Page 103 of The Twins

ACT FIVE

“Let me be your safe space.”

Grey

LOS ANGELES - NOW

The doctor expectsan answer from me, but I can’t form the words.

My eyes drift from the man in white to Vegas’ fingers that are intertwined with mine. His eyes are fixed on my parted legs.

Vegas woke me up in an empty bed, and he insisted on taking me to the doctor to validate our pregnancy. Carey came along. She shouldn’t be with us, considering that she has a family and a job… We’ll get into trouble for keeping her around, but at the doctor’s office, she’s been the one to navigate us through the examination.

She converses with the doctor like she knows exactly what’s going on with my body for some strange reason. She’s media-trained, and she amplifies her charm to distract the doctor from my shellshocked state.

“I’m sorry for their reaction, sir. They wouldn’t believe me when I insisted that she was indeed pregnant,” Carey says, entertaining the doctor while Vegas and I are shellshocked. I’ve been examined before, but I’m speechless.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I’m six weeks in.

“It’s a healthy pregnancy?” Vegas asks. He’s asked the same question five times already. “She’s not in danger?”

The doctor replies, “It’s healthy. They’re both in the best shape they can be.”

“Sugar puff?” He swallows, sucking in a tight breath. “Did you hear the heartbeat?”

I nod. “It’s real. Vegas, I want it. I do. Please? Let us have this baby?”

“It’s not my choice, sugar puff. It’s all on you,” he says.

I’m restless.

Carey says goodbye to my doctor for us. The doctor asks, “Are you that girl on the Avra channel? Can I have an autograph for my kids? They love you.”

Like the professional that she is, Carey signs the man’s notebook, and she takes a selfie with him to make her fans’ day. Then she drags us out of the doctor’s office. Vegas and I follow her, sauntering to the car.

“Hand me the keys! I’ll drive us home!” Carey suggests. I gave her one of my black outfits, a loose top, and sweats. She’s got her hands in her pockets, and her posture is poised. She buzzes with excitement. It’s all over the grin on her face.

“Backseat. Now,” Vegas instructs Carey, and she grimaces with her red face.

Vegas drives us back home, not saying a word.

“Social media’s going crazy!” Carey yelps from the backseat. I clutch my seatbelt, casually caressing my belly, which holds life now. My hands are jittery. “They think I’ve gone mad!”

“Have you?” I ask. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back home?”

“My mom hasn’t even called you, has she? Unless one of her minions snitches on me, nobody will notice that I’m not home anymore!” Carey whines, and I let her have at it. “In one hour, I’m expecting my vocal coach. If she doesn’t find me at home, mom will finally notice I’m absent. The people on set will worry, but they never care when I cry. They want to get paid, and if I don’t tape for them, they lose money. Just like my mom, who is never there for me.”

“Where does she go?” I inquire. When I was a teen, my parents never gave a fuck where I went. Her mom’s negligence doesn’t surprise me.

“I have no idea. She never speaks of it,” Carey reveals. I wince at her story, but she keeps a calm face. “But yes, I spend most of my time alone. Unless Mr. Abbott comes by.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I insist.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it with you,” Vegas says to me, the first words he’s uttered since we climbed into the car. He’s got Whitney Houston on repeat in the background, soothing him. When Whitney gets to her big parts, Vegas usually mimics the singer to entertain me. His expression is full of suppressed emotions, and he isn’t open enough for playful singing today.

“No, I do. I’ve actually been wanting to tell somebody, but I don’t know who to trust. Everyone at work knows Mr. Abbott in one way—”

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