As predicted, it’s a slow crawl to the doctor’s office in hectic traffic, but we leave in plenty of time so we don’t have to worry about being late. We ride in loaded silence, each lost in our private thoughts. I’m contemplating my next move, but I’m also playing in the dark. I know London still has feelings for me, but deep down that has never really been in question. The emotional connection has always been there. The real issue is her willingness to give me a second—no, third chance. It’s about her taking a risk on me, and on us. Not an easy ask for her at any time, and even less so now that we have Squirt to consider.

I steal a sideways glance at her and find her looking straight back at me.

“What?” I coax gently.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what, Tog? Come on, don’t keep me hanging. I want to know what’s going on in your head.” I always want to, but very rarely do.

“Honestly, I don’t know myself half the time. Right now, I’m thinking about this scan and the baby we made, and what ‘we’ even are. I mean, what was that before?”

“What was what?” I try for nonchalance.

“You know what, Arlo. Screwing on top of your kitchen table. What are we playing at?” I don’t miss the tension in her voice.

“I’m not ‘playing’ at anything, London.” I glance at her again. She knows shit’s getting real when I use her full name. “Seriously. What went down before was everything. I told you before you moved in that I’m here to give you as much or as little as you want from me, but know this: I’m more in love with you now than I have ever been. You and Squirt are everything. And although I meant the whole ‘as much or as little’ thing when I said it, right now I can’t promise I’ll stop pushing for more, because I know I won’t. We clear?”

She nods mutely, her eyes welling with tears. What they mean, I have no idea, but I have a feeling it’s more than just the pregnancy hormones doing their thing. I reach over and give her hand a light squeeze as it rests on her thigh. She squeezes back and looks at me, giving me a small, tight smile in return. She’s such an enigma. A beautiful fucking enigma.

I pull into the parking lot, and we make our way inside. I’m doing the off-duty rock star thing—face full of stubble, collar upturned, cap pulled down, shades on—and hoping for the best. The last thing I need right now is for fans or paparazzi to find out about this and cause a ruckus. I’m here to support London and be what she wants and needs me to be. This is about her and Squirt, not about me. I want to show her that we can do this—the normal everyday life thing—without the chaos and the drama she hates, just like a regular family.

We enter the waiting area, and after London checks in with the receptionist, we take a seat. Forty minutes later we’re still waiting. I’ve “read” every out-of-date magazine in the place in the hope that hiding behind them will keep my face hidden long enough not to draw attention. It’s a long time to try and remain incognito, and a women’s magazine is far less effective than shades, though sunglasses inside a doctor’s office would probably attract attention more than deflect it.

Sitting there, I’m even more convinced that no matter how much she protests—and I’m sure she’ll continue to do so—I want London to switch to the best OB money can buy, not just the best one offered on her insurance. I don’t want to fight about it here in the waiting room, so I decide to say nothing for now and just do what we came here to do. Sure as shit I’ll be talking to her about it as soon as we get home, and there’s only one resolution I’ll accept.

By the time London’s name is finally called and we’re greeted by an apologetic Dr. Carty, I’m a tightly bound ball of rage. I don’t want London to know that, so I do my best chilled-out father-to-be act. As we walk into the doctor’s office, a wave of pure nerves washes over me. Shit’s getting real now. Of course, in actual fact, it’s been real for a long time; London’s gloriously rounded stomach is testament to that fact. It’s just that this feels kind of like my official initiation into the role of daddy.

I’m man enough to admit that I’m shitting my pants. The haunted look Jake often has in his eyes makes so much more sense now. He’s always worried about some terrifying shit relating to his kids. I guess I’m turning into one of those guys. The ones I thought I’d never be: spending their weekends at Little League games and ballet recitals and their evenings poring over algebra and geography homework. Whatever happens, there’s no way I’m moving to the ’burbs like Jake, though. I’d sooner blow a hole in my head.

I brush the thought aside as we walk into the exam room, determined to be present in the moment. I don’t want to miss a thing, especially not due to dreaming up ways in which my life will never be the same again.

London walks over to the exam table and hops on up, if you can be said to hop while twenty weeks pregnant. Once she’s settled, Dr. Carty talks through what will happen during the exam and the possible outcomes. I sit in the chair alongside the table and concentrate on trying not to look as haunted as I feel. When she’s done explaining the situation, the doctor asks the sixty-four-million-dollar question.

“So, would you like to know the sex of your baby today, if possible?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

We answer in unison.

She looks at us as though we’re dumb fucks. I guess she’s not too far wrong.

London explains.

“Daddy over here”—she nods toward me—“would like to find out, but I would rather wait until the birth. We were hoping you could maybe write it down for him and keep me in the dark?”

Daddy. The word sounds so good coming from her lips in reference to me. Dr. Carty smiles benignly, and I’m sure I can guess what she’s thinking.

“Yes, that’s fine, we can do that. Do you have any more questions before I start? If not, you can lie back on the table and we’ll get the show on the road.”

We both shake our heads. No more questions, so London lies back. Dr. Carty has her lift her top and lower the waistband of her skirt to allow access to Squirt. Before she covers the bump in gel, London suddenly reaches out for my hand, taking me by surprise, but in the best way. I squeeze hers gently.

The doctor moves the wand over the gel on London’s stomach, spreading it around. We all stare at the screen, waiting for the magic to happen. Moments later, the image crackles to life and we’re presented with a grainy black-and-white scene, which I know to be London’s womb. This is some freaky shit. The image London gave me is one thing, but seeing it in person is something else. I’m glad I didn’t agree to her catching the subway and attending alone. I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.

As she continues to move the wand around, the air is filled with strange swooshing noises, which before long settle to a steady and rhythmic beat that mirrors the pulsing movement on the screen. Our baby’s heartbeat. Holy shit. I’m hit with a powerful wave of emotion I can’t name; I just know it’s intense. I look across at London, and she’s beaming from ear to ear. Her thick black curls are fanned out above her like a halo, and she’s glowing and radiant. I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.

“There’s your baby.” The doctor motions to the screen with her pen. We both stare as though hypnotized.

“I’ll just take some measurements, and then I should be able to let you”—she turns to me—“know the sex.”

For the next few minutes, she moves the wand around, clicking it at various points on the screen and recording measurements. Out of the blue, she stops clicking and mutters, “Ugh,” to herself, frowning. Moving the wand around some more, the frown remains.

What the…?

I look toward London, and she’s looking at me, clearly worried. I shrug, my relaxed demeanor playing down my anxiety and fear. I don’t want London to worry unduly when there may not be a problem at all. We both look back at the monitor. The heartbeat still seems to be there, which I take as a good sign, but Dr. Carty continues tutting and fussing. She seems quite perturbed. Just as I’m about to ask her if there’s a problem, she turns from her screen to address us.

“Umm… there seems to be some kind of anomaly here. From what I can tell, Baby Llwellyn is fine”—thank Christ—“but I need to carry out a few more measurements. Please bear with me. I’ll be a moment.

Baby Llwellyn. That kills me.

While she speaks, Dr. Carty leafs through London’s medical notes again, flicking from paper to paper and examining the details entered on the front and back cover of the cardboard folio. She frowns a lot. How can she tell us that there’s nothing to worry about when clearly something is troubling her?

She turns her attention back to the monitor, having picked up the ultrasound wand again, moving it around London’s bump. She appears to be repeating the process she carried out minutes earlier, reentering the measurements and other figures into the computer. London hovers on the verge of tears. I know the feeling.

After what seems like an age, the doctor turns to us, smiling.

“Well, I have some exciting news.”

We stare at her in anticipation.

“Although it wasn’t obvious at the first scan, it would seem from what I’m seeing now that you’re expecting twins.”

What now?

London lets out a wail not unlike a seal’s. The tears that have been threatening to spill for some time flow down her cheeks. I jump up, as though standing is going to make any difference to the situation.

“What did you say? Because it sounded very much like you said we were having twins.” I realize how stupid I sound, but I’m incapable of more intelligent speech at this point. In fact, I’m surprised I’m capable of any kind of speech right now.

“That’s right. The—”

“Motherfucker!” I pace the floor agitatedly, aware that the two women are looking at me as though I’m an ax murderer.

London saves my ass.

“Sorry. It’s a shock for him. He’s an identical twin, and he and his brother… well, let’s just say they have their moments. I guess it’s a twin thing.”

I suppose that’s a fair enough description in polite company, and I’m glad she jumped in for me—that’s totally not what I would have said, polite company or not. Dr. Carty nods her understanding.

She then directs our attention to the screen, tapping it with the capped end of her pen.

“See here, you can see another, slightly fainter pulse on the screen? That’s twin two’s heartbeat.”

Wow. Now that she’s pointed it out, I don’t know why I didn’t notice before.

“Most of his or her body is obscured by their sibling, but if you look closely again, you can see some of their limbs as the two of them move. Here, see a hand?” She circles the screen in the relevant area, and I guess I can just make out a hand. Twins. This is nuts.

“Obviously it’s quite late to discover this in comparison to most multiple pregnancies—the majority of women are aware they are carrying twins in the first trimester. However, though concealed twin pregnancies are rare, they are not totally unheard of. I must confess that in my almost fifteen years in obstetric medicine, this is only the second case of late diagnosis I’ve seen personally. The first being about five years ago, and she wasn’t actually my patient. That poor lady didn’t find out until she was delivering her beautiful babies, so you have the jump on her! Congratulations to you both. Baby Llwellyn just became Babies Llwellyn. Now, would you perhaps like to know the sexes of your babies?”

“No!” London states too loudly through her sobs.

The doctor looks toward me, one eyebrow raised, clearly trying—and failing—to stifle a smirk. I shake my head. After the shock we’ve just had, I’m done fighting London on this. We have much bigger shit to worry about right now, like how the hell are we going to name two babies when we can’t even agree on simple fucking things, for one? We’re so screwed. So. Epically. Fucking. Screwed.

“Okay, well as I said before, everything does seem at this stage to be well with both babies, but I will need to run a few more tests before I can be 100 percent sure, especially for twin two.” I still can’t believe this is happening.

“In the meanwhile, I wanted to discuss a few things with you. Firstly, I note from your file that you’re no longer living locally? Even with earlier awareness of twins, there would be a need to reevaluate your care schedule in terms of an increased number of appointments as the pregnancy progresses. Even more so when one twin isn’t discovered until midterm.

“With that and the increased potential of the need for an emergency C-section, I strongly recommend that you seek out a doctor closer to home. It will make the more frequent visits easier, but more importantly, in the dash to the hospital, every minute counts. The further the hospital, the greater likelihood of you delivering your babies en route, or other possible complications. I’m happy to make some recommendations if you’d like?”

London looks toward me, and I mouth, “Not negotiable,” her way. She nods slowly, looking resigned. I guess I’m not the only one who’s done fighting today.

I reply to the doctor. “Sure. We’d be glad for the referral.”

I’m relieved that London accepted the change so readily. In light of this new development, I was even less inclined to roll over on this.