He lets out a chuckle, and I offer him a thin smile in the dark, an acknowledgement of his joke. We don’t know anything, and that makes men like Sean nervous.
Neither of us speak after that. The monitors hum, Willow breathes steady, and the night stretches long. We both know that nothing between us is simple anymore. We know this is only the beginning, and sooner or later, something or someone is going to break.
15
ROWAN
“What about your friend—what’sher name? Sharon?” I ask, my shoulder shoved against the doorframe, watching as Willow puts her things back into her bag. I try not to notice that she’s readingA Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. I wonder if that’s because of me.
“Cheyenne left last night. You have to trust me—if there were anyone else available, I would ask them. They’re all busy. Sean got called back for a delivery. Declan got pulled into…I forget what he said,” Willow trails off, holding up her sweater against her chest like she might put it on. Her hair’s still wild from the hospital pillow, her mouth twisted into her cheek as she considers.
“Consults,” I grumble, “It’s seventy-one degrees outside. Put the sweater in the bag.”
She looks up at me sharply, and her lips press into each other in an unwilling smile. “Come on, are you really going to make a pregnant woman call a taxi company?”
“What about your family?”
“You want to open that can of worms now?” she asks me, zipping up her bag. “I’m ready,” she announces, like I was waiting for her.
But she’s right. I’m not going to make her call a taxi.
“Grand,” I say, pointing to the wheelchair in the corner of the room. “You know the drill.”
She eyes the wheelchair like it’s a personal insult. “Absolutely not.”
“Policy,” I tell her flatly.
“I can walk.”
My eyes meet hers, and I don’t even have to say it. She knows she can’t, not when she was admitted twelve hours ago with contractions that had every one of us thinking twelve weeks might be her limit. Her glare holds, but then she sinks into the chair like surrender. No words, no thank-you. Just stubborn compliance.
I wheel her through the hall. Nurses nod at me; I nod back. They all assume I’m steady, reliable. They don’t know my palms are sweating on the handles.
Outside, the night air is damp with salt, Charleston quiet in the way it only is early in the morning, still dewy and almost chilly. But not enough for a sweatshirt. My car waits at the curb. I angle the chair, plant my foot on the bar, and hold out my hand.
She stares at it like it’s a trap.
“Don’t make a holy show of it. Just take my hand,” I say, softer than I mean to.
Her fingers slip into mine, light and unwilling, and I lift her. She wobbles; my arm braces automatically at her back. For a second too long, her weight is against me, warm and fragile. Then she pulls away, and I help her into the seat, shutting the door quickly like a wound I’m stuffing shut.
The drive is quiet. She doesn’t talk; I don’t either. The city blurs past, Charleston asleep, lights skimming over the windshield. Every red light is a chance to say something, but I don’t take it. Her hand rests on her stomach like she’s reminding herself what she’s carrying, and I grip the wheel tighter, telling myself that’s why I can’t, why Ishouldn’t.
When I pull into her driveway, she fumbles with the key, and I take it before she drops it. The lock clicks open, and I carry her bag in. I set it down and look around her living room, the couch messy with blankets, the coffee table covered in old tea bags. A canvas with half a painting sits nearby on her dining table.
She turns to me, green eyes sharpening to a point. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I reply earnestly, my eyes drawn to the trash around her living room. Without thinking and without speaking, I start to pick up, to at least make some room for her that feels comfortable while she’s alone.
The silence stretches, and she watches me for a few moments before sighing, mercifully not fighting me on the cleaning. “I’ll make coffee.”
“You should be resting,” I protest, straightening and walking toward the kitchen like I might race her.
“And you should be gone,” she fires back, moving anyway. “But here you are.” She brings two mugs to the table and sets one in front of me. “And here I am.”
I drag out a chair and sit. My pulse is loud in my ears, too loud for how calm I look.
The coffee maker gurgles like it’s in pain. She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching it fill. Her shirt is slipping off one shoulder again, exposing the slope of her collarbone, pale in the dim kitchen light. I stare at the wood grain of her table instead.
