Page 8 of Through the Storm

Something in me unclenches. My people are here. I’m okay now.

I don’t look at Declan right now. I know if I do, I’ll see everything he’s trying not to feel standing three feet behind me.

“My parents still don’t know,” I mumble. “Declan is the only one who does. I plan to keep it that way for a few more weeks.”

I still have to tell Grandma Patty, though I have a feeling she already knows. She always does.

Ella doesn’t even blink. “Of course. It’s your choice. I’m just here to support you.”

Support. From the girl I abandoned.

The guilt is immediate and ugly. I squeeze her hand tighter, so I don’t have to say sorry.

We talk. Well, they talk. I just sit there, clutching Ella’s hand like a child while the doctor says words likepreeclampsiaandrestricted growth. I hear “high risk,” and suddenly all the oxygen leaves the room.

A fear I’ve never known before has frozen my brain. My baby suddenly feels fragile. Like one wrong breath could make it disappear. How can I be pregnant and already be a terrible mom? How is this my life? Not only do I not know who the father of my baby is, but now I’mnot even good at keeping him or her healthy?

Dr. Meier starts talking about diet, exercise, and stress management. I laugh to myself thinking about how, for once, I’m thankful that my parents are always traveling. If they were in town, there would be no chance of managing my stress.

Ella keeps her voice steady, her pen flying over her notes. “We’ll get this under control. I’ll order a plan for her.”

Declan’s face is going pale. Not figuratively, like actually turning the color of paper. His fingers twitch at his sides, and I swear he’s seconds from passing out.

Ella flicks her eyes at him. “Declan, the food is for Katy. You better not eat any of it. Got it?”

He blinks out of his panic and grins at her. The tension in the room breaks, and I actually laugh.

Ella is still great at defusing Declan.

And I realize in that tiny moment that she won’t let go. It’s just not who she is. Declan and I are not alone in this anymore.

Maybe everything will be okay. Maybe I can do this.

Two weeks later

“Ella, just give me the freaking muffin,” I screech.

“Katy, no! You’re stronger than this. You need to keep your blood pressure under control!” Ella pleads, genuinely distressed.

“The actual doctor called me today to say my levels are great. I was a perfect patient, and I’m now allowed a muffin per day. So, give it.”

I’ve been following the diet plan to the letter for the past two weeks and taking my medications. I was lucky enough that my body responded right away, and the doctors are really happy with my numbers. Theysaid that it’s perfectly safe for me to have one freaking muffin a day, but this insane person is not having it.

“But why would you? I can make you a healthier one.”

“You’re not even a real doctor yet!”

Twenty minutes of arguing later, I sigh and decide I’ll just inhale the muffin the second she leaves. She’s become a full-time mother hen—unhinged, devoted, and somehow both annoying and precious.

I have to confess, though, I love it. I’ve missed her.

I’m also embarrassingly jealous of her new best friend, Rebecca. Ella keeps insisting I’ll love her, but I’ve refused to meet her. I know I should be happy she made close friends in the three years we weren’t talking, but I’m jealous. I made friends too, but none of them were Ella.

It makes me sad to think I could be replaced. And apparently, I process sadness as rage, which is why all my irrational hostility is currently directed at freaking Rebecca.

But for weeks now, Ella’s been a one-woman care package.

Every other day she shows up with a tote bag overflowing with gifts or unsolicited emotional support. Chicken soup, face masks, fuzzy socks, clothes. Alotof baby clothes. One time she brought a human-sized body pillow and told me it was for “maximum belly coziness.”