt back in her purse and head to the living room, grabbing my laptop like I've been working this whole time.
When Emma emerges ten minutes later, her hair is still damp and she's wearing one of my old Navy t-shirts and yoga pants. Her eyes are red. She's been crying.
"Hey." I look up from my laptop. "Feel okay?"
"Fine." She doesn't meet my eyes as she heads to the kitchen. "You're up late."
"Wine review meeting in thirty minutes. You blocked me in again."
"Sorry." She grabs her keys from her purse—the purse I was just rifling through—and holds them out. "I'll move it."
"I can do it. You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"Emma—"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice has that edge that means stop pushing. So, I stop.
She makes coffee—decaf, I notice, though she doesn't comment on it—and takes her mug to the living room, curling up on the couch with her laptop. Working. Again. Always working.
I grab her keys and head outside. Emma's car is unlocked. I slide into the driver's seat and reach for the gear shift when something catches my eye.
A pickle jar in the cupholder. Empty.
Another pickle jar in the center console. Also, empty.
I lean over to check the passenger seat. Two more jars, both empty, rolling around on the floor mat.
The backseat has three more. One empty, two still half-full.
I sit there, staring at the pickle collection like it's evidence at a crime scene.
Six pickle jars. SIX. Emma has a pickle stockpile in her car.
I've seen supply caches in war zones that were less well-stocked.
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. Then another. Soon I'm sitting in my wife's car surrounded by pickle jars, laughing like a maniac because this is the most Emma thing I've ever seen. When Emma commits to something, she commits completely. Apparently, that includes pickle consumption.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the backseat pickle jar collection. Then I move her car, park it properly in the driveway, and head back inside still grinning.
Emma's exactly where I left her, typing furiously on her laptop. Her coffee sits untouched beside her.
"Your car is moved," I say, settling back on my chair.
"Thanks."
"Also, you might want to know there are approximately six pickle jars in there."
Her fingers freeze on the keyboard. "I'm aware."
"Six, Emma."
"I like pickles."
"You've mentioned that." I lean back, watching her. "But six jars seems excessive."
"Are you pickle-shaming me right now?"
"Maybe a little."
She finally looks up, and there's a hint of a smile on her face. "They're good pickles. Don't knock it until you try an entire jar by yourself while sitting in the car."
"Is that what you're doing now? Eating pickles in the car?"
The smile fades. Her voice cracks on the last word. "Sometimes."
"I should get ready for my meeting," I say instead.
She nods and goes back to her laptop. She's not really working. Just staring at the screen.
I head to our bedroom and spot Emma's briefcase by the door—the expensive leather one she bought when she opened her practice. It's open, papers sticking out at odd angles. Not like Emma at all. She's meticulous about organization.
The merger offer from Preston & Associates is right on top, as if she wanted me to see it but couldn't bring herself to actually show me.
I shouldn't read it. It's her business, her decision.
But the folder is literally sticking out of her briefcase in our bedroom, and I'm worried about my wife, so I pull it out and skim the terms.
Preston & Associates wants to absorb Emma's practice. They're offering partnership—not just employment, but actual equity in the firm. The salary makes my wine review income look like pocket change. Full benefits package, including health insurance, dental, vision, and—
I stop at the maternity leave section.
Sixteen weeks paid leave. Option to return part-time for six months. Full health coverage for prenatal and postnatal care. Childcare stipend.
The timing is coincidental.
I flip through the rest of the contract. Emma would keep her existing clients, maintain autonomy over her cases, but gain access to two associate attorneys and full administrative support. No more eighty-hour weeks. No more drowning in work. An actual sustainable career.
It's a good offer. Better than good.
But accepting it means admitting she can't handle her solo practice by herself. And for Emma, who built everything from nothing, who proved all the doubters wrong—that's the hard part.
I put the folder back exactly how I found it and sit on the bed, pieces clicking together.
Pregnant. Drowning in work. Brennen's vote due Friday. Shadow Strike case looming. Preston wants an answer by end of week.
Everything's converging on Friday. Every major decision, every life change, all of it crashing together in forty-eight hours.
And Emma's carrying it alone.
I know that feeling. Spent years in the SEALs believing I had to be invincible. Took me a long time to learn that strength isn't about handling everything alone. It's about knowing when to lean on your team.
Emma needs to learn that lesson. And I need to show her she has a team.
But I can't tell her I know. I need to be subtle. Supportive. Create space where she feels safe telling me when she's ready.
I pull out my phone and start researching. Pregnancy symptoms. First trimester care. Foods to avoid. What expectant fathers should know. I bookmark a dozen articles, save them to a private folder, and start making mental notes.
Bland foods that won't trigger nausea. Plenty of water. No alcohol around her. Create space for her to rest without making it obvious I'm worried.
And apparently, invest in a pickle company.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ryan.
Ryan: Brennen's freaking out about Emma's vote. You know what's going on?
I type back.
Me: She's dealing with a lot right now. Give her space.
Ryan: Is she okay?
Me: She will be.
Ryan: That's cryptic.
Me: Trust me.
I head back to the living room where Emma's still planted on the couch, now with a pickle jar beside her laptop. She's eating them straight from the jar with a fork, her eyes glazed over as she reads something on her screen.
"I'm heading out," I say, grabbing my keys. "Wine review meeting. Should be back in an hour or two."
"Okay." She doesn't look up.
I hesitate at the door. "Emma?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you're dealing with—you know I'm here, right? If you need anything. If you want to talk. About anything."
She finally looks at me, and for a second, I think she's going to tell me. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, like a fish out of water.
"I know," she says quietly. "Thank you."
It's not a confession. But it's something.
I leave her surrounded by case files and pickle jars, already planning my next move. I can't fix her problems. Can't make the decisions for her. But I can make it safe for her to tell me.
Starting right now, I'm going to be the most supportive, patient, understanding husband in the history of marriage. Bland meals. Stocked pickles. Space while making sure she knows I'm here.
And when she's ready to tell me, I'll act surprised. Supportive. Thrilled.
Because I am thrilled. Terrified, yes. But also excited in a way I didn't expect.
I'm going to be a father. Emma's going to be a mother. And she's going to tell me about it when she's ready.
I pull into the parking lot for my meeting and sit there for a minute, staring at the photo of pickle jars on my phone.
Six jars. My wife has six pickle jars in her car and thinks I wouldn’t have noticed what's happening.
I'm buying more pickles on the way home.