Page 251 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

His voice changes. “You're not.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” My eyes fill. “You don’t know what this is going to be like.Idon’t know what this is going to be like. Three babies, Ethan. Three. High-risk appointments and bed rest maybe and hormones and complications, and then newborns times three. You already have Oliver. You already have a company. You already have Megan’s case reopening in whatever terrifying way that's happening.”

His gaze sharpens, but I keep going.

“I can see you disappearing into all of it. Work. Her. The truth. The babies. Me. I can see you trying to manage it until there’s nothing left of you, and I can’t stand around waiting to see which part of your life gets your attention that day.”

Silence.

My stomach drops. Because that sounded harsher than I meant it. But maybe I did mean it.

Ethan looks down briefly. When he looks up again, his face is controlled, but hurt sits underneath it. “You think I’m being cold because of the pregnancy.”

The hurt underneath the question catches me off guard.

I swallow. “Aren’t you?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate.

“I’m being pulled in too many directions,” he says. “That isn’t an excuse. It’s an explanation.”

“I know there’s work stuff.”

“You know pieces.”

“Because you don’t tell me the rest.”

“I’m trying not to put more weight on you.”

“I'm already under the weight, Ethan. I’m pregnant with three babies, and somehow Bryce is involved in your company and Megan’s crash, and I don’t know what any of it means.”

He flinches at Megan’s name.

My voice softens despite myself. “See? That. You go somewhere I can’t follow. And that’s what I need space from.” I start to back away, needing space already before the breath leads my body completely. “I think this will be best for both of us.”

I don’t give him a chance to answer. I can’t stand to hear it.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Ethan

Oliver is crying.

Consciousness hits all at once after that.

I’m out of bed before thought fully catches up with movement, my pulse already spiking into worst-case territory.

Fever, nightmare, fall, hurt, gone.

I don’t remember crossing the room. I only remember the hallway, cold beneath my bare feet, and the sound of my son trying to breathe around sobs.

“Oliver?”