Page 63 of Faultlines

“I’m already excited,” I admit, my heart already quickening.

She shakes her head, still smiling. “Dr. Tierney is happy with my numbers.”

My heart leaps with a surge of unadulterated hope. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s great,” she says.

I glance at Sloane, and she grins a relieved smile that mirrors my own feelings. After everything Lucy and Jensen had been through, I’ll take any positive news.

“That’s amazing,” I say, the words thick with emotion.

Lucy nods, emotion flickering across her face—hope. “Jensen’s elated, although he tries to act nonchalant about it.”

“How’d that work out for him?” I ask, a smile tugging at my lips.

“He’s started looking at baby furniture online.”

Sloane throws her head back, a loud laugh erupting from her. “Of course he did.”

“I told him we were getting ahead of ourselves.”

“And?”

“He has a spreadsheet ranking cribs by safety rating.”

Then I notice something, a question forming in my mind. “Wait. Why is Sloane still going to all these appointments with you?”

“Because she keeps following me to get a glimpse of ‘The Conception Concierge,’” she says, providing air quotes.

“My presence is providing emotional support,” Sloane says, feigning innocence.

“You invited yourself.”

“I did.”

I look at Sloane. “You’ve been going to every appointment?”

She shrugs, a faint rustle of fabric. “Most of them.”

“Why?”

“Because Jensen’s schedule is insane right now,” Lucy says, her voice quick and earnest.

That part doesn’t surprise me, the hospital basically owns his life lately. I just thought he would make an exception for these appointments.

“He rearranges when he can, but doctors refuse to schedule appointments around the lives of patients. Ridiculous if you ask me,” Sloane says, while giving Lucy’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Somebody should be there with you.”

Neither woman says anything, the weight of the gesture says enough.

“You know,” Sloane says, “the nurses think we’re married.”

I choke on my tea, the warm liquid catching in my throat. “What?”

“Yes, the receptionist asked me if I was Mrs. Marks.”

“You’re kidding,” I say.

“Lucy’s response was ‘actually, we’re cousins,’ and my response to that was ‘she still won’t let me redecorate her house. Marriage would’ve come with more benefits. In my defense, I answered confidently.”