Chapter 23
Tori
I didn’t tell the guys yesterday. I wanted to, but when they got home, I was so relieved that they were safe, and they were so anxious and stressed about the war that they have now officially declared, that the words got stuck in my throat.
I told myself it’s not the right time, that I should wait until I’ve been to the doctor and had it confirmed officially before I tell them. In short, I’m a coward.
Thankfully, the guys haven’t noticed my strange behavior and haven’t argued with me about coming to the hospital. They’re too caught up in the logistics of planning their next move against the Raging Bulls and preparing for an attack.
Shelly has been incredible. She offered to drive me to the doctors today under the guise of us visiting Hank and Screw in the hospital.
It wasn’t a total lie—we did visit them when we first got here.
Hank is getting out today, and Screw is doing well.
He’s still his usual self. He was flirting outrageously with the nurse and telling us all about his newfound love of spongebaths during our visit.
Shelly has promised she won’t tell a soul about the pregnancy.
She says it’s my choice what I do and who I tell.
I’m so grateful for her support. I left Shelly in Hank's room. I insisted I’d be fine and that I wanted to do this alone.
She seemed uncertain, but eventually she agreed, giving me a tight hug and telling me to get her if I changed my mind.
I’m sitting waiting in the OBGYN department.
The plastic chairs in the waiting room are hard and uncomfortable, making me fidget and constantly readjust, trying to get comfortable to no avail.
There’s a daytime soap opera playing in the corner of the waiting room, the screen pixelated and the sound too low for anyone to hear it.
The room is almost full of patients waiting to be seen, all wearing similar expressions of boredom and discomfort.
A baby wails in a mother’s arms, a small child glumly plays in the pathetic play area designed to keep children entertained, but it is woefully lacking any actual toys.
The mothers look weary, concern and fear marring their expressions.
I turn away, not wanting to think about why they might be here.
A pregnant woman is sitting across from me, her belly huge and protruding, her hands protectively placed on her bump. I smile at her, and she smiles back, a peaceful, contented smile.
My leg jiggles with nervous anticipation.
I stare at the hand on the wall-mounted clock, willing it to move faster.
The hospital is a cacophony of noise, the ever-ringing phone, the beeping and whirring of machines, the chatter of people, the squeaking of nurses' sneakers as they rush between patients. I’ve always hated hospitals.
I wonder if I can have a home birth, something peaceful with only my men and a midwife present.
I doubt the guys would go for it. They’re so protective, they’d want the best care money can buy.
They’ll be insufferably protective once they know I’m carrying their child. Or they won’t.
That will be worse. What if they don’t want this baby?
I bite the hangnail on my finger, and a red swell of blood blooms as I pull the skin too deep.
Maybe I should have told the guys. They should be here, shouldn’t they?
But they have other things to worry about right now.
We’re at war and distractions could cost lives.
I just need a little time. I want to tell them when the time is right, and I need to know the tests weren’t false positives; that the baby is healthy.
There’s no point in worrying them unnecessarily.
Finally, the nurse calls my name. I jump up and do an awkward half wave to signal that’s me.
She nods and doesn’t wait for me to pick up my bag and the book I’d brought to read while I waited, which sat unread beside me.
I scramble to gather them, rushing after her as she walks briskly toward my appointment room, not looking back, confident I’m following or too busy to notice if I’m not.
She knocks on the door once with a sharp rap of her knuckles and quickly announces me to the doctor before bustling away.
I’m relieved that my doctor is a woman. I don’t know why, but the thought of another man knowing about the pregnancy before the guys and inspecting my private areas, even a medical professional, doesn’t sit right with me.
Dr. Hart is a middle-aged woman with steel-gray hair swept back neatly from her face; her sharp cheekbones are softened by kind eyes.
She smiles warmly as she welcomes me, her demeanor relaxed yet professional.
She asks me a series of questions, and I explain as best I can, my quavering voice slowly calming as she puts me at ease.
Seeing as it’s been quite a while since my last period, the doctor explains that she will perform a blood test, a physical exam, and an ultrasound.
She runs the tests, and the phlebotomist takes my blood, then leaves without explaining much.
I’m waiting for the results, and now I’m here, I wish I’d brought Shelly to keep me company.
Dr. Hart knocks once before stepping back in. She gives me a small, reassuring smile as she pulls up her stool.
“Thanks for waiting, Tori. My apologies that it took a little longer than anticipated,” she says warmly. “How are you feeling?”
“Honestly?” I let out a shaky breath. “Exhausted. Nauseous. Overwhelmed.”
She nods like she’s heard it a thousand times and still takes it seriously every single time. “That tracks with what we’re seeing so far.” Dr. Hart flips through my chart.
“So, I can confirm the test results were correct. Your hCG levels are quite elevated for early pregnancy,” she explains calmly.
“That hormone is what’s responsible for most of the nausea and fatigue.
Higher levels can mean a few things, you may be farther along than you thought. Another possibility is multiples.”
Multiples. What does she mean, multiples? My heart skips. “Like… twins?”
She smiles slightly, gesturing for me to lie down. “Let’s take a look. Given that you’re likely to be in the early stages, we’ll do a transvaginal ultrasound.”
I lie back and wait. The probe is cold as she inserts it and I try and relax. I stare at the ceiling at first, afraid to look. Then I hear it. A rapid, rhythmic flutter. Like a tiny galloping horse.
“There’s one,” Dr. Hart murmurs, adjusting the angle.
I turn my head toward the screen. The image is grainy, black-and-white, but there, inside the dark oval of the gestational sac, is a tiny flicker. My throat tightens.
Dr. Hart goes quiet for a moment. “There’s a second.”
My breath catches. “Second?”
She nods, focused now. “Oh.”
There’s something in her tone that makes my heart stutter.
“And… there’s a third.”
The room goes very still. “Three?” My voice comes out barely audible.
“Yes.” Her tone remains steady, professional, but there’s unmistakable warmth in it. “You’re approximately seven weeks along, and you are carrying triplets.”
I stare at the monitor, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing but it’s just a blur to me. Three babies?
Dr. Hart continues, gently educational, no doubt aware of how monumental this information is. “A scan at eleven weeks will confirm, but what I’m seeing here are three distinct placentas and three separate amniotic sacs. That makes this a trichorionic-triamniotic pregnancy.”
I blink at her. “Is that… good?”
“It’s actually the lowest-risk type of triplet pregnancy,” she explains. “Each baby has its own placenta and its own sac. They’re not sharing a blood supply. That strongly suggests they’re fraternal, almost certainly from three separate eggs released during the same cycle.”
Three eggs. Three babies. Three fathers. Three men I love equally. Three men who love me, and now three babies. Three. My magic number.
My hand drifts to my stomach. I thought I was overwhelmed before. Now I feel like the floor has tilted beneath me.
“It also explains why you’ve been so sick,” Dr. Hart adds gently. “Higher hCG levels are very common with multiples. Severe morning sickness, extreme fatigue, it’s your body working overtime.”
Tears prick at my eyes, but I’m not sure if they’re from fear or awe. “Are they… okay?” I whisper.
“All three have strong heartbeats for this stage,” she says reassuringly. “Right now, everything looks exactly as it should.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I’m having triplets. Of all the things I expected to hear today, this wasn’t it.
How on earth am I going to tell my men? This is so much bigger than just one baby.
I’m pregnant with not one but three babies in the middle of a war.
In the middle of chaos. Triplets mean triple the amount of work, triple the amount of danger, triple everything.
I should be terrified, but as I stare at those three flickering lights on the screen, something steadies inside me. No matter what’s coming, I’m not alone, I’ll never be alone again, and neither will these babies.