Chapter 11 #2
Dr. Martinez prints out ultrasound photos—multiple copies showing both babies. She explains that I'll need more frequent monitoring now, that twin pregnancies require closer observation but everything looks great so far.
I'm not really listening. I'm staring at the images in my hands.
Two babies.
We're having twins.
Miles hasn't let go of my hand. His eyes are locked on the ultrasound photos like they might disappear if he looks away.
"Any questions?" Dr. Martinez asks gently.
"All the questions," Miles says. "Every question. Starting with: how did this happen?"
"Well, when two people love each other very much—"
"I mean the twins part."
"Fraternal twins—two separate eggs fertilized at the same time. Sometimes it runs in families, sometimes it's just chance."
"Chance," I repeat faintly.
Dr. Martinez hands us more pamphlets about twin pregnancy, dietary requirements, what to expect.
I'm clutching the ultrasound photos when we leave, Miles guiding me through the parking lot like I might forget how to walk.
In his car, we sit in silence, staring at the photos.
"Twins," I finally say.
"Twins."
"A boy and a girl."
"One of each."
"Miles."
"Yeah?"
"We need two of everything."
He starts laughing. Actually laughing, head dropping back against the seat. "Two cribs. Two car seats. Two of every single baby item I researched at 3am."
"We are so screwed.”
"We are."
He's still laughing, and now I'm laughing too, slightly hysterical in the medical office parking lot.
"We're having twins," I say again, like repetition will make it real.
"We're having twins." Miles takes my hand. "Are you okay?"
"I have no idea. Are you okay?"
"Also no idea." He studies the ultrasound photos. "But I'm excited. Terrified, but excited."
"Same."
"Your brothers are going to lose their minds."
"Ryan's going to start building a trust fund immediately. Brennen's going to cry."
"Sophie and Julie are going to plan two baby showers."
"That's excessive."
"That's our life now. Excessive."
We sit there for another few minutes, processing. Two babies. One boy, one girl. Due in March—probably earlier, since twins typically come early.
My phone buzzes. Ryan.
Ryan: Dinner Friday at my place. Just family. Celebrate your Shadow Strike victory properly now that you're not nauseous. Can't take no for an answer.
I show Miles the text.
"Friday dinner," he says. "Perfect time to tell them about the twins."
"They're going to freak out."
"Completely freak out." He grins. "It'll be hilarious."
"You're terrible."
"I prefer 'entertaining.'" He starts his car. "Come on. We need to go home and stare at these ultrasound photos while having simultaneous panic attacks."
"That's romantic."
"That's realistic."
At home, Miles immediately disappears into his office, muttering something about updating spreadsheets for twin quantities. I hear him on the phone with someone—probably ordering every baby book ever written about twins.
I head upstairs to the nursery—the room we started painting last week. Soft yellow walls, white trim, one crib already assembled in the corner. We were so proud of ourselves for being prepared.
Now we need two cribs. Two car seats. Two of everything.
I stand in the doorway, hand on my stomach where two babies are currently growing. A boy and a girl. Twins.
Miles appears behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. "You okay?"
"I'm pregnant with twins."
"We established that."
"TWINS, Miles."
"I'm aware."
"How are we going to handle twins?"
"The same way we handle everything else. Together. Probably with significantly less sleep and more pickles."
I lean back against him. "Friday dinner. We tell everyone."
"Friday dinner," he confirms. "Your brothers' heads will explode."
"Brennen will definitely cry."
"Ryan will start calculating college tuition."
"For both of them."
"Simultaneously."
I turn to face him. "Are we ready for this?"
"Absolutely not. But we're doing it anyway."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's honest." He glances at the single crib. "We've got four months. Maybe less if they come early."
"FOUR MONTHS, Miles. For TWO BABIES."
"I'll update my spreadsheets."
"Your spreadsheets aren't going to help when we have two screaming infants."
"My spreadsheets help with everything."
"You're insane."
"I prefer 'thoroughly prepared.'" He looks at the crib again. "We need another one of those."
"And another car seat. And double the diapers."
"I'm already making a list."
"Of course you are."
We stand in the partially painted nursery staring at the single crib that's now woefully insufficient. Miles pulls out his phone, presumably to start ordering duplicate everything.
"Friday," I say, watching him type. "We tell everyone about the twins."
"Friday," Miles agrees, still typing. "But first, I need to revise approximately twelve spreadsheets and order another crib."
"And I need to eat pickles while having an existential crisis."
"That's very on-brand for you."
"I'm nothing if not consistent."
He's already pulling up baby furniture websites. I head downstairs to stress-eat pickles straight from the jar.
Twins.
We're having twins.
Friday's going to be a disaster.