Chapter 10
Grant
The waiting room is packed with pregnant women. I've been in a thousand high-stakes meetings, negotiated deals worth hundreds of millions, but sitting here on this uncomfortable chair with a three-month-old copy of Parenting magazine on my lap, I feel completely out of my depth.
Emma sits beside me, filling out forms on a clipboard. Her knee bounces—a nervous habit I've noticed more and more recently. I want to reach over and still it with my hand, but I'm not sure if that would comfort her or make her more anxious.
We've spent nearly every night together since the dinner that ended in my bedroom. She hasn't moved into the Tribeca apartment—and I won’t bring it up for fear that she’ll freak out—but she shows up at my place after work, and we talk about everything and nothing until she falls asleep on my couch while I’m rubbing her feet. Then I carry her to bed.
Yesterday afternoon, she called me in a panic.
She had started bleeding a little and was certain she was losing the babies.
I got in touch with someone at the practice I know specializes in multiple pregnancies and a nurse called Ella and talked her through the situation.
She told her to rest for the rest of the day and made an appointment for her to come in today to see a doctor.
The spotting stopped last night, but she’s still shaken up by the whole thing.
"They want my insurance information," Emma says, her voice tight. "I have it through the plan I got when I started Essence, but the deductible is insane, and I don't know if it even covers—"
"Use mine."
She looks up from the clipboard. "What?"
"My insurance. I can add you to my policy." I keep my voice casual, like I'm suggesting where to order dinner. "The coverage is comprehensive, and there's no deductible for prenatal care or delivery."
"Grant—"
"It makes sense and I should have thought of it earlier." I meet her eyes, reading the panic starting to build there. "You need good coverage for a twin pregnancy—and the best care possible."
Her jaw tightens, and I can see her fighting with herself. The independent part of her that wants to handle everything alone, warring with the practical part that knows twin pregnancies aren't cheap.
"Okay," she says finally. "Thank you."
The concession costs her. I can see it in the way her shoulders curve inward slightly, like she's bracing for me to take over more of her life now that she's accepted this one thing.
I lean closer, lowering my voice even though the waiting room is mostly empty. "Emma. Look at me."
She does, and I see fear in her eyes. Fear of what accepting my help means.
"This is just insurance," I say gently. "I'm not going to use this as leverage to make decisions about your body or your business or your life. It's just practical support. That's all."
Her breath shudders out. "Sorry. I know you're not—I know you're trying to help. I just—"
"I know." I reach for her hand then, threading my fingers through hers. "But we're in this together, remember? That's what we agreed."
She nods, squeezing my hand.
I text my head of HR and ask her to add Emma to my plan immediately.
A nurse appears in the doorway, calling Emma's name. We both stand, and I follow Emma down a hallway to the exam room. The nurse weighs Emma, takes her blood pressure, and asks her a series of questions.
"Dr. Martelle will be in shortly," the nurse says, handing Emma a folded gown. "Go ahead and change from the waist down, and she'll get started with the ultrasound."
The door clicks shut, and Emma stares at the gown like it's personally offended her.
"Do you want me to step out?" I ask.
"No." She sets down her purse and starts unbuttoning her jeans. "I just hate these things. They never close properly, and the paper crinkles every time you move, and—" She stops, pressing her lips together. "Sorry. I'm nervous."
"I know." I am too, though I'm trying not to show it. "Want me to distract you?"
"With what?"
"I could tell you about the Henderson acquisition. The whole thing fell through yesterday because the environmental survey came back with soil contamination issues that would cost more to remediate than the property's worth."
She actually laughs, a surprised sound that eases some of the tension I’m feeling. "You're going to distract me with failed real estate deals?"
"Is it working?"
"A little." She steps out of her jeans and panties and pulls the gown around her waist, tying it in front. The paper crinkles as she sits on the examination table. "Keep going."
I do, spewing out the details of the Henderson property's slow-motion collapse while she settles onto the table. It's ridiculous but it makes her smile and her shoulders relax slightly, so I keep talking.
There's a knock, and then the door opens to reveal a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun, and a warm smile that immediately puts me at ease.
"Emma? I'm Dr. Martelle." She extends her hand, and Emma shakes it. Then Dr. Martelle turns to me. "And you must be Dad."
Dad. The word hits me squarely in the chest.
"Grant Cross," I manage, shaking her hand.
"Nice to meet you both." Dr. Martelle settles onto a rolling stool, pulling up Emma's file on a tablet. "So, Emma, I've reviewed the notes from Dr. Byers. You're about nine weeks along now, is that right?"
"Coming up on ten weeks," Emma says. "According to my first ultrasound."
"Perfect. And how are you feeling? Any nausea or fatigue?"
"Both. The nausea is better later in the day, but mornings are pretty rough."
“And the bleeding from yesterday… has that stopped?”
Emma lets out a little sigh. “Yes, thankfully.”
Dr. Martelle nods, tapping notes into her tablet.
"All this is completely normal for the first trimester, and often more pronounced with multiples.
The nausea should start to ease up around week twelve or thirteen.
" She looks up and smiles. "I know Dr. Byers already confirmed you're having twins, but today we're going to take another look, check their development, and listen to their heartbeats. Sound good?"
Emma nods, her hand finding mine and gripping tight.
"All right." Dr. Martelle moves to the ultrasound machine, pulling on gloves. "Go ahead and lie back for me, Emma. This is going to be transvaginal again—best way to get clear images this early. You'll feel a little pressure, but let me know if it hurts."
I've been in a delivery room before. With Victoria, when Samantha was born eighteen years ago.
But that experience was nothing like this.
Victoria was calm throughout her entire pregnancy, treating the whole thing like a project to be managed.
She scheduled her C-section with the same efficiency she brought to planning dinner parties.
I was there because I was supposed to be, because it was expected.
This is different. Emma's hand is trembling in mine. Her breathing is shallow, anxious.
I lean close, my mouth near her ear. "I'm right here. Whatever we see on that screen, whatever Dr. Martelle says, I'm right here with you."
She turns her head, meeting my eyes. "Promise?"
"Promise."
Dr. Martelle adjusts the equipment, her movements practiced and precise. "All right, Emma, here we go."
Emma's grip on my hand tightens until I can feel my bones protest, but I don't say a word. Just hold on and watch her face as Dr. Martelle works.
The screen flickers to life, showing grainy black and white images I can't make sense of. Shapes and shadows, nothing recognizable. Dr. Martelle adjusts the wand, her eyes fixed on the monitor.
Then sound fills the room.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
Fast. Impossibly fast.
Emma's breath catches.
"There we go," Dr. Martelle says enthusiastically. "That's heartbeat number one."
My own heart seems to stop.
On the screen, Dr. Martelle points to a small oval shape, and inside it, I can see movement. A flicker. Rapid and steady and undeniably real.
That's my child. Half my DNA, half Emma's, growing into a person with thoughts and dreams and a future I can't even imagine yet.
"Strong and steady," Dr. Martelle continues, checking measurements on the screen. "Right where we want to be at nine-and-a-half weeks."
Emma makes a sound—something between a laugh and a sob. Her eyes are locked on the screen, tears starting to track down her temples.
"And now let's find baby number two," Dr. Martelle says, moving the wand slightly.
More shapes. More shadows. Then—
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
A second heartbeat, as fast and strong as the first.
"There they are," Dr. Martelle says, clearly pleased. She points to another oval on the screen, slightly to the left of the first. "Two strong heartbeats. Both measuring right on track."
I stare at the screen, and now I can make sense of what I'm seeing. Two separate sacs. Two flickering movements. Two impossibly fast heartbeats filling the quiet room.
Something cracks open in me—something I didn't even know was locked away.
All the careful control I've maintained for the past week, all the measured responses and practical solutions and attempts to be supportive without being overwhelming—it all shatters in the face of those two tiny, pulsing shapes.
These babies are mine, and they're depending on me to protect them. To be better than I was with Samantha. To show up fully and completely with my time and my attention.
"Grant?" Emma's voice is thick with tears. "Are you okay?"
I haven't cried since the divorce was finalized and I realized how completely I'd failed my marriage. How thoroughly I'd let work consume me until there was nothing left to give Victoria or Samantha.
But looking at those two heartbeats, knowing they're tiny humans who will one day call me dad, who will need me in ways that have nothing to do with money—
I'm not okay. I'm the opposite of okay.
"Yeah," I manage, my voice rough. "I'm—yeah."