Chapter 13
Emma
Twenty-two weeks… and counting
We're at Celtic Knot for what was supposed to be a casual Saturday tasting, but my brothers have collectively lost their minds since we told them about the twins two weeks ago. I was pretty clever in hiding my bump with flowy shirts and dresses.
"What about this?" Brennen holds up his notepad, showing elaborate label designs featuring two intertwined grapevines. "Murphy Twins Reserve. We'll make a special vintage the year they're born. Something elegant. Timeless."
"You can't give wine to babies," I point out.
"It's not for them now. It's for their twenty-first birthday." He's already sketching again. "We'll age it perfectly. By the time they're old enough to drink, it'll be—"
"Illegal to give to them because you'll have already opened and sampled it," Miles finishes.
Brennen looks offended. "I have self-control."
"You opened the 2015 reserve three years early because you were 'curious,'" Sophie says, appearing from the back with Alex.
"That was different."
"How?"
"That was for quality control."
Ryan looks up from his phone, eyes slightly manic. "Did you know twins develop their own language? They call it cryptophasia. Should we be worried about that?"
"They're not even born yet," I say.
"But we should prepare. What if they start communicating in ways we don't understand? Should I learn sign language? Just in case?"
Miles leans over to me. "Your brother's spiraling."
"Both of them are spiraling."
"What about middle names?" Brennen asks suddenly. "Have you thought about middle names? Because I have suggestions—"
"We haven't even decided on first names," I interrupt.
"You should start a list. I'll help." He flips to a new page. "For the boy: Brennen Junior"
"Absolutely not."
"Ryan Junior?"
Ryan shakes his head. "No juniors. They need their own identities."
"Says the man who just bought matching onesies that say 'Future CEO,'" Candace points out, walking in with Joselyn.
Ryan looks sheepish. "They were on sale."
"They were sixty dollars each," Candace says.
"A bargain."
Joselyn sets down a bag from some expensive baby boutique. "We brought gifts. Don't judge."
I peek inside. Two impossibly soft blankets, monogrammed with "Baby A" and "Baby B."
"You don't know their names yet," Joselyn explains. "So we went with placeholders."
"These are beautiful." My voice cracks and I blink hard against sudden tears.
"Don't cry," Brennen says, panicking. "We can exchange them if you don't like them—"
"I love them." I wipe my eyes quickly. "They're perfect."
Miles wraps an arm around me. "Hormones."
"I'm aware."
Sophie hands me tissues. "How are you feeling? Besides emotional?"
"Huge. Tired. Like I'm carrying bowling balls."
"You look great," Candace says.
"I look like I swallowed a beach ball."
Joselyn laughs. "A very cute beach ball."
"I'm embracing it now. What choice do I have?"
Candace smiles. "About time."
Ryan's back on his phone, scrolling intensely. "It says here that twins need specialized cribs. Something about safety standards—"
"We have two cribs," Miles says. "Already assembled."
"But are they twin-certified?"
"That's not a thing."
"Are you sure? Because this website—"
Miles gently takes Ryan's phone. "Step away from the parenting blogs."
"But I need to research—"
"You need to relax." Miles hands the phone to Candace. "Your wife will hold this hostage until you calm down."
Brennen's still sketching label designs. "What about 'Double Trouble Reserve'? Too casual?"
"Way too casual," Sophie says.
"'Twin Oaks'? Because, you know, oak barrels—"
"Brennen." I put my hand on his notepad. "They're babies. Not wine vintages."
"Wine is important!"
"So are my children!"
"I'm trying to honor them with wine!"
Miles is laughing now. Full-on laughing at my brothers' collective twin-induced panic.
"You're not helping," I tell him.
"I'm loving this."
Alex clears his throat. "Can we focus on actual wine tasting? Some of us have work to do."
"Right." Brennen reluctantly sets down his notepad. "We have the new Malbec ready for tasting—"
"Emma can't taste," Sophie reminds him.
"Right. Pregnancy. Twins." He looks slightly lost. "What do pregnant women do at wine tastings?"
"Eat cheese and judge you," I say.
"Fair."
Thirty-two weeks… I’m done with the waddling already.
Monday morning, I'm walking into Preston & Associates feeling like I'm finally living a sustainable life instead of drowning. Also, I'm showing now. Like, obviously pregnant. No more "did she have a big lunch" territory. This is "she's definitely having a baby—or possibly babies" situation.
Sarah and Tom are in the conference room when I arrive, reviewing case files with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
"Morning," Sarah says, looking up. "Henderson contract is ready for your review. Tom already did the preliminary markup."
"Looks solid," Tom adds. "But we flagged three clauses that need your expertise."
I settle into my chair and review their work. It's excellent. Better than excellent.
"This is perfect," I tell them. "Submit it."
"Without your final review?" Sarah looks uncertain.
"You don't need my final review. You both know what you're doing."
Tom and Sarah exchange glances.
"Emma," Tom says carefully. "You're sure?"
"Positive. I trust you both." I close the file. "Besides, I'm transitioning to part-time supervision role. You two are taking the lead on most cases now."
"Part-time?" Sarah's eyes widen.
"Twins," I explain, gesturing at my stomach. "Due in less than two months. I need to prepare for that instead of working seventy-hour weeks."
"That's really smart," Tom says.
"It's survival," I correct. "But thank you."
Maggie appears in the doorway. "Candace and Joselyn are here. Something about emergency maternity clothes shopping?"
Right. I'd forgotten about that.
"Send them in."
Candace and Joselyn enter, both looking far too excited about clothes shopping.
"We're kidnapping you," Candace announces. "You've been wearing the same three dresses for weeks."
"They're comfortable."
"They're also starting to look desperate," Joselyn says. "Come on. We're going to Hibiscus Harbor. There's an amazing maternity boutique."
"I have work—"
"You just said you're transitioning to part-time," Sarah points out helpfully.
Traitor.
"Fine." I stand and grab my purse. "But I'm not spending a fortune on clothes I'll only wear for a few months."
"That's what you think," Candace says ominously.
The maternity boutique in Hibiscus Harbor is enormous and slightly overwhelming. Racks of clothes in every style imaginable, all designed to accommodate growing stomachs without looking like tents.
"Start here," Joselyn says, handing me several dresses. "Try these on."
I disappear into the fitting room, wrestling my way into the first dress—a blue wrap style that looks flattering.
"Let's see!" Candace calls.
I emerge, feeling self-conscious.
"You look amazing," Candace says immediately.
"I look like I'm smuggling watermelons."
"Beautiful watermelons," Joselyn corrects.
"The twins are really showing now," Candace observes. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I'm carrying bowling balls that occasionally kick me in the ribs."
"They're kicking?" Joselyn lights up. "That's so cool!"
"It's weird. And constant. At least one baby never stops moving. The other baby must be kicking the other baby, which makes the first baby kick harder. I think they're already fighting."
Candace laughs. "They're establishing dominance early."
"Great. Competitive twins."
I try on six more dresses. Three fit well and look professional enough for work. Candace insists I get all of them.
"You need options," she says firmly. "And comfortable pants. And pajamas that fit."
By the time we leave, I'm loaded down with bags and wondering how I'm going to explain this to Miles.
"Thank you," I tell them in the parking lot. "Both of you. For doing this."
"That's what sisters are for," Joselyn says, hugging me.
Candace joins in. "You're not alone in this. We're all here. The whole chaotic Murphy family."
My throat tightens. "Stop making me emotional in parking lots."
"Never," Candace says, grinning.
Thirty-three weeks… I’m ready and I’m not ready.
At home that evening, I find Miles in the nursery surrounded by organized chaos. Two cribs now flank the room—both assembled, both with matching bedding. A large changing table sits between them. Tiny clothes hang in the closet, organized by size and color.
"You've been busy," I say from the doorway.
He looks up, slightly sheepish. "I may have gone overboard."
"You color-coded the onesies."
"By size first, then color. It's efficient."
"It's excessive."
"It's organized." He stands, walking over to me. "How was shopping?"
"Successful. I now own dresses that fit." I look around the nursery. "This looks amazing."
"It's not done yet. I ordered a bookshelf. And a rocking chair. And some kind of sound machine that plays white noise—"
"Miles."
"—and I'm researching the best baby monitors because apparently some have night vision and others have—"
"Miles."
He stops, looking at me.
"It's perfect," I tell him. "All of it. You've done an amazing job."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
One of the babies kicks—hard—and I wince. Miles notices immediately.
"You okay?"
"Baby A is doing gymnastics again." I grab his hand, placing it on my stomach. "Feel that?"
His face transforms. Pure joy spreading across his features as he feels movement under his palm.
"They're playing soccer in there!"
Another kick, different spot.
"Or fighting," I laugh. "They might be fighting already."
"Team sports or sibling rivalry. Either way, they're active." He keeps his hand on my stomach, grinning like an idiot. "This is incredible."
"This is weird."
"Incredibly weird." He leans down, talking to my stomach. "Hey guys. Dad here. Could you maybe stop beating up your mom from the inside?"
Baby B delivers a solid kick right where Miles' hand is placed.
"I think that's a no," I say.
"Rebellious already. They're definitely your kids."
"My kids? You're the one who went overboard organizing onesies by color spectrum."
"That's called preparation."
"That's called obsession."
He pulls me close—accommodating my stomach—and kisses me softly. "How are you really feeling? About all of this?"
I look around the nursery. Two cribs. Tiny clothes. The reality of what's coming in less than four months.
"Terrified," I admit. "But also excited. And grateful. And overwhelmed. All of it at once."
"That's fair."
"Are you scared?"
"Absolutely. But also ready. As ready as anyone can be for twins, anyway."
Another kick. Then another. The babies are having a full-on dance party now.
"They're really active tonight," I observe.
"They know we're talking about them." He keeps one hand on my stomach, feeling every movement. "Think they can hear us?"
"Probably. The doctor said they can hear sounds now."
"Good." He leans down again. "Listen up, twins. Your mom is the strongest person I know. She's going to figure this out. We both are. Even when you're driving us crazy. Which you will, because you're already experts at that."
My eyes burn and I blink hard.
"Stop making me cry in the nursery."
"Never." He kisses me again, then wipes my cheek. "Come on. Let's go sit down before the waterworks start."
We settle on the couch, Miles pulling my feet into his lap for an impromptu foot rub.
"Your brothers are losing their minds, by the way," he says. "Brennen's designed fifty wine labels. Ryan's bookmarked approximately fifty parenting articles."
"I know. They're panicking more than we are."
"It's kind of entertaining."
"It's extremely entertaining."
"They love you. They love these babies. That's why they're going overboard."
"I know." I close my eyes as Miles works on a particularly sore spot. "But if Brennen tries to name one of them after himself, I'm voting to sell Celtic Knot."
"Noted."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. The babies kick occasionally, reminding us they're there. The nursery waits upstairs, ready and organized and perfect.
Four months. Maybe less. Two babies depending on us for everything.
One of the babies delivers a particularly strong kick, and I wince.
"They're really going at it tonight," Miles observes.
"Tell them to calm down."
"I tried. They ignored me."
"Your children are already ignoring you."
"Our children," he corrects. "And they're definitely taking after you with the stubbornness."
I smile despite the discomfort. Outside, the sun has set completely. The house is quiet except for us. In a few months, it'll be full of crying and chaos and two tiny humans who are already making their presence known.
Miles' hand is still on my stomach, feeling every movement. His expression is soft, content, slightly awed.
"We're really doing this," I say quietly.
He meets my eyes. "Yeah. We really are."