Chapter 10 #2
Dr. Martelle walks us through the images, pointing out measurements that mean nothing to me but apparently indicate healthy development. She prints out photos, multiple copies, and promises to send the full report to Emma's patient portal.
I barely hear any of it. I can't stop thinking about what’s to come.
"All right, Emma" Dr. Martelle says, wrapping up the appointment. “I want to see you back in two weeks, and we'll keep monitoring you closely since this is a twin pregnancy. Any questions?"
Emma shakes her head, still crying. Happy tears, I think. Or maybe overwhelmed tears. Maybe both.
"How about you, Grant? Any questions?"
I have a thousand questions. What happens if there are complications? What if something goes wrong? What if I fail these children the way I failed Samantha? What if I let Emma down when she needs me most?
But what comes out is, "How do I keep them safe?"
Dr. Martelle's expression softens. "You're already doing it. Being here, being supportive, making sure Emma has good prenatal care—that's exactly what these babies need right now. Keep doing that, and they'll be just fine."
It should be reassuring. It's not. Because being here, being supportive—that's the bare minimum. That's what I did with Victoria, and it wasn't enough. She needed more. And so did Samantha.
Emma and these babies deserve more.
Dr. Martelle leaves us alone to let Emma get dressed, and I move to the window, staring out at the parking lot below.
I hear the rustle of paper as Emma climbs down from the table, the soft sound of fabric as she pulls on her jeans. When I turn around, she's tucking her shirt in, her face still streaked with tears.
"Wow, that was something," she says, trying for lightness and not quite achieving it.
"Yeah."
She studies my face, her expression shifting to concern. "You don’t look great. Do you need to sit down?"
"I'm fine." I'm not fine. I'm completely gutted. But I don't know how to explain that to her. Don't know how to articulate the enormity of what I just felt.
Emma crosses to me, and her hand finds my chest, right over my heart. "Talk to me. What's going on in there?"
How do I explain this?
"I wasn't prepared for it to feel like that," I say finally.
"Like what?"
My hand covers hers, holding it against my chest. "Emma, I've been thinking about this—about the pregnancy, about becoming a father again—as something to manage. A situation to navigate."
"I know." There's no accusation in her voice. Just understanding.
"But seeing them—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "Hearing their heartbeats. They're real, and they're ours, and I—"
I sound like a bumbling idiot as the words jam in my throat. I can't get them out.
Emma steps closer, her free hand coming up to cup my face. "Hey. It's okay. Whatever you're feeling, it's okay."
"What if I screw this up the way I screwed up with Samantha? What if I'm so busy trying to solve problems that I miss what they actually need? What if—"
"Grant." Emma's voice is firm now. "Stop."
I do, meeting her eyes.
"You're already doing better than you did with Samantha," she says. "You know what she needed that she didn't get. You know what went wrong. That means you can do it differently this time."
"You have a lot of faith in me."
"I do." She says it simply, like she really believes it. "Because you showed up today even though you were nervous. Because you held my hand through that ultrasound even though you were dealing with your own feelings. Because you're here, Grant."
The words unlock something in me. She's right. I am here. And maybe that's enough.
I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her and holding on like she's the only thing keeping me grounded. She melts into me, her arms circling my waist, her head resting against my chest.
"Those are our babies," I say into her hair.
"Yeah."
"I'm going to be a father. Again."
"You are." She pulls back enough to look at me, and there's something fierce in her expression. "And I know—I know we're both scared of screwing it up. But we’re in this together.”
Together. The word resonates through my entire body.
Two people figuring it out as they go, making mistakes and fixing them, supporting each other without one person disappearing into the other's shadow.
"Together," I agree.
She stretches up and kisses me, and I taste salt from her tears. When she pulls back, she's smiling. "We should probably leave before they need this room for the next patient."
Right. I release her reluctantly, and we gather our things—Emma's purse, the folder of information Dr. Martelle gave us, the ultrasound photos that I already know I'm going to look at a hundred times tonight.
We check out at the front desk, and Emma schedules her next appointment.
The receptionist congratulates us, and I realize this is going to keep happening.
People are going to congratulate us. They're going to ask about the pregnancy, about names, about nursery colors and birth plans and a thousand other things I haven't even begun to think about.
And soon—very soon—David is going to find out. And so will Victoria and Samantha.
The fragile bubble Emma and I have been living in will burst spectacularly when that happens.
But standing here in this doctor's office, with Emma's hand in mine and ultrasound photos of our children in our folder, I realize something with absolute clarity.
I don't care.
Let David rage. Let Victoria scheme. Let Samantha be disgusted. Let the whole world have an opinion about my relationship with Emma, about the age gap, about the timing.
None of it matters.
What matters is the woman standing beside me, who's trying so hard to be brave while being scared out of her mind. What matters are the two tiny lives growing inside her, depending on both of us to get this right.
Everything else is just noise.
We walk to the car in silence, the spring sunshine bright and warm on my face. Emma's quiet, and I can practically feel her thinking. Processing what we just went through.
My driver opens the door, and we slide into the back seat.
Emma leans against me, her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her, and we ride in comfortable silence for several blocks.
Then she says, "I keep thinking about what you said. About not being prepared for it to feel like that."
"Yeah?"
"I wasn't either." Her voice is soft. "When Dr. Byers showed me the first ultrasound, I was so panicked about the logistics—the money, the timing, telling you—that I didn't really let myself feel it. But today, hearing those heartbeats with you there—"
She stops, and I wait.
"It felt so much more real," she finishes. "Are you ready for all of this?"
The question deserves honesty. "No. But I don't think anyone ever really is. You just do your best."
"What if our best isn't enough?"
I tilt her face up so I can see her eyes. "Then we figure it out. We ask for help. We learn. We try again." I brush my thumb across her cheek.
She nods, fresh tears welling. "I'm really glad you were there today."
"There's nowhere else I would have been."
And I mean it. Nothing—no business meeting, no property deal, no obligation—would have kept me from that appointment. From seeing and hearing those heartbeats. From being there when Emma needed me.
That right there is the difference. With Victoria, everything else came first. Work, deals, travel. Quality time was whatever was left over after I'd given my best energy to work.
With Emma, with these babies—they come first. Everything else can wait.
We pull up to my building, and I lead Emma inside, my hand on her lower back. In the elevator, she's quiet, staring at the ultrasound photos in her hands.
The elevator opens into my penthouse, and Emma heads straight for the couch, curling up in the corner. I pour us both water and join her, sitting close enough that our legs touch.
She's still staring at the photos. "They're so small."
"They'll get bigger. A lot bigger."
"In about twenty weeks, they'll be big enough that I won't be able to tie my own shoes."
Despite everything, I smile. "I'll tie them for you."
She looks at me, something soft in her expression. "Do you really mean that?"
"I'm all in." I set my water down and take her hands. "Emma, I need you to understand something. Those heartbeats—seeing them, hearing them—that changed me. I thought I was prepared for this. Thought I could approach it rationally but it's not rational. It's—"
"So much more," she says.
"Yeah. Everything." I look at our joined hands, then back at her face. "And I know that scares you. I know you're afraid of needing me, afraid of losing yourself. But I swear to you, I'm not interested in taking over your life. I just want to be part of it. Whatever that looks like.”
"I'm so scared of screwing this up."
"Me too."
"But I'm also—" She stops, searching for words. "I'm starting to think maybe we can actually do this.”
I pull her into my arms, and she tucks herself against me. We sit like that for a long time, not talking, just being. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, painting everything gold.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably work. Probably important.
But I ignore it.
Because Emma is here, our babies' heartbeats are still echoing in my ears, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I know exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Right here. Everything else can wait.
I look at Emma and I know, with a certainty that shakes me to my core, that I would burn down the world to protect her and the two tiny babies she’s carrying.