Page 140 of Babies for the Big Shot

“Tell me you’re calling to say you’ve finally decided to fake your own death and open a waffle truck with me.”

“I’m hiding in a stairwell.”

“Not no, then.” She chuckles. “What happened?”

I exhale, the sound catching. “I think people know.”

There’s a pause, the kind only your best friend can fill without saying anything. Then…

“Sara. You’re three months pregnant with Nick freaking Ashford’s triplets. You’re not a secret. You’re a limited edition collector’s item.”

“Laura.”

“I mean that with love.”

I press a hand to my mouth to smother the laugh that threatens to escape. “I just… I didn’t think it would be so obvious.”

“Sweetheart, your boobs announced it three weeks ago.”

“They did not.”

“Oh, they absolutely did. I saw you in that gray sweater the other day and nearly sent a sympathy card to your underwire.”

Despite myself, I snort. “You are the worst.”

“I’m the best, and you know it. Now tell me what’s really going on.”

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold concrete step, knees pulled up, one hand still resting over the barely-there curve of my stomach.

“I don’t know. People are whispering. Courtney messaged me with a ‘random question,’ which means she definitely has atheory. Someone in Legal looked at me like I was a live feed of a royal baby reveal. And two junior associates practically fainted when I walked past the Keurig.”

“Okay,” Laura says, her voice slipping into that firm,take no bullshitregister she uses when I spiral. “First of all, didn’t half your office gossip for three weeks when Rob from accounting switched to oat milk? You think they’re not going to lose their minds over you and a billionaire breeding like a fertility myth?”

“Wow. That sentence was…”

“Accurate?”

“Deeply unsettling.”

“Look,” she continues, “you don’t owe them anything. Not your story. Not your timeline. Not even your eye contact if you don’t feel like giving it. You are allowed to take up space. Especially right now. You are literally growing three humans. That’s, like, elite-level multitasking.”

“I don’t feel elite. I feel like a lumpy balloon in business casual.”

“You feel human. And you’ve spent the last decade pretending to be bulletproof. That kind of shift doesn’t happen overnight. It’s going to feel raw. But that doesn’t mean you’re not handling it.”

“I’m hiding in a stairwell.”

“Which is both dramatic and sensible. Iconic, really.”

I breathe again, fuller this time. The knot in my chest loosens by a millimeter. “You’re very annoying.”

“And yet deeply beloved.”

I close my eyes. “True. Thank you.”

“Always. Now get out of that stairwell before someone thinks you’re trying to unionize.”

I let out a laugh. “What would I do without you?”