Chapter 7 #2
I send him the Murphy Park address. The same park where we got engaged all those years ago. Where he proposed under the oak tree with the carved initials. Where I said yes without hesitation because marrying Miles was the easiest decision I ever made.
Unlike every decision I'm currently facing.
I look at the pamphlets one more time. "Your First Trimester" stares back at me with its cheerful font and smiling pregnant woman on the cover.
"Okay," I whisper to the pamphlets. To myself. To the baby I'm apparently growing. "Time to stop being terrified alone."
I start the car and drive to Murphy Park, still wearing my ridiculous scarf, probably looking like I'm about to have a breakdown in public.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what's about to happen.
But at least this time I won't be alone.
Miles' car is already there when I arrive. He's leaning against the hood, arms crossed, looking unfairly calm and handsome in jeans and a t-shirt. When he sees me pull up, his expression shifts to concern.
I get out of the car clutching the pregnancy pamphlets like a life preserver. I'm still wearing the sunglasses. Still have the scarf. I probably look completely insane.
"Emma." He's walking toward me. "What's wrong?"
"Everything." My voice cracks. "Everything's wrong and I can't do this anymore and I'm sorry and I'm terrified and I need to tell you something."
He stops in front of me, gently taking the pamphlets from my hands. Looks down at them. "Your First Trimester." His eyes come back to mine.
"I'm pregnant," I blurt out. "Six weeks.
I found out a few days ago and I've been too scared to tell you because what if you don't want this and what if I can't handle it and what if I'm terrible at it and I'm drowning in work and Preston wants an answer and Brennen needs my vote and everything's happening all at once and I'm out of pickles and I know that's not the priority here but my brain won't stop thinking about pickles—"
"Emma." His hands are on my shoulders. Steady. Grounding. "Breathe."
"I can't breathe. I have too many things to breathe about."
"That's not how breathing works."
"Well, I'm bad at it right now!" I yell at him.
He pulls me into his arms, and I collapse against him, crying into his shoulder while wearing a ridiculous scarf in the Florida summer heat. His hand rubs circles on my back.
"You're pregnant," he says quietly.
"I'm sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because we never discussed kids. Because this wasn't planned. Because everything's a mess and I kept it from you and—"
"Emma." He pulls back, hands cupping my face. "Stop apologizing for being pregnant with my child."
"But—"
"Are you okay? Is the baby okay?"
"Yes. Six weeks. Everything's normal. Except me. I'm not normal."
"You're perfect." He's smiling. Actually smiling. "We're having a baby."
"You're not mad?"
"Why would I be mad?"
"Because it's not planned! Because everything's chaos! Because I kept it secret for days!"
"Emma, I've known for a few days."
I freeze. "What?"
"I found the CVS receipt. Five pregnancy tests and prenatal vitamins. I'm a trained observer. I've been making you bland food and stocking pickles and waiting for you to tell me when you were ready."
"You KNEW?" I yell while simultaneously pushing him back.
"The pickles were a pretty big clue."
I stare at him. "And you didn't say anything?"
"You needed to tell me in your own time. I wasn't going to push."
"But I kept lying! I kept hiding it!"
"You were scared. I understood that."
Now, I'm crying again. "You're too patient with me."
"I'm really not. I've been researching pregnancy symptoms at 2 AM and stress-organizing the garage. But I waited. Because you needed to come to me."
"I should have told you sooner."
"You're telling me now. That's what matters." He glances at the pamphlets in his hand. "So. Six weeks. What did the doctor say?"
And just like that, we're talking. Actually talking. I tell him about the appointment, the symptoms, the recommendations. He listens, asks questions, doesn't freak out when I mention that I'm supposed to reduce stress.
"The Preston merger," he says. "You're thinking about accepting it."
"The doctor said the benefits are good. Maternity leave, support staff. Everything I need to actually survive this."
"Then accept it."
"But that means admitting I can't handle my practice alone—"
"Emma. You're pregnant. Running a solo practice while growing a human. Nobody can handle that alone. It's not failure. It's logistics. It’s smart."
I lean against him. "Everything has to be decided today."
"Then we decide together. Tonight. All of it. Celtic Knot vote, Preston merger, everything."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. You, me, our little pickle, and decision-making." He kisses my forehead. "We're a team. Start acting like it."
I laugh despite myself. "You're very bossy."
"Someone has to be. You've been spiraling for a week."
"You watched me spiral for a week and said nothing?"
"I made you bland food. That's saying something."
Fair point.
We walk to the oak tree where he proposed. Sit on the bench underneath it. Miles keeps his arm around me while I tell him everything—the fears, the stress, the overwhelming sense that I'm failing at everything.
"You're not failing," he says when I finish. "You're human. And you're about to be a mother. Those things are allowed to coexist."
"What if I'm terrible at it?"
"You won't be."
"You don't know that."
"I know you. You're going to be an amazing mom. Possibly a stressed amazing mom, but amazing nonetheless."
I rest my head on his shoulder. "We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby."
"Are you scared?"
"Terrified. But I’m also excited. We're going to figure this out."
We sit there for a while, watching the sun set through the oak tree branches. Tonight, I'll accept the Preston merger. I'll vote to expand Celtic Knot because Brennen deserves to chase his dream. I'll tell my brothers I'm pregnant.
But today, right now, I'm just sitting with my husband in the park where he proposed.
His arm is around me. My head is on his shoulder. The pamphlets sit forgotten on the car.
And for the first time in days, I can actually breathe.