13
WILLOW
Plastic chairs are arrangedin a semicircle facing a whiteboard. There’s a stack of yoga mats in the corner and a basket of rolled-up towels, neither of which instill any confidence that this will be “a breeze,” as Sean said.
I’m wedged between the men, my men—not mine but somehow…yes, mine. The plastic chair creaks under me, and Sean leans close enough for his breath to tickle my hairline.
“Front row seat,” he whispers. “Best view in the house, so it is.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Shut up.” He looks back to the front, a smile hiding from me, one ankle over his knee, charm pouring off him like cologne off a stranger walking by.
Declan catches the motion and frowns, protective even from three inches away. “You all right there?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Perfect. Couldn’t be better.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Of course he doesn’t. Convincing Declan means building a PowerPoint presentation with twenty slides, footnotes, and probably a signed affidavit. Alreadyramrod straight, he straightens his posture even further, military straight, and squares his shoulders like he’s about to run a drill.
The instructor, a cheerful woman in her forties with a cardigan that could double as a blanket, beams at the group and walks up to the front, clapping her hands. “Welcome to Lamaze for multiples, everyone! I’m your instructor, Mabel. Tonight, we’re going to practice some positions for comfort, learn about stages of labor, and?—”
She stops when her eyes snag on Declan and Sean flanking me like bodyguards. “Oh. Double the support system. That’s wonderful.”
“Triple,” Sean says smoothly, jerking his chin toward the doorway.
I follow his gaze, and my heart stumbles over itself. Rowan. Lamaze is supposed to be about breathing—in and out, steady and calm—which makes it especially ironic that the second he walks through the classroom door, I forget how to do any of those things.
Rowan slips in like he’s allergic to being seen, quiet as a shadow, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks disheveled, his jaw rough with stubble. He walks up to us and stands behind me, his presence stifling and heavy over me.
Heat prickles across my chest. The last time we spoke, his words were sharp enough to leave bruises.Smarter than they are,he threw at me, like I was foolish for wanting more than cold distance, like they were foolish for giving it to me.
When he walked away from me, I was sure he was done, and I was ready to be done too. I didn’t think that he’d actually come to class, even though I invited him. But I feel a flicker of relief.
The truth is, I wanted this—his presence. Him. No matter how tangled it is. Maybe I wanted it even more because it was tangled, not as easy as Sean’s and Declan’s affection, something harder to get. Something hiding behind walls I have to break down.
Swallowing hard, I offer a weak smile to Declan, who seems to have noticed the ache permeating off me. Hope, betrayal, want, all knotted so tight I can’t separate one from the other.
Get it together, Willow. Your daddy issues are showing.
I focus back in on Mabel—the instructor with the frazzled, chaotic art teacher energy—and her spiel about stages of labor, dilating cervixes, and breathing rhythms. I do my best to focus, but it’s impossible when I’m bookended by a furnace on my left and a thundercloud on my right, with a phantom lurking behind me.
Halfway through, Mabel makes a comment about triplets being “rare but not necessarily high-risk if everything stays normal.”
Declan stiffens like someone just told him gravity is optional. His hand shoots up even as I shake my head wildly, and when the instructor kindly nods at him, he launches.
“Actually,” he says, his voice carrying that doctor’s edge I’ve heard in the hospital, “triplet pregnancies arealwaysconsidered high-risk. The maternal and fetal complications multiply exponentially, and?—”
“Declan,” I mutter, grabbing his sleeve. “Please don’t.”
But it’s too late. Mabel blinks at him, then tilts her head, curious. “You sound like you know quite a bit about this.”
“I’d hope so,” Sean interjects, grinning, “Or else MUSC is wasting afeck of a lot ofmoney on him.”
Declan ignores him, focusing on the instructor with that intense, all-business gaze. “I’m a physician. Maternal-fetal medicine.”
Conversation slows to a hush. Partners exchange quick, curious glances. Mabel glances between Declan, Sean, and Rowan. “You’re with the program at MUSC. That new high-risk program! Aren’t you?” She interrupts herself, chuckling. “Wait. You’re notwiththe program. Youarethe program.”
There’s a ripple of recognition through the room—whispers, someone elbowing their neighbor.Great. Just great.
She brightens when the men nod. “Would you three be willing to come up here and talk to the class? Maybe answer some questions? I’m sure everyone would really appreciate hearing from specialists.”
