"I need to tell him," I say quietly.
Poppy nods. "Yeah. You do."
"I don't know how."
"Well." She manages a weak smile. "Maybe start with 'remember that night in Florence?' and go from there."
The attempt at humor falls flat, but I appreciate the effort. I pull my sweater over my head and finger-comb my hair, trying to look like a person who has her life together. The mirror above the sink tells a different story. I'm pale, my eyes red-rimmed, my expression somewhere between terror and resignation.
I look like someone whose carefully constructed world just collapsed.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what I am.
Dr. Byers returns with a folder full of printouts and a small strip of photos from the ultrasound. She goes through the information with the cheerful efficiency of someone who does this a dozen times a day.
I nod along, taking the folder, promising to schedule my next appointment on the way out.
Then Poppy and I are walking back down the hallway and through the waiting room full of other pregnant women who probably have their lives together.
The spring air hits me when we step outside, cool and bright, and I stop on the sidewalk, just breathing.
"How you holding up?" Poppy asks.
"Not great." The honest answer. "But I will be. I have to be."
She links her arm through mine, and we walk to where she parked her beat-up Honda. I slide into the passenger seat and clutch the folder of printouts to my body like a shield.
Inside, tucked among the nutrition guidelines and development charts, are the ultrasound photos. Two grainy black and white images, two tiny flickering hearts.
My babies.
Grant's babies.
I pull out my phone and stare at his name in my contacts. The last text exchange is still there, from three days ago.
I start typing before I can overthink it.
Me:Can we talk soon? I need to tell you something.
The message sends, and I watch the screen, waiting for the read receipt. It comes almost immediately, followed by the three dots.
Grant:Of course. When?
Me:Tonight?
Grant:I'll send a car. Where should it pick you up?
Of course he'll send a car. Because that's what Grant does. Solves problems with money and resources and effortless gestures.
And I'm about to become one of those problems.
I give him my address and set the phone in my lap, my thoughts spiraling.
Tonight. I'm telling him tonight.
About the pregnancy. About the twins. About the fact that his life is about to get infinitely more complicated because we spent one perfect night together in Florence.
“I’m telling him tonight.”
