Page 67 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

It’s a small, glossy printout.

Not a picture. An ultrasound.

An ultrasound labeled with “Baby A” and “Baby B”.

I blink. My brain short-circuits.

“What—” My voice cuts off because I genuinely don’t know what the hell to say. My gaze jerks back up to Ivy, who’s staring at me like she’s just waiting for the inevitable meltdown.

Two.

Not one.

Two.

I sputter, scrambling for words. “Are you—? This is—?” I gesture between her and the ultrasound like that’s an actual sentence. “Twins?”

Ivy presses her lips together, nodding tightly.

I stare at the image again, at the two tiny blobs that are apparently human beings, and my brain does that thing where it tries to reboot but just shows the spinning wheel of death.

“Holy shit.”

She lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

I drag a hand down my face. “I mean—holy shit.”

“Yeah, Wyatt. I got that part.”

I open my mouth, then close it, then open it again. Nothing comes out. Becausewhat the actual fuck?

Twins.

My knees feel weird. My whole body feels weird. It’s like someone tilted the world on its axis, and I’m still trying to find my balance.

She’s pregnant.

Ivy snatches the ultrasound out of my hand, her jaw tight and her eyes avoiding mine. She’s pissed. Really pissed. And she’s trying to walk away again, but I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, slack-jawed and speechless.

My mouth opens and closes like I’m trying to catch flies, but no words come out. I can’t even get my feet to work, and Ivy’s already halfway across the parking lot, leaving me in the dust.

I finally manage to unstick myself and start after her again, but I’m not even sure what I’m going to say. What do you say to something like this? I’m practically gasping by the time I catch up, and she’s still not looking at me.

“Is this for real?” I blurt out, my voice cracking like a teenager’s. “How far along are you? When did you find out?

“Yes,” she says, spinning around to face me. Her eyes are dark and stormy, and there’s a tremor in her voice that I can’t quite place. “Six weeks. Just now.”

“Six weeks?” I repeat, dumbly.

“Yes, Wyatt,” she says, and I can hear the irritation in her voice. “Six weeks.”

I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be a father. I never really pictured myself with kids. Sure, maybe one day, but I’m already thirty, and one day is now, and I still don’t feel ready. My mouth opens and closes again.

“Are they...” I start, then stop.

Ivy’s eyes narrow. “Are they what?”

I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Are they...”

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