Chapter 6 #2
Dr. Byers nods like she's heard that before.
Like complicated pregnancies are just part of the job.
"Well, regardless of your situation, you're going to need support.
Twin pregnancies require more monitoring, more care.
I'll want to see you every two weeks for the first trimester, then weekly as you get closer to delivery. "
Every two weeks. More costs. More time away from work. More reminders that my body isn't my own anymore.
"I'm going to print out some information for you," Dr. Byers continues. "Nutrition guidelines, what to expect with twins, signs to watch for that might indicate complications."
Complications. The word lodges in my chest.
"For now, though, your babies look healthy. Both heartbeats are strong, the gestational sacs are developing normally. You're doing everything right."
Except I'm not. I'm falling apart. I'm terrified. I'm already failing, and they're barely the size of a peanut.
Dr. Byers hands me a towel and steps out to give me privacy to clean up and get dressed. The door clicks shut, and I'm left sitting on the examination table, still staring at the ultrasound screen even though it's gone dark.
"Em." Poppy's voice is soft. When I look at her, there are tears in her eyes. "You're going to be okay. I promise."
"How can you possibly promise that?"
"Because I know you." She reaches out, brushing my hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my throat tight. "You're the strongest person I know. And you're not doing this alone. You have me. And you have—" She pauses. "You have the father. Whoever he is. He should know. He should help."
Grant. She means Grant, even though she doesn't know it's him.
Doesn't know that telling him means detonating a bomb that will destroy his friendship with my father, complicate his already messy divorce, drag me into a world of wealth and privilege that I've spent my entire adult life trying to avoid.
But she's right. He should know.
And I know I need his help.
Three days ago, I was still telling myself I could do this alone. That I could keep the pregnancy secret, figure it out myself, maintain my independence.
That was when it was one baby.
Twins change everything.
Two babies mean I can't afford childcare on my own. Can't maintain a business while managing twin newborns. Can't even guarantee I'll have a safe place to live, because my studio apartment is barely big enough for me, let alone two cribs and all the equipment babies apparently need.
I need Grant's help. His money, his resources, his ability to solve logistical problems that I can't solve alone.
Which means I need to tell him. Soon. Before I'm showing, before this gets even more complicated than it already is.
I slide off the exam table and reach for my clothes, my hands shaking so badly I can barely manage the buttons on my jeans.
"I need to tell him," I say quietly.
Poppy nods. "Yeah. You do."
"I don't know how."
"Well." She manages a weak smile. "Maybe start with 'remember that night in Florence?' and go from there."
The attempt at humor falls flat, but I appreciate the effort.
I pull my sweater over my head and finger-comb my hair, trying to look like a person who has her life together.
The mirror above the sink tells a different story.
I'm pale, my eyes red-rimmed, my expression somewhere between terror and resignation.
I look like someone whose carefully constructed world just collapsed.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what I am.
Dr. Byers returns with a folder full of printouts and a small strip of photos from the ultrasound. She goes through the information with the cheerful efficiency of someone who does this a dozen times a day.
I nod along, taking the folder, promising to schedule my next appointment on the way out.
Then Poppy and I are walking back down the hallway and through the waiting room full of other pregnant women who probably have their lives together.
The spring air hits me when we step outside, cool and bright, and I stop on the sidewalk, just breathing.
"How you holding up?" Poppy asks.
"Not great." The honest answer. "But I will be. I have to be."
She links her arm through mine, and we walk to where she parked her beat-up Honda. I slide into the passenger seat and clutch the folder of printouts to my body like a shield.
Inside, tucked among the nutrition guidelines and development charts, are the ultrasound photos. Two grainy black and white images, two tiny flickering hearts.
My babies.
Grant's babies.
I pull out my phone and stare at his name in my contacts. The last text exchange is still there, from three days ago.
I start typing before I can overthink it.
Me: Can we talk soon? I need to tell you something.
The message sends, and I watch the screen, waiting for the read receipt. It comes almost immediately, followed by the three dots.
Grant: Of course. When?
Me: Tonight?
Grant: I'll send a car. Where should it pick you up?
Of course he'll send a car. Because that's what Grant does. Solves problems with money and resources and effortless gestures.
And I'm about to become one of those problems.
I give him my address and set the phone in my lap, my thoughts spiraling.
Tonight. I'm telling him tonight.
About the pregnancy. About the twins. About the fact that his life is about to get infinitely more complicated because we spent one perfect night together in Florence.
“I’m telling him tonight.”
"You're doing the right thing," Poppy says quietly, pulling into traffic.
Maybe. Or maybe I'm making the biggest mistake of my life.
Maybe he’ll take over, and I’ll just watch while he fixes and manages and controls everything until I'm just another problem he's solved, another responsibility he's shouldered.
Or maybe—and this is the terrifying possibility I can barely let myself consider—maybe he'll surprise me. Maybe he'll find a way to help that doesn't feel like losing myself. Maybe he'll be a partner instead of a savior.
I press my hand against my stomach, thinking about those two tiny heartbeats.
I guess I'm about to find out.
“I want to tell you who the dad is but you have to pinky-promise me that you won’t tell a soul until it’s out in the open.”
She looks over at me, eyes wide. “Of course, Emma. I won’t tell anyone.” She reaches out her pinky and links it with mine like we’ve done a million times before.
I take a deep breath. “It’s Grant. Grant Cross. My dad’s best friend.”
The shock causes Poppy to pull over into an empty parking space. She throws the car in park and demands all the details.
I tell her everything and she just keeps nodding and saying, “I cannot believe this.”
When I’ve finally told her everything, she admits that she’s always thought that Grant was super-hot and, given a chance, she would have done the same thing.
“I just can’t believe I’m having twins. And I’m going to have to tell him.”
She assures me that everything is going to work out. And that she’s always here for me.
Poppy finally drops me off at home, and I climb the stairs to my apartment on legs that feel like lead.
I sink onto my couch and pull out the ultrasound photos again, studying those two small shapes.
Eight weeks and three days.
Thirty-one and a half weeks until they're here.
Thirty-one and a half weeks to figure out how to be a mother. How to build a life that includes them without losing myself in the process.
Thirty-one and a half weeks to learn how to accept help without giving up control.
I close my eyes and let myself feel the full weight of it. The terror. The impossibility. The strange, unexpected flutter of something that might be hope.
Two babies.
My world is ending.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's beginning.