Of course he is. Because Miles somehow always knows when I need him.
I send him the Murphy Park address. The same park where we got engaged all those years ago. Where he proposed under the oak tree with the carved initials. Where I said yes without hesitation because marrying Miles was the easiest decision I ever made.
Unlike every decision I'm currently facing.
I look at the pamphlets one more time. "Your First Trimester" stares back at me with its cheerful font and smiling pregnant woman on the cover.
"Okay," I whisper to the pamphlets. To myself. To the baby I'm apparently growing. "Time to stop being terrified alone."
I start the car and drive to Murphy Park, still wearing my ridiculous scarf, probably looking like I'm about to have a breakdown in public.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what's about to happen.
But at least this time I won't be alone.
Miles' car is already there when I arrive. He's leaning against the hood, arms crossed, looking unfairly calm and handsome in jeans and a t-shirt. When he sees me pull up, his expression shifts to concern.
I get out of the car clutching the pregnancy pamphlets like a life preserver. I'm still wearing the sunglasses. Still have the scarf. I probably look completely insane.
"Emma." He's walking toward me. "What's wrong?"
"Everything." My voice cracks. "Everything's wrong and I can't do this anymore and I'm sorry and I'm terrified and I need to tell you something."
He stops in front of me, gently taking the pamphlets from my hands. Looks down at them. "Your First Trimester." His eyes come back to mine.
"I'm pregnant," I blurt out. "Six weeks. I found out a few days ago and I've been too scared to tell you because what if you don't want this and what if I can't handle it and what if I'm terrible at it and I'm drowning in work and Preston wants an answer and Brennen needs my vote and everything's happening all at once and I'm out of pickles and I know that's not the priority here but my brain won't stop thinking about pickles?—"
"Emma." His hands are on my shoulders. Steady. Grounding. "Breathe."
"I can't breathe. I have too many things to breathe about."
"That's not how breathing works."
"Well, I'm bad at it right now!" I yell at him.
He pulls me into his arms, and I collapse against him, crying into his shoulder while wearing a ridiculous scarf in the Florida summer heat. His hand rubs circles on my back.
"You're pregnant," he says quietly.
"I'm sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because we never discussed kids. Because this wasn't planned. Because everything's a mess and I kept it from you and?—"
"Emma." He pulls back, hands cupping my face. "Stop apologizing for being pregnant with my child."
"But—"
"Are you okay? Is the baby okay?"
"Yes. Six weeks. Everything's normal. Except me. I'm not normal."
"You're perfect." He's smiling. Actually smiling. "We're having a baby."
"You're not mad?"
"Why would I be mad?"
