Cheyenne slants me a look. “Still. I’m sure they’re good men, but…this is messy, Willow. Protect your heart.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.” She smiles at me through the rearview mirror. “Just because they did the right thing today doesn’t mean they get free rent in your head. Ethics aren’t flowers—they’re a baseline.”
“I know,” I say again, quieter. The ultrasound photo on my fridge floats to mind—three small moons, three bright centers. “It’s…complicated.”
“Of course it is,” she says, softer. “You’re allowed complicated. Point is, you don’t owe anyone access to you right now. Not your mom. Not your boss. Not three men with soft voices and impossible cheekbones.”
“Impossible,” Dylan echoes, delighted. “Put that on the list of rules:No impossible cheekbones allowed after eight p.m.”
Cheyenne snaps her fingers. “We reallyshouldmake a list.”
I groan. “Oh God.”
“A fun list,” she amends. “Rules for the next few months. Willow’s Heart Preservation Protocol.” She grabs a pen from the center console and gives it to Dylan, and he starts scribbling obediently on the back of some mail from the glove box. “Number one: no texting after nine p.m., because hormones plus nighttime equals crying over insurance commercials.”
“True,” Dylan says.
“Number two: if, before nine pm, you’re starting to feel some type of way…make sure you’re not hungry.” She holds up threefingers. “Number three: if Rowan continues to be distant in a way that makes you ache, you tell me and we go buy something we don’t need and return it the next day after looking at ourselves in good lighting.”
Dylan nods gravely. “If you see something that Dylan might like, that’s cool too…”
“Number four,” Cheyenne says, “we plan joy on purpose. Weekly. Small.”
They tease me a little longer, the kind of teasing that’s gentle, ridiculous, and takes the sting out of a day that cut deep. Cheyenne makes me promise to try the fancy prenatal gummy that tastes like orange slices. Dylan asks if someone necessarilyhasto be pregnant to take those gummies or if they’re good for everyone.
When we get to my place, Cheyenne parks the car and gets out to hug me. It centers me, and I try not to think of what a hug with my best friend will be like as the babies get bigger. She pulls back and looks into my face in a familiar way, pushing some of my hair behind my ears. “Hey,” she tells me quietly, “you did good today.”
“Did I?” My voice comes out small and honest.
“You kept your center,” she says. “You named what you needed. You didn’t let anyone else drive.”
When I get inside, I stand in my kitchen and press my palm to the cool glass of the ultrasound print. Three little peanut-shaped blurs. Three futures. My phone buzzes on the counter with a new email from MUSC—appointment confirmed with Dr. Patel’s team, Wednesday at 10:15. I feel, for the first time indays, like my body is mine even as it makes a miracle without my conscious instruction.
The café is already becoming a photograph in my mind—Rowan’s profile etched against the menu written on a blackboard in the background, Sean’s hand around a cup of coffee, Declan’s wet lashes and tight shirt.
Another buzz. A message from Cheyenne:I told Dylan we’re naming the Heart Preservation Protocol “Project Don’t Cry Over Cheekbones.” He said it’s too long. Send help.
I laugh. I text her a heart. I text Dylan a knife emoji because balance.
Then I put the phone down and stand very still. I take the prenatal with a glass of water and a lemon wedge. I open the window and let the marsh air in. Somewhere, gulls argue like old men.
I breathe in. I breathe out.
My heart is loud, but for once, I’m the one keeping time.
10
DECLAN
Two weeksafter I promised Willow I’d stay out of her medical business, I see her name on the board at the nurses’ station. I knew she’d be coming for a viability scan. I’m one of the people who set it up. I thought about it all last night, how I’d be seeing her again today, or rather that I wouldn’t be seeing her.
Seeing her name on the board is a reminder of all the things that could go wrong, made even worse by the words “elevated BP” next to her name. My stomach drops. I tell myself not to notice the room number next to her name, not to walk by that room. I’ve recused. I’m not her doctor. But my feet don’t listen.
I tell myself I always do this, walking the unit like someeejitwith nowhere better to be. I tell myself I always walk all the way down the hallway and nod at the nurses in their rooms, that it’s a coincidence when I end up outside her room, peeking in.
Nurse Nicole pushes the cuff again, frowning at the screen.
