“Out of our hands?” I gape at him, flinging a hand out toward her stomach. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one measuring her macros, controlling her dairy intake, ordering her lab tests, making sure she eats enough iron and—”
“That’s why we have the dietician,” Killian says, shooting me a glare. “We hired him specifically so you wouldn’t do any of that.”
Rath wanders over to kiss her forehead. “You ever think all your stress is stressing her out?” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not good for her or the baby.”
“I’m not stressing,” I lie, pulling at my hair. “I’m just being realistic.” I don’t list the possibilities that could happen today. Spina bifida. Heart problems. Brain malformations. Story’s eyes meet mine and I see a flicker of worry cross her face. Shit. Maybe Rath has a point. I suck back my concerns and take her hand. “But it’s going to be fine.”
“Hey, guys?” She squeezes my fingers, tossing the others a look. “Can Tristian and I have a minute alone?” The three of them share a look that I know well enough by now. It’s the ‘Tristian is being crazy’ eye-roll, so they leave without argument. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one taking this seriously.
When the door shuts behind them, I say, “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to—”
“Hey,” she says, looking up at me from the table. “I know you can be a little neurotic. I love that about you, because sometimes when I’m feeling down or out of sorts, you’ll do something completely bonkers like steal all of my sodas and replace them with vitamin water, and I’ll remember that you love me.” She slowly amends, “But, Tris, this is getting out of hand, even for you. Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” I look around the room, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how many atoms there are in the observable universe? I can’t even say the number, because it’s too big. But somehow, while one of us was railing you with a premium creampie, a few of those atoms hooked up and began creating life.” This will never stop blowing my mind, and when I collapse onto the stool Killer just vacated, I wonder how anyone isn’t terrified by that. “It’s a blip, Story. Two little things went right, against all odds, and then a baby happened. It’d take nothing,” I bring my fingers together in a snap, “to snuff it out. I don’t know how we aren’t having panic attacks on the reg.”
She stares at me, eyebrows slanted miserably. “Because you’re the only one trying to fight the universe, Tristian.” She reaches out to take my hand, dragging it over her stomach. “You can’t keep looking at it like that. It’ll drive you insane.”
I fold her hand in mine. It’s warm and soft. Smooth knuckles. Creamy skin. When I look her in the eye, I hope like hell she’ll forgive me. “I know we promised not to wonder who the father is,” I begin, voice quiet like a sordid confession. “But what if it’s mine?”
The flash of hurt in her eyes—hurt I caused by breaking the promise—is extinguished just as quickly as it arrives. It probably has something to do with the bald terror in my eyes. “Would that be so bad?”
It seems like this fear has been swelling within me for weeks now. Haunting me at night while I try to sleep. Nipping at my heels in the mornings when I wake. Ever present throughout my day. I stare at our interlocked hands, feeling weary but too determined to give in to the exhaustion. “My genes are defective, Story. It’s why my mom had to stop with Izzy and Lizzy, even though she wanted more.” Reluctantly, I meet her gaze, finally putting my fears to words. “What if it’s twins, and the problem my mom had passes through me?“
Her face crumples. “That’s what you’ve been freaking out about? You think it could be twins?”
“It could be,” I stress, darting a glance at her belly. “Do you have any idea the complications that come with a multiple birth labor?”
Her grip on my hand tightens, drawing my eyes to hers. The small, sad smile that greets me is enough to make my chest clench painfully. “You told me once that losing your brother didn’t have any effect on you. But you lied.” Before the protest on my face can form into words, she hastily adds, “Not intentionally. I just know you well enough now to understand. It’s a big part of the reason you take such good care of yourself. You feel…” Her eyes search mine as she chooses her words carefully. “You feel grateful, Tristian. You see life as this precious, fragile thing, because you think it could have just as easily been you.”