Page 54 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I hope he’s right.
21
THALASSA
The OB waitingroom smells like those pink antibacterial wipes that live in gym dispensers and a faint whiff of stale jelly beans from the kids’ play corner. I’m vibrating in a polyblend chair, drumming my fingers on my refillable water bottle because my fingers need a sacrificial object.
Every few seconds I glance at the flat-screen scrolling pregnancy trivia:Did you know your baby’s heart begins to beat at six weeks?Cool, thanks slideshow, love the casual reminder that something in my uterus is possibly beating right now or possibly…not.
Arabella sits beside me wearing a neon-yellow cardigan that screams optimism. She jiggles her foot like she’s revving an invisible engine. “You sure you don’t want me back there?” she asks for, I think, the sixth time.
“I’m sure,” I repeat, and then I do the thing I’ve been debating since breakfast. I yank out my phone and text Dean to let him know about the OBGYN visit. He vows to be here soon.
I swallow—my throat dry despite drinking the entire Nalgene. They’re coming. No turning back now.
Arabella sees my expression flip from jittery to deer-in-headlights. She squeezes my knee. “You texted the Triforce?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll tell them where the best parking is.” She fires off a logistical group text like a field commander, then leans close. “You got this. Worst case, we break into the supply closet and steal unlimited ginger chews.”
I snort-laugh loud enough that other patients glance over.
Twelve minutes later, the door from the corridor opens, and in breeze three six-foot-plus men doing their best impression of “casual.” It doesn’t really work. Even dressed down—Tic in a dark Henley, Dean in a button-down sans tie, Colin wearing a sweatshirt that advertises a vintage arcade—they radiatenotice me.The receptionist’s eyes track them like they might sign autographs.
They spot me, file straight over, pausing a respectful foot shy of personal-space invasion. Tic’s voice is mellow. “Thank you for inviting us.” Dean hands me a paper cup with a lid. “Lemon-ginger tea. Caffeine-free.” Colin offers a pack of sour gummy worms—my guilty pleasure accidentally revealed over Thanksgiving—and a shy grin.
Arabella gives them a look equal partshurt-my-friend-and-dieandreluctantly impressed. They handle it gracefully, each nodding gentlemanly.
The nurse calls my name. My stomach does a backflip. Tic’s gaze flicks for permission, and I nod. “All of you.” Nurse raiseseyebrows but shrugs—apparently, a rich person’s entourage is a Tuesday thing here.
The exam room is all pastel walls, pudgy elephant decals, and low light like a planetarium. I change into a paper gown and perch on the table. The gel is warm, thankfully. A tech with lavender scrubs and a calm radio host voice explains the steps. The guys cluster near my head, chairs pulled tight. The probe touches my skin. My breath hitches. The screen glows with grayscale snowdrift, then shapes.
“Here we go, mama. You’re six weeks along, according to the file?—”
“That’s right.”
“We should see something good.” Thump. Thump. The speaker volume is low, but the sound is seismic. Dean squeezes my hand like a Morse-code prayer. The tech says, “There’s your little bean. Heartbeat looks strong. 160 beats per minute.”
A flood of relief, so sudden, I laugh-cry. I clamp my free hand over my eyes. Two weeks of Colorado keggers didn’t nuke anything. I almost sag off the table.
The tech moves probe. “Looks like there’s something else…”
Fear peaks. “I hurt the baby, didn’t I? I didn’t know I was pregnant, and I was partying, and?—”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” The snowflake swirl resolves into a second blob. “Say hello to baby number two.”
The room stops breathing. Two? My throat goes dry. “Did you say two?”
She flicks the measurement cursor. “You’re having twins. Symmetric growth, both look good. Congratulations.”
I stare at the screen, brain buffering. Twins. Like a BOGO baby sale. Dean inhales sharp. Tic’s eyes glaze. Colin whispers, “woah” like Keanu Reeves.
My body chills, then heats. I start giggling—might be hysteria, might be wonder. A dash of horror in there too. Twins means double diapers, double tuition, double everything.
The tech prints the image strip and hands it over. “The doctor will review, but prelim looks healthy.”
The paper feels fragile somehow. Little peanut silhouettes snuggled side by side.
