I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Sean springs up immediately, always eager for a spotlight. Declan follows slowly, throwing a hesitant look my way. “You okay with this?” he mouths, and I shrug, wishing I were invisible.
Rowan shakes his head at them both, but Sean says, “If you don’t, how will everyone know you’re the smartest in the room?” and Rowan rolls his eyes but starts walking, dragging his feet. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but the sparkle in his eye tells me it’s a façade, that he’s enjoying the attention. He nods atMabel as he walks up, a small bow of his head, and waves to the expectant mothers and their partners.
Sean does what Sean does—takes two steps forward, hands open, laugh already warmed up in his chest. “Evening, folks. I’m Dr. Sean Byrne. This is Dr. Declan Murray and Dr. Rowan Carroll. We’ll try to help demystify, not terrify ye.” His accent makesterrifysound like a flirt. “We’ll take any questions for as long as Mabel here will let us.”
Declan stands a pace behind him, a wall in a nice button-down. He nods once, not smiling, like he’s about to enforce curfew with data. Rowan hovers off to the side near the cart of foam pelvises. I decide not to think too hard about the cart of foam pelvises.
Hands go up. Sean takes a question about epidurals and myths. Declan takes one about visitors and boundaries. Rowan handles induction timelines with multiples.
I sink lower in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, holding my shoulders in a self-soothing hug. The embarrassment quickly subsides as I realize that the attention on them doesn’t mean attention on me. If anything, it means less time doing breathing exercises while someone holds my ankles, or whatever a Lamaze class entails.
“Is it true that stress can bring on early labor?” someone asks.
Declan answers clinically. “There’s evidence that chronic stress hormones can impact outcomes, yes. Which is why support systems matter.”
“Should the dad cut the cord?” another voice pipes up.
Sean grins, sliding the mic toward himself metaphorically. “If he doesn’t faint first. Personally, I recommend it. Symbolic. Makes for good photos. Bonus points if you don’t pass out on camera.”
“Is circumcision beneficial?”
Rowan looks like he could yawn, his eyelids heavy and his expression neutral. “Beneficial to debate at Christmas dinner, if yer mad enough. Medically, it’s preference and culture.”
Laughter ripples through the room. Even I smile, despite myself.
And then it happens.
A woman tilts her head toward me and smiles. “I just have to say,” she says, projecting the way theater kids do, “it’s so coolall threeof you showed up for your partner tonight. Modern love, right?”
Everything in me flushes. I feel that instant full-body heat of the kind of embarrassment you’ll still remember on your deathbed.
Silence snaps across the room. Declan goes very still, which is how Declan expresses ninety emotions at once; his shoulders notch tighter like he could shield me with anatomy. Rowan’s eyes flick down, then away, as if he could fold himself into the nearest shadow. If vanishing were a specialty, he’d have it. Sean looks to me, waiting to see if I’ll handle it, but I can only manage to croak, “They’re not—we’re just?—”
But Sean only leans down, stage-whispering into the mic that doesn’t exist, “She doesn’t like to brag, but we’re very progressive, sure.”
Soft laughter peals through the class. Declan goes rigid. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and his hand flexes like he wants to shield me from the assumption. Rowan looks like he’s prayingfor spontaneous combustion. His ears turn scarlet. He half turns toward the exit, like he’s genuinely considering bolting. I, meanwhile, am actively planning my own fake death. Maybe I can move to Canada under a new name. I bury my face in my hands, cheeks blazing, wishing breathing really did come naturally.
Mabel, professional that she is, glides in. “We’re lucky to have so much support in the room tonight, period,” she says brightly. “No wrong ways to feel held. Okay, on to side-lying positions! Can we demonstrate with you, Willow?”
Startled, I blink and look around, like there might be another, unluckier Willow. “Um, sure,” I manage, and the word tastes dangerous. I nod, and suddenly three men are orbiting me, careful hands and measured inches.
“Okay, dads, can she borrow your hands for a minute?” she asks with a too-wide smile.Dads.The word catches me off guard, but when I look up, none of them look perturbed by the title.
Sean moves first, of course. He kneels at my feet, his shoulder brushing my shin as he drags a pillow into place. “Alright,” he says, eyes glittering. “Don’t worry, I’mdeadlywith props. Stagecraft minor.”
The class chuckles, but my throat is dry. His fingers graze my calf as he straightens the pillow, warm through the thin fabric of my leggings, and goose bumps bloom up my skin.
“Stagecraft isn’t a degree,lad,” Declan mutters, already at my other side. He lifts my knees into position with practiced strength, adjusting me like he’s both guarding and commanding me. His knuckles brush the inside of my thigh, and heat rushes through me so quickly I pray the flush only shows in my face.
“It worked for Shakespeare,” Sean fires back, smirking, but Declan ignores him, crouched close, his arm braced like a fortress at my back. “Is this okay?” Sean asks, softer now, like he’s tuned into the sudden change in my breathing.
“It’s fine,” I say, too quickly.It’s not fine at all. It’s molten.
Declan adjusts the pillow a fraction more, his voice dropping as he murmurs, “Better?” His eyes catch mine, sharp and unreadable, and something in my stomach coils tighter.
Mabel narrates, oblivious. “Notice how she rolls onto her side. Pillow at the back, one between the knees, and another under the belly if needed.”
