Page 118 of What if It's Us

I take his hand and press it over my stomach.

“These babies don’t need perfect, Ledger,” I whisper. “They just need you.”

He closes his eyes, jaw tight. His chin quivering.

“They need the man who has shown up to every appointment. The man who willingly makes me smoothies at 3 A.M. and reads up on pregnancy issues like ‘preeclampsia’ just in case. The man who talks me down from every deep dive Google-fest over pregnancy dos and don’ts I get myself into. The man who holds me when I’m scared, even when he’s clearly scared too.”

“I don’t want to hurt them,” he says, voice breaking.

“You won’t,” I say fiercely, tears springing from my eyes too. “You are notyour father, Ledger. You never were and you never will be.”

We sit here, hearts thudding in the quiet of the night. His hand stays on my belly. A small kick flutters beneath his palm, and he chokes out a breath that’s half-sob, half-laugh.

“Was that…”

“Yeah.” I smile through our tears. “They hear you. You’re their father, Ledge. They’re gonna know you,” I whisper. “All of you. And they’re already so damn lucky to have you as their dad.”

He leans into me, forehead pressed to mine, and for the first time in weeks, I feel him breathe like maybe…just maybe…he believes me.

“Can I suggest something without you feeling pressured or flipping out about it?”

He smoothes my wild bed-hair away from my face. “Of course.”

“What if you went and saw your father? Talked to him. Tell him how you’ve felt all these years.”

“What good would it do? He’s probably a huge asshole who wouldn’t want to give me the time of day.”

“Maybe it won’t do any good at all.” I shrug. “But maybe just saying your thoughts out loud to him, in a space where he can’t run away or ignore you is what you need. You would hold all the cards. You can say your peace and then walk away with closure.”

He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s mulling the idea over in his mind.

“It’s just a suggestion,” I remind him giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You know I’ll stand by you every step of the way.”

“I’m not saying no, Mar. I’m just…I don’t know.” He sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LEDGER

20 WEEKS

Cardboard boxes are scattered across the floor. The crib, still in pieces, lies half-assembled while I squint at a confusing instruction sheet like it’s a foreign language. It’s mostly made up of vague diagrams and two stick figures who look way too happy for people building furniture. Marlee, wearing one of my oversized T-shirts, sits cross-legged on a blanket nearby, munching on a bowl of ice chips.

“Okay, what’s the difference between Bolt A and Bolt A-prime? They look identical.”

After examining the manual, I point to what I think is the correct answer. “Apparently one’s slightly more hopeful.’”

She raises a brow. “Did the manual actually say that?”

“Yes.” I grin. “It also says, ‘Ask a friend to assist you. Or a trained professional. Or anyone you haven’t made out with recently.’”

“Rude,” she mutters.

I glance up at the partially built crib, three sides standing, one leaning suspiciously.

“Why do all baby furniture manuals assume you have an engineering degree and three hands?” I grumble.

She chuckles, watching me, her hand lovingly caressing her growing belly. “I don’t know but you’ve been turning that Allen wrench like it personally insulted you.”

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