I force a smile. "Just tired. Pregnancy is exhausting."
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "If you ever want to talk—professionally or just as Tucker's brother—I'm here."
"Thank you."
The afternoon drags on. More food, more conversation, more plans being made for my life. Someone asks about names. Someone else asks if I'm hoping for boys or girls. Someone mentions Tucker's childhood and how wild he was.
"But he's settling down now," Ty says proudly. "Having kids does that to a man. Makes him grow up."
Like I'm a life event that's happening to Tucker. A catalyst for his maturation.
Not a person with my own dreams, my own goals, my own life.
By the time we leave, I have a headache, and the babies are kicking like they can feel my stress.
"That was so great,” Tucker says in the car. "Everyone loves you."
"Mm."
"You okay? You're quiet."
"Just tired."
He squeezes my hand. "Let's get you home. I can give you your afternoon O, charge your batteries.”
Home. His apartment. That I live in. That he pays for.
"Actually," I hear myself say, "I have a lot of reading to do tonight. For class."
"Oh. Okay." He sounds disappointed. "Want me to pick up dinner anyway? You need to eat."
"I'll grab something later."
We drive in silence. Tucker's hand stays on my thigh, but it feels heavy now. Possessive rather than comforting.
Back at the apartment, Tucker heads to his room to change. I go to my room—his room that he gave me—and close the door.
Then I sink onto the bed and try to breathe.
The walls are closing in. This beautiful apartment, this comfortable life, this family that wants to absorb me—it's all closing in.
I pull out my laptop and open my epidemiology reading. Try to focus on mortality rates and statistical analysis. Try to remember who I'm supposed to be.
Sloane Campbell. Future public health professional. Someone who helps others, who makes a difference, who doesn't need to be rescued.
But when I look around this room—at the expensive furniture, the closet full of maternity clothes Tucker bought when he noticed I was crammed into his shirts, the drawer full of prenatal vitamins and snacks he keeps stocked—all I see is dependence.
I haven't paid for anything in months. Haven't bought my own groceries. Haven't made a major decision without Tucker's input.
The babies kick. I put my hand on my stomach, feeling them move. They're getting so big. In a few months, they'll be here. Real, actual humans that I'll be responsible for.
How am I going to take care of two babies when I can barely take care of myself?
I close my laptop, lie back on the bed, and stare at the ceiling.
There's a soft knock on the door. "Sloane? I ordered Italian anyway. It's here if you want some."
"Thanks. Maybe later."
