Page 176 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“It is not just a movie night,” she says, too wise for my liking. “It’s your first public outing with all three of them after approximately one million emotional disasters.”

I groan. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“Would you prefer ‘romantic milestone under the judgmental gaze of a small town’?”

“That is somehow worse.”

I pick at the hem of the yellow dress pooled beside me.

“I just need one night,” I admit. “One night where I’m not trying to decide my whole future. One night where I’m not wondering if Wayne’s okay or whether Fletcher is secretly overthinking everything or whether Rex is being calm because he’s actually calm or because he’s good at pretending.”

“And one night where you’re not checking your phone every thirty seconds,” Millie adds pointedly.

I make a face. “That too.”

Because that’s the truth of it.

Since the messages turned uglier, every buzz of my phone feels like someone jamming a finger straight into the center of my chest. Naomi has everything documented now. She’s told me what to keep, what not to reply to, what steps we take if it escalates further.

The sensible part of me is grateful.

The other part still jumps every time my screen lights up.

Millie bumps her shoulder against mine.

“Then tonight is good,” she says. “Tonight you let yourself be taken out.”

There’s something about the phrasing that makes heat creep up my neck. “Taken out sounds alarmingly mafia adjacent.”

She waves a hand. “You know what I mean.”

The men have been different since they found out about my pregnancy.

Wayne has looked at me like I’m breakable and precious all at once.

Fletcher has gone even quieter than usual, but every time he touches me, it’s with this steadiness that makes my heartbeat calm down instead of speed up.

Rex, somehow, has remained exactly Rex. Warm. Observant. Funny at precisely the moment I’m most likely to combust.

And all of them have kept their word.

No pressure. No pushing. No late-night serious conversations about logistics and paternity and what happens next.

Millie stands and digs into her tote. “I brought reinforcements.”

She tosses me a pair of earrings I forgot I’d left at the café weeks ago and a soft cream cardigan with embroidered flowers at the cuffs.

My eyes widen. “You stole my aesthetic and improved it.”

“I borrowed your aesthetic,” she corrects. “Now get dressed.”

In the end, I wear a rust-colored dress that skims my body without clinging, the cream cardigan, and brown boots that make me feel like a person who maybe has her life together, or at least can convincingly impersonate one for a few hours.

I keep my jewelry simple. Tiny gold hoops. A ring on my right hand. Lip gloss.

I leave my hair messy around my face; there’s no point fighting it when it wants to do whatever it wants.

When I finally turn around, Millie presses a hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh, that’s rude.”