And then—as if from our lips to God’s ears—that’s exactly what showed up on the ultrasound.

“I would say you’re around eight weeks along,” Dr. Delgado said, looking pleased, as I wavered between wanting to laugh, cry, and throw up (but not because of morning sickness. Because the ultrasound showed that I was having twins). “Everything looks fine . . . times two. Congratulations.”

Congratulations? Congratulations? No, not congratulations!

“Thanks!” Michael said, looking completely delighted. “When can we start telling people?”

I’d never seen him looking so pleased . . . well, except for a few minutes earlier. He’d been proud of himself for having defied all laws of nature and science by impregnating me with one baby while using birth control. The fact that he’d managed to knock me up with two had sent him over the edge.

(In fact, he’s still grinning ear to ear next to me here in the car.)

“Well,” Dr. Delgado said, “most couples wait twelve weeks before sharing the news.”

Michael’s smile disappeared. “Oh. Even with their parents, who are getting older and have been looking forward to grandchildren for years already?”

“Well, that’s up to the individual,” Dr. Delgado said, which brought some of the wattage back into Michael’s smile.

“Wait,” I said. “This can’t be right. I can’t be having two babies. I’m not ready to have one baby.” I looked at Michael, who was still grinning ear to ear, and belatedly remembered everything Lana had told me about her childbirth experience. “I want a second opinion.”

“Well, you can get one, of course,” Dr. Delgado said, mildly. “But you aren’t going to hear anything different. You’re very definitely carrying two eight-week fetuses. Of course, since you don’t have regular periods, I suppose they could be ten weeks . . .”

“Ten!”

“My receptionist has some literature she can give you on how to begin preparing your home for your new arrival. Or arrivals, I should say.”

“That’s all right, Doctor,” Michael said. “We’re going to be moving soon anyway.”

“That’s right,” the doctor said. “To Genovia?”

Michael looked at me questioningly. “That probably isn’t a bad idea. We’re going to need a lot of room for the babies. And what you pay in New York is ridiculous compared to what you’d get elsewhere for the same money.”

“It’s really true,” Dr. Delgado agreed. “That’s why my wife and I are looking for a place upstate.”

“Oh,” Michael said. “That’s a great idea. The city’s way too overpriced.”

I thought my head might be exploding.

“No,” I cried. “We are not moving to Genovia.”

Michael looked thoughtful. “It’s something to think about,” he said. “It would be safer, both for you and the babies, especially considering everything Dominique said this morning about those new threats.”

Babies? Babies? What kind of alternative reality was I now living in, where suddenly my boyfriend is talking about babies?

Then Dr. Delgado (who is only an internist, after all, not an ob-gyn) glanced at my foot and said it was bruised, not broken, told me stay off it for the next few days, gave me the name of an ob-gyn (for “future appointments”), loaded me down with prenatal vitamins and information, told me everything was going to be all right, and sent us both along our way, cheerfully wishing me luck with the “babies.”

•   Note to self: Do not sign up with any more physicians who are male. Female physicians only, from now on. Male physicians cannot relate, and do not understand.

CHAPTER 62

10:05 a.m., Thursday, May 7

Inside the HELV

What am I going to tell Sebastiano? He’s going to kill me. The design I picked out for my wedding gown is never going to work now.

Wait, what am I thinking? Wedding gown? Who cares about a wedding gown. There are human lives growing inside me.

But seriously, that dress is going to look hideous.

CHAPTER 63

10:10 a.m., Thursday, May 7

Inside the HELV Rate the Royals Rating: 1

I guess I’m still in a state of shock because all I can think about is not my “babies,” but how hungry I am.

But what are women who are pregnant even allowed to eat?

CHAPTER 64

10:15 a.m., Thursday, May 7

Hi-Life Restaurant

Upper East Side

It turns out women who are pregnant can eat whatever they want, unless it’s raw, unwashed, or undercooked, seafood, has caffeine or alcohol, is unpasteurized, or contains the word herbal, because there’s no data on what “herbs” do to developing fetuses.

(Michael has already downloaded seven pregnancy books to his phone.)

Weirdly, I don’t feel like reading any of the pregnancy books (even though he really wants me to) or the literature Dr. Delgado gave me. I’d rather just eat my eggs (thoroughly scrambled, because undercooked eggs can contain bacteria) with whole-wheat toast.

I figure I should eat as much as possible now, before the morning sickness hits (although, according to one of the books Michael has downloaded, not everyone gets this. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones. Except my boobs are killing me, so I don’t know).

I think Michael’s going to make a good dad. Not that I ever thought otherwise, but it’s been only an hour since he found out, and he’s already canceled all my appointments for the day (informing Dominique vaguely that I’m “under the weather”) and has the names picked out. Adam for a boy and Leah for a girl. It’s entertaining to watch.