What if he does want it but I'm not ready?
What about the merger offer? Preston & Associates is expecting an answer by Friday. The same Friday Brennen needs my Celtic Knot vote. The same Friday everything in my life apparently needs to be decided.
And my career—how am I supposed to run a practice while pregnant? I can't run a solo practice while pregnant. I can barely run it now without being pregnant. The eighty-hour weeks, the constant stress, the never-ending pile of cases—how am I supposed to handle that with morning sickness and doctor's appointments and eventually a baby?
The merger starts to make more sense. Partnership with support. Maternity leave. Resources to actually have a life outside of work.
But accepting it means admitting I'm not Superwoman. That I can't do everything alone. That Emma Dawson needs help.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands and open my text thread with Miles. He sent me a message an hour ago.
Miles:How's your day going?
Normal. Casual. The kind of text message you send your wife when you don't know she's currently having a complete breakdown in a pharmacy bathroom twenty minutes from home.
I want to call him. Want to hear his voice. Want him to tell me everything's going to be okay, and we'll figure this out together.
But if I hear his voice right now, I'll break down. And I have the Henderson deposition at two. And a career that's depending on me to hold it together.
Also, I really want more pickles.
That thought—absurd and ridiculous and totally inappropriate given the magnitude of what I'm dealing with—makes me laugh. Then cry. Then laugh-cry while sitting on a pharmacy bathroom floor clutching five positive pregnancy tests.
I'm pregnant. I'm merging my practice. I'm voting on Celtic Knot's future. And apparently, I'm developing a pickle addiction that would concern any reasonable person.
My phone rings. Miles.
I stare at his name on the screen, my finger hovering over the answer button. But I can't. If I answer, I'll tell him. And I'm not ready. I need time to process this. To figure out what I want. To make a plan.
I text back.
Me:In meeting, call you later.
Liar. I'm a liar sitting on a bathroom floor surrounded by pregnancy tests.
I gather the tests, shove them in my purse with the receipt, and wash my hands thoroughly. My reflection in the mirror looks pale and terrified and nothing like the confident attorney who won a three-billion-dollar case two days ago.
The drive back to the office happens on autopilot. I don't remember getting in the car or pulling out of the parking lot. My brain is spinning through scenarios and timelines and the conversation I need to have with Miles.
If I tell him. When I tell him.
God, I have to tell him.
But first, I need to stop at the store for more pickles.
I pull into the grocery store parking lot and sit there for a minute, staring at the steering wheel. The merger offer is in on my desk. The positive pregnancy tests are in my purse. Brennen's texts are piling up in my phone.
Everything's converging on Friday. Every major decision I need to make, every life-changing choice, every admission that I can't handle everything alone—all of it crashing together in less than seventy-two hours.
I grab my purse and head into the store, making a beeline for the pickle aisle.
A woman in her sixties gives me a knowing smile as I load my cart with pickle jars.
"First baby?" she asks.
I freeze. "What?"
"The pickles." She gestures at my cart. "Classic pregnancy craving. I ate them with all three of mine."
