“Yeah,” I manage, my mouth dry. “They’ve been helping me a lot.”
“With the…baby?” She’s afraid to say it, but she knows it’s true. How could she not? I’m twice the size of myself. A small wave of relief shoots through me that I don’t even have to say the word “pregnant.”
“Babies,” I correct, and Rowan holds my fingers tighter.
“Oh my God. Oh myGod, Willow.” Camille lets out a strangled cry and turns to Cheyenne, who gives a small shrug, her expression something I can’t quite make out. It’s nostalgia and shock—it’s bittersweetness.
Mom sits gingerly on the edge of the bed like she’s entering church, then cups my face and looks at me like there’s something on my face to fix—a crack running through me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There it is. The question that’s been building for months.
I look down at my hands—at the tiny tremor that won’t quit—and then back up. “I didn’t know how. And then I kept not knowing. And then I was scared.”
Hurt flashes across her face. “Of me?” Mom asks, and it almost undoes me, almost pulls me apart piece by piece.
“Of everything,” I admit, swallowing. “Of telling, and of not telling. Of what you would think. Of what I would feel if you hated me for it.”
Under the blanket, Rowan squeezes my hand. I dare to look into his eyes for just a second, and he nods.
“I could never hate you. You’ll understand…soon? How many months along are you? You look…”
“Enormous, I know,” I finish for her.
“Third trimester with triplets,” Declan says from the doorway, gentle. He’s the exact right distance—near enough to be a resource, far enough to not crowd the moment. “She’s on bed rest right now. We’re monitoring.”
“Triplets,” Camille whispers. “What the fuck?”
That opens the floodgates, and I laugh out loud for a second, then realize that my face is sticky with tears falling down my cheeks and over my chin. They’ve pooled into my neck. Rowan dabs at them with his sleeves.
“And who are you exactly? Who is this ‘we’ monitoring my little girl?” my mom asks Declan, a look of suspicion on her face.
For a moment, Declan looks frozen, his face almost as red as his hair. Sean comes to his rescue, grabbing him by the shoulder to jolt him out of it and handing him a donut from the box Camille brought. “Well,I’mDr. Sean Byrne,” he says, flashing a grin before taking a bite of a donut. “Friend. Occasional butler. Sometimes emotional support human.”
That earns another small laugh, this one from Mom. He hands her a donut, and she presses a hand to her heart like she’s trying to steady it. “Emotional support human, that’s a new one. And a doctor. Thank goodness. And where’s that accent from, Dr. Byrne?”
“Dublin. Same place as their accents.” He offers her another smile that makes his dimples pop, and I swear I see my mom blush.
Declan steps forward next, setting down his donut and brushing his hands off to offer it to my mom with quiet politeness. “Declan. Um, Dr. Declan Murray. I’m a physician. I’ve beenhelping Willow monitor the pregnancy—checking vitals, meds, all that.”
Mom shakes his hand automatically. “Another doctor? Well, I suppose that makes sense. It takes a whole village for one baby; I suppose three need their own zip code.” Her voice wavers, but there’s warmth there now.
Rowan, still beside me, lifts his chin. “Rowan,” he says simply. “I’m here to make sure she doesn’t overdo it.”
Camille cocks a brow. “And do you succeed?”
He glances at me, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Some days. She can be stubborn.”
“Runs in the family,” Camille says with a shrug.
Cheyenne grabs a donut of her own from the box. “They mean well, Nina. They’ve basically turned the house into a soft launch for a baby spa. Nobody’s ever been so hydrated.”
“Well, that’s great, but who’s the dad?” Camille takes a donut herself, red velvet with cream cheese frosting, and looks from me to the men again, eyes narrowing. “Are you the dad?” she asks Sean. “You seem comfortable. Or is the guy holding her hand under the blanket the dad?” She looks at Rowan, and all my fears come flooding back. Telling them about the triplets was one thing. Telling them about the guys is something else entirely.
Mom shoots her a look. “Camille?—”
“What? Someone had to ask!”
The room goes silent except for the clink of a teaspoon, waiting on my answer. It’s funny to think that I can’t honestly answer itanyway. Anxiety swells as I consider all the ways I could tell the truth and all the ways I could lie.
