Chapter Twenty-Nine—Riley
The paternity results are still on Andrew's phone, screen dark, sitting in the middle of the kitchen table like a piece of furniture nobody's decided where to put yet.
I should text Jules. She’d lose her mind knowing it was Andrew’s. She’d also probably say she called it. That I was never going to make it out of his orbit. She might be right.
Andrew goes to shower. I stay at the table.
I'm still there when Ethan comes back in.
He doesn't ask how I'm doing or check my face for permission. He just sits down across from me, pulls out his phone, and scrolls for a second.
“I'm scheduling your next OB visit for Thursday.”
“Ethan---”
“You can pick the time.”
I watch him make the call. He gives my name, my date of birth, explains the situation in two sentences and zero unnecessary emotion. When he hangs up, he slides his phone across the table with a calendar notification already pulled up.
Ten-thirty Thursday morning.
“You didn't have to do that,” I say.
“Thursday works better than Friday. I have calls in the afternoon but the morning is clear.”
I look at him.
“You cleared your morning.”
“I moved two meetings. It's not a problem.”
It absolutely is a problem. I've seen his calendar. It's color-coded and frankly upsetting. But he says it so flat and matter-of-fact that I don't have the language to argue with it.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods once and gets up to pour himself more coffee, like he didn't just quietly rearrange his day.About an hour later, Liam walks through the front door carrying two grocery bags and what appears to be a printed document.
Printed. On paper. Folded in thirds.
“What is that,” I say.
He sets the bags on the counter, pulls the paper out, and unfolds it. “Pregnancy-safe foods by trimester. I printed two copies. One for the kitchen, one for your room.”
I stare at him.
He's six-four, built like he could dismantle a small vehicle with his bare hands, and he's holding a laminated chart.
“Is that laminated?”
“The copy place on the Strip does it for fifty cents.” He sets it on the counter, like it belongs there. “I also got the vitamins. The OB-recommended brand, not the generic. And ginger chews for the nausea. And these crackers. The kind that are supposed to help in the morning.”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
“You researched this,” I say.
“I read three articles and called my sister.”
“You have a sister.”
“Everyone says it like that.” He pulls a jar of peanut butter out of the second bag. “Her name is Elena. She has twins. She said protein first thing in the morning, before you're even fully awake. Like before you sit up. She said it changed her life.”
I look at the peanut butter. Then back at Liam, at the steady way he's watching me.
“You called your sister about me.”
“About prenatal nutrition,” he says, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Don't make it weird.”
“Liam---”
“She also wants to video call. You don't have to. I just told her about the situation and she got excited.” He holds up one hand. “She knows not to say anything to anyone. She's excellent at secrets. She kept mine for eleven years.”
“What secret did she keep for eleven years?”
“That I failed my driving test the first time.”
I burst out laughing.
He grins, wide and easy, like that was exactly what he was building toward.“You know laughing is actually good for the baby,” he says.
“That is not scientifically---”
“Elena has a PhD in biochemistry. She said laughter increases serotonin, which crosses the placental barrier. She was extremely specific about it.”
“Elena sounds unhinged.”
“Elena has twins and no sleep and she still runs a half marathon every spring. She's earned the right to be a little unhinged.” He reaches back into the bag. “She also said hydration is non-negotiable. So.” He sets a large water bottle on the counter. Already filled. Already has a straw.
The care in every small thing he's done settles over me like warm weight. I don't push it away this time.
“Thank you, Liam.”
He looks at me. The easy grin is still there, but underneath it he's just steady now.
“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”
Andrew appears in the doorway when I'm putting the vitamins in the cabinet.
He looks at the laminated chart on the counter. Then at Liam.
“Did you laminate that?”
“Fifty cents.”
Andrew picks it up, reads it for a second. “Good call on the ginger.” He sets it back down. “Who's Elena?”
“My sister.”
Liam sighs when Andrew gives him the same surprised look I did earlier. “Again with that.”
Andrew just smirks. “In twelve years I've learned your coffee order and the fact that you hate overhead lighting. That's it. I know nothing else about you.”
“You know my blood type.”
“You told me that unprompted---”
“It came up.”
“When does blood type just come up?”
“We were in the ER for six hours that one time. What else were we going to talk about?”
I look between them. “You two have been to the ER together?”
“Andrew broke his hand,” Liam says.
“It was a hairline fracture---”
“On a guy's face---”
“The details are not the point---”
“They are extremely the point---”
“This is not the story we're telling right now, Liam.”
Liam looks at me. “Poker game. Guy cheated. Andrew had opinions about it.”
I look at Andrew. Andrew looks at the ceiling.
“He did cheat,” Andrew says.
“He absolutely cheated,” Liam says. “But still.”
“He apologized.”
“Eventually.”
“Three weeks,” Liam says, crossing his arms. “Twenty-three days. I counted.”
Andrew turns to look at me with an expression that says you can see what I'm dealing with here.
I'm laughing too hard to help him.
Ethan comes back in around one, sets a folder on the counter without ceremony.
“What's that?” I say.
“Questions for the OB.” He opens it. Typed, organized by category, with space in the margins for notes. “I left room in the back for anything you want to add.”
Liam leans over to look. “Is it alphabetized?”
“It's by trimester and then by category.”
“That's close to the same thing.”
“It's not remotely the same thing.”
I pick the folder up and flip through it. The questions are thorough—detailed things about nutrition timing and genetic screening and second trimester changes I hadn't thought to ask. Three full pages.
Then I get to the bottom of the last page.
The font is slightly smaller, like he added it after. A single question, set apart from the others.
What can partners do to best support a healthy pregnancy?
Partners. Plural.
Not temporary visitors.
Permanent.
I close the folder slowly, the word still burning behind my eyes.
“Ethan.”
“Mm.”
“You wrote partners. Plural.”
He doesn't look up from his coffee. “That's what we are.”
The simplicity of it hits me square in the chest. No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just Ethan stating a fact like it's already been decided and filed away. My throat tightens, but this time I don't look away.
I put the folder down. “Okay,” I say quietly.
“Okay?” Liam echoes from his stool.
“Okay,” I repeat, steadier this time. “It counts.”
Liam nods. Satisfied. Like that was all he needed.
Andrew, from behind me, quiet, “Good.”
After dinner, the four of us end up on the sectional.
Liam at one end, legs stretched out. Andrew beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat without us touching. Ethan in the armchair angled toward the couch, book open, one ankle crossed over his knee.
Andrew puts his feet on the coffee table.
Ethan reaches over without looking up and moves them.
A few seconds pass.
Andrew puts them back.
Ethan moves them again.
I watch this happen three more times before I say anything.
“Why do you keep engaging?” I say to Ethan.
“If I stop, he'll put them on the cushions.”
Andrew, not opening his eyes, “He's right.”
“So you're just going to keep doing this.”
“Active deterrence.” Ethan turns a page. “It's working.”
“You're doing it right now,” I point out.
“Still working.”
Andrew's foot goes back on the table. Ethan's hand comes out. I give up and drop my head back against the cushion.
The penthouse feels like a separate thing from the chaos of Vegas below. Suspended above the noise.
For a second, everything feels steady.
Too steady.
Like the quiet before something breaks.
Liam is scrolling something. Ethan reads. Andrew has gone still beside me.
Then his hand comes down, open, between us on the cushion.
I put my hand in his.
He folds his fingers around mine, and his thumb starts moving slow across my knuckles.
That's all.
But the room reorganizes around it. Liam glances over, catches it, looks back at his phone. Ethan doesn't look up, but the corner of his mouth moves.
Nobody makes it a thing. That's the part that undoes me.
Since I was sixteen, I've known exactly what happens when you let people close. It's easier to need nothing, to build a life small enough that losing pieces of it doesn't wreck you. I got very good at it.
These three just keep not doing that.
Liam tips his head back and closes his eyes.
Ethan sets his book on his knee and looks over at me, and for a second it's just that—his eyes on mine, steady, no agenda. Then he glances at where Andrew's hand covers mine and then back up, and something in his expression changes.
“Come sit over here,” he says. Easy.
Not a command. Just an offer.
Andrew gives my hand a small squeeze before I let go.
I get up. Cross the few feet to his chair.
He shifts to make room and I tuck in beside him, his arm coming around my shoulders, and he goes back to his book without making it into a moment. Like this is where I was always going to end up and he was just waiting for me to figure it out.
From across the room, Liam watches us over his phone with that slow grin.
“There it is,” he says.
“Shut up,” I say.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say it looks nice. That's a compliment.” He sets his phone down. “You look like you belong there.”
I don't answer him.
Because he's right, and saying so out loud feels like the most dangerous thing I could do.
My phone buzzes on the armrest.
I reach for it.
Unknown number. Las Vegas area code.
I open it.
Connor: Just landed. Coming by for dinner Friday. Can't wait to see everyone.
I read it once.
Read it again.
I set the phone face-down on the coffee table.
“Friday,” I say.
Three heads turn.
Nobody asks who. Nobody needs to.
Liam's grin is gone.
Andrew goes very still on the couch.
Ethan's arm doesn't move from around my shoulders, but his hand tightens, just slightly, at my arm.
The four of us look at each other.
Three days.
“Friday,” Ethan says.
Not a question. Just confirmation, delivered flat and certain, like he's already running the numbers.
Three days.
I look back out at the city.
Connor is already on the ground. None of us moves.