“No,” Willow says, breath shallow. “They don’t.”
“And they don’t know about…us,” Declan adds, choosing theuslike a scalpel cut—clean, precise.
“No,” Willow says again.
I hold the washcloth in midair, suddenly unsure what part of the ritual is still useful when an asteroid is headed for our living room. “Okay,” I say. It comes out strangled. I clear my throat. “Okay,” I repeat. “We can do this.”
“Can we?” Willow whispers. Her eyes have forgotten how to blink. The babies shift as if they’re trying to read the room too.
I kneel by the bed, take her hand, and do the thing I learned the hard way—name the scary animal. “Your mom and sister are coming,” I say. “They don’t know you’re pregnant with triplets.They don’t know about us. That is…a lot of oxygen for one fire. But we can regulate the burn.”
“Are you doing a metaphor right now?” she asks, blinking at me.
“I was,” I say. “And now I’m done with it.”
She nods briskly. “Good metaphor. Ten out of ten. Okay, division of labor.” She starts pointing like an air-traffic controller. “Declan, you’re on medical. You are Dr. Soothing. Show them charts if they get amped. Show thembreathingif they get judge-y. Sean, you’re hospitality. Food, drinks, distracting jokes, zero flirting with older relativesno matter how much they flirt with you back.”
Sean puts a hand to his chest. “I am offended and yet seen.”
“And Rowan,” she starts.
“I’m you,” I tell her.
“What?”
“You’re going to need someone to stand with you and hold your boundaries firm. You’re in a little bit of a compromised position,” I point out.
Declan furrows his brow. “That’s a good idea. Don’t let her get up. Rotate her every fifteen minutes.”
“Stop talking aboutrotatingme!” Willow hisses.
Declan nods at her placatingly but then says quietly to just me, “If she gets dizzy or says anything about sparkles, call 911.”
“You’re bossy,” Willow snaps.
“I’m efficient,” Declan defends himself.
“If you’re so efficient, how have you missed that someone should put away the evidence, for God’s sakes?” Willow whispers fervently. She points. The living room. The couch. The envelope tucked into the crack like a secret you can feel if you sit the wrong way.
Declan nods once. “I’ll handle it.” He sweeps into the living room, a man on a mission to hide the government. Sean disappears into the kitchen and starts a storm of clinks. I take Willow’s hand and feel the tremor there, tiny but relentless.
“Breathe with me?” I ask.
She nods, and I lead her through the pattern I use when panic would like to put its mouth over my mouth. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Again. Again. The babies shift under my palm where it rests on the high drum of her belly. They are so here. I would stand between them and any force on Earth if I could do it with my body.
She calms some. Not all the way. That’s fine. Terror has a right to a seat; it just doesn’t get to drive.
“What do we say?” she asks, after a minute.
“What do you want to say?” I counter.
She looks at the ceiling as if the right answer might be stenciled up there. “That I’m pregnant,” she says, shy and proud and scared all at once. “That I’m doing my best. That I am loved. That I chose this.” Her eyes slide to me and don’t quite make it without breaking. “That I am not alone.”
“I can say that,” I tell her. It feels like being given someone’s most expensive glass and told to drink and not drop it.
Sean reappears with a tray like a sitcom but better—little bowls of cut fruit, the crackers Cheyenne says are the best crackers, tea, lemon honey warm in a mug, and something sugary he must have conjured from the back of a cabinet. He’s changed shirts in the thirty seconds he was gone. ’Tis possible Sean can teleport; we’ll investigate later.
“Welcome committee menu,” he announces, setting it on the nightstand. “Tea, because moms love tea. Honey, because voices get loud and honey makes them quiet. Fruit, because everyone pretends to want fruit when they’re nervous. And these little cookies I found that are probably stale but look great.”
