I type back.
Me: She's dealing with a lot right now. Give her space.
Ryan: Is she okay?
Me: She will be.
Ryan: That's cryptic.
Me: Trust me.
I head back to the living room where Emma's still planted on the couch, now with a pickle jar beside her laptop. She's eating them straight from the jar with a fork, her eyes glazed over as she reads something on her screen.
"I'm heading out," I say, grabbing my keys. "Wine review meeting. Should be back in an hour or two."
"Okay." She doesn't look up.
I hesitate at the door. "Emma?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you're dealing with—you know I'm here, right? If you need anything. If you want to talk. About anything."
She finally looks at me, and for a second, I think she's going to tell me. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, like a fish out of water.
"I know," she says quietly. "Thank you."
It's not a confession. But it's something.
I leave her surrounded by case files and pickle jars, already planning my next move. I can't fix her problems. Can't make the decisions for her. But I can make it safe for her to tell me.
Starting right now, I'm going to be the most supportive, patient, understanding husband in the history of marriage. Bland meals. Stocked pickles. Space while making sure she knows I'm here.
And when she's ready to tell me, I'll act surprised. Supportive. Thrilled.
Because I am thrilled. Terrified, yes. But also excited in a way I didn't expect.
I'm going to be a father. Emma's going to be a mother. And she's going to tell me about it when she's ready.
I pull into the parking lot for my meeting and sit there for a minute, staring at the photo of pickle jars on my phone.
Six jars. My wife has six pickle jars in her car and thinks I wouldn’t have noticed what's happening.
I'm buying more pickles on the way home.
Chapter 5
Emma
Thursday
I'm standing in my closet at 7am staring at clothes like they’ve offended me—everything looks wrong, feels wrong, and I'm three minutes from a major breakdown over a dress.
It's been one day since I found out I'm pregnant. Twenty-four hours of carrying this secret. One day of opening my mouth to tell Miles and having the words die in my throat. One entire day of watching him make me bland meals and pretend he doesn't notice I'm falling apart.
I pull out my navy sheath dress—professional, appropriate for the Celtic Knot Wine Exhibition. Then I notice the waistline. Too fitted. What if people can tell? I'm only six weeks, right? I’m late two weeks plus the four between my last period and when I was due. Is that how this works? I don’t know.
I throw it on the bed and grab a black A-line. Too funeral. Next.
