Page 222 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Sophie is behind the counter when we walk in. She takes one look at me and nearly drops a pitcher of oat milk.

“Oh wow.” She rushes around the counter. “You look like an orphan who just inherited trauma.”

“I missed you too.”

She wraps me in a hug, careful but fierce. “Are you okay?”

“That depends on how emotionally flexible your definition of okay is.”

Luci lifts one hand. “She’s pregnant.”

“Luci!”

Sophie freezes.

“With triplets,” Luci adds.

“Luci!”

Sophie’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

She has no immediate snark. “Holy shit.”

“Correct,” I say. “That’s the medical term.”

Sophie grabs us a corner table, two teas, one hot chocolate I don’t ask for but absolutely need, and a plate of pastries because apparently everyone has decided I’m now a fragile fertility goddess who must be fed.

I sit with my hands wrapped around the mug, staring into the steam.

“So,” Sophie says carefully, sliding into the chair across from me. “Triplets.”

I nod.

“Ethan’s?”

I give her a look.

“Right. Sorry. Dumb question. Unless your life has introduced another secret billionaire pilot?”

“Please don’t manifest that.”

Luci leans back in her chair. “He left her at the hospital.”

Sophie’s eyes sharpen.

“He had to go to Oliver,” I say quickly.

“That can be true and still suck,” Luci says.

I hate how many things can be true at the same time. It’s very inconvenient. I prefer emotions with clear labeling. This one is not dishwasher-safe.

“He called Luci,” I add. “He made sure I wasn’t alone.”

Sophie softens. “That matters.”

“It does.” I stare at my tea. “But I was still alone first.”

Neither of them argues.