"Breathe," she says firmly. "We're going to figure this out. Okay? I promise you."
"How?" The word comes out broken. "Poppy, how am I supposed to?—"
"We'll figure it out," she repeats, and her hand is back in mine. "One step at a time. But right now, you need to breathe."
Dr. Byers is watching me with concern, probably trying to decide if she needs to call someone. If this level of panic warrants psychiatric intervention.
I take a breath. Another. The room slowly comes back into focus.
"I'm sorry," I manage. "I just—this is a lot."
"It's completely understandable," Dr. Byers says gently. "Finding out you're pregnant is a big deal. Finding out you're having twins is even bigger." She pauses. "Do you have support? A partner, family?"
A partner. The father of these babies is my dad's best friend, a billionaire who could buy this entire medical building without batting an eye. Who I slept with exactly once in a hotel room in Florence and then walked away from because I was terrified of exactly this. Of needing him. Of losing myself to his ability to solve every problem with money.
And now I don't have a choice.
"It's complicated," I say, which is possibly the understatement of the century.
Dr. Byers nods like she's heard that before. Like complicated pregnancies are just part of the job. "Well, regardless of your situation, you're going to need support. Twin pregnancies require more monitoring, more care. I'll want to see you every two weeks for the first trimester, then weekly as you get closer to delivery."
Every two weeks. More costs. More time away from work. More reminders that my body isn't my own anymore.
"I'm going to print out some information for you," Dr. Byers continues. "Nutrition guidelines, what to expect with twins, signs to watch for that might indicate complications."
Complications. The word lodges in my chest.
"For now, though, your babies look healthy. Both heartbeats are strong, the gestational sacs are developing normally. You're doing everything right."
Except I'm not. I'm falling apart. I'm terrified. I'm already failing, and they're barely the size of a peanut.
Dr. Byers hands me a towel and steps out to give me privacy to clean up and get dressed. The door clicks shut, and I'm left sitting on the examination table, still staring at the ultrasound screen even though it's gone dark.
"Em." Poppy's voice is soft. When I look at her, there are tears in her eyes. "You're going to be okay. I promise."
"How can you possibly promise that?"
"Because I know you." She reaches out, brushing my hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my throat tight. "You're the strongest person I know. And you're not doing this alone. You have me. And you have—" She pauses. "You have the father. Whoever he is. He should know. He should help."
Grant. She means Grant, even though she doesn't know it's him. Doesn't know that telling him means detonating a bomb that will destroy his friendship with my father, complicate his already messy divorce, drag me into a world of wealth and privilege that I've spent my entire adult life trying to avoid.
But she's right. He should know.
And I know I need his help.
Three days ago, I was still telling myself I could do this alone. That I could keep the pregnancy secret, figure it out myself, maintain my independence.
That was when it was one baby.
Twins change everything.
Two babies mean I can't afford childcare on my own. Can't maintain a business while managing twin newborns. Can't even guarantee I'll have a safe place to live, because my studioapartment is barely big enough for me, let alone two cribs and all the equipment babies apparently need.
I need Grant's help. His money, his resources, his ability to solve logistical problems that I can't solve alone.
Which means I need to tell him. Soon. Before I'm showing, before this gets even more complicated than it already is.
I slide off the exam table and reach for my clothes, my hands shaking so badly I can barely manage the buttons on my jeans.
