Story: Great Gatsby, Chapter 16: "Rachel's five months pregnant. It's twins again. There's a rumor that when Paul found out, he passed out, woke up, and scheduled a vasectomy for the next business day."
Couple: Rachel & Paul
Paul
There are several things I could blame here.
There's the "Winter Holiday Party" Rachel's tech firm throws every first Saturday in December, the one night of year we leave the girls at home guilt-free so Rachel can schmooze her boss's boss's boss and catch up with her work friends while I eat my way through three trays of tapas.
Or we could blame it on Nessie and Jacob's idea to extend our stay another night, make a weekend out of it. "You don't really do vacations," Nessie had said to Rachel. "And the twins are loving spending time with baby Will." Kid was six months old but measuring nine, and with Jacob Black as a father and a hybrid vamp as a mother, I personally didn't think "baby Will" constituted a baby anymore. But what did I know?
If I was really desperate, I could choose to blame it on that infamous Black family tree and how little I actually know about genetics. You'd think for a guy who used to shed his fucking skin when he got angry because Granddaddy did it first, I'd be a little more educated.
I will choose, instead, to blame it on the piña coladas we drank that second night. Damn those little fruity drinks—they had no right being that good, disguising their alcohol content that well. I'd had four before I realized maybe I should slow down.
But Rach had had three herself, and with the way she was eyeing me, I decided I couldn't find a single fuck to give.
Well, that's not exactly true either.
When she pulled me into the alley behind the bar, unable to wait until we made it back to our hotel two blocks away, I found a few fucks to give. And gave them all to her.
It's Christmas morning when she tells me.
The twins are, thankfully, not fighting over any of the toys strewn about the living room floor. It helps that Harper's more into dolls, and Alex has got a thing for Lincoln Logs right now.
Wait, scratch that—now they both want the baking set. Which means Rach and I will stress-buy another set on eBay for an extortionate price, and they'll be over it within a week.
I love my girls with all my heart, would give my life for theirs without blinking. I'd just be lying if having two of them teething at the same time didn't also make me want to pull my hair out and curl into the fetal position. But the girls are three and a half now, and things have settled down.
"Paul," Rachel says from her spot under my arm. If I didn't know her better, didn't think her incapable, I'd say she sounded hesitant. "I have another present for you, but it's on back order. I wanted to go ahead and tell you now."
"Aw, Rach," I say, kissing her hair. "You didn't have to. I love the jacket, really." I'm not lying, either. It's a sick jacket, with this cool faded blue leather. Not that I wear jackets often, considering my body temp hangs out around 104, down since I left the pack but still not quite normal.
"I know," she says, then pulls back to study my face. "I think you'll really love it. More than the jacket," she says when I start to correct her. "It just takes a long time to make this specific thing."
I shrug, unbothered, and reach for my mug of coffee. I have everything I need already—her and my girls. "What, like two months?"
"More like nine," she says.
The coffee freezes halfway to my mouth, and I nearly knock it over in my haste to set it down again.
Her brown eyes, the ones that kill me every time they look my way, are a little glassy on the bottom, but crinkled around the edges. She does that—smile with her eyes first, mouth second.
"Swear?" I say, reaching for her. Not that I think she'd ever lie about this or anything.
"Swear," she says.
"You're sure?"
"Three tests' worth."
I pull her onto my lap, bind my arms around her torso and cover her belly with my palm. Press my wet eyes into her hair.
We decided about six months ago we had room in our family for just one more. It's no secret I want a son. The way Sam Uley and the other boy dads get to interact with them, teach them to be better men than the ones who raised us, is something I've envied for a while now. Plus, we can write our names with piss in the snow. Who doesn't want to do that with their kid?
"Daddy?" Harper says, pausing her play time. That is a questionable outfit choice for the doll, but who am I to judge? I'm wearing pajama pants with Jacob's floating head plastered all over them. They were a gag gift last Christmas, but joke's on him—these fuckers are the comfiest pants I own. "Why you crying?"
At hearing her sister's concerned question, Alex also stills and looks at us.
"Mommy's having a baby," Rach says simply.
"Where?" says Alex.
"In here," I rasp, rubbing a small circle around Rachel's stomach. It feels unreal. My eyes prickle again.
Harper comes over and lifts my hand, and her dark eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. "No baby." She looks back at Alex, who also comes over to investigate.
"It's in there. I promise," Rachel says, and her words are loaded for me and me alone.
"You've been sick?" I ask, smoothing her hair back from her face to get a better look at her eyes.
"A bit," she says. "Not as bad as last time, though, thank God." With the twins Rachel started getting sick at four weeks and didn't stop for four months. She was miserable.
Two days later, she starts getting sick and doesn't stop.
Her first appointment is a week and a half later, and while Nessie never questions us when we need her to watch the girls—she babysits whenever we both work anyway—there is a suspicious glint in her eyes as we do the handoff. She's too smart for her own good sometimes. But she does give me four muffins for the road, so I guess she's not too bad when it comes down to it.
The wait is short, and eventually they're calling Rachel's name. We're lead back to a room where the ultrasound technician instructs Rachel to strip her pants and sit up on the table.
"I can help you with that," I murmur to Rach as soon as the door shuts. I reach for her jeans.
She swats my hand away, but she's grinning. "Down, boy."
Ten minutes later, the technician returns and goes over the spiel: this will be a transvaginal ultrasound because it's so early on, and we're not looking to date the baby today, just confirm the pregnancy, get a heartbeat, and look for any bright red flags.
"You're a champ, babe," I say when Rachel's face twitches at the wand.
She looks over at me, and the strength of her gaze makes me feel like I've never held the gaze of a woman before her. Like she is the first, the last, the only. Because she is, in all the ways that matter. "You're the love of my life, Paul Lahote." And then, because it's Rachel, and she can't resist, she adds, "I'm glad you're my baby daddy times three."
"Oh," the tech says with surprise, but she quickly checks her tone as she swings the screen around. "Okay, look at what I'm seeing. We've got a baby here…"
I can tell she's trying to keep something bottled up. My mind is instantly racing to the worst-case scenario. No heartbeat, something wrong with the placenta or the sac or, shit, what if something's wrong with Rachel? I want this baby, but I need Rachel. Need her like air, food, water.
Rachel squeals. "I knew it!" she says as the picture on the screen changes.
"And another baby here," she says. "Congratulations. You're having twins!"
Someone turns the lights out.
I jerk awake, swatting at the hand hovering under my nose. The tech smirks at me, pulling back the packet of smelling salts.
"Hey there handsome," Rachel says, feet dangling off the table as the paper sheet remains draped over her lap. "Glad you're back."
"Is the baby okay?" I say, but at Rachel's grin, I remember. "Babies," I correct, shaking my head. I should have known better. If something was wrong, they don't tell you to look at the screen. They get the doctor. My mind is a tornado.
Twins.
A-fucking-gain.
I sit up slowly, doing my best not to shove away the tech as she tries to help me.
"It's a lot to take in," she offers in a conciliatory tone. I get situated in the chair again, and she reclaims her own seat. "Ready?"
Not really, no. I feel like I just fucking imprinted again. Had my world blown up, only to have someone come in after and torch the debris.
Two times two.
Just like that, double the kids.
Four sets of braces. Four college tuitions. Four humans' worth of parental anxiety. Of having to send them off into the world without me there to protect them.
And Oh. My. God. What if they're girls? Four weddings, Five menstruating females, under one roof. They're going to sync up and everything.
"Paul?" Rachel says, reaching for me. "Are you happy?"
I bolt to my feet, taking her face between my hands. I keep no secrets from Rachel. "Babe, I'm fucking ecstatic."
Because whether there are two more babies or ten in there, they are still a result of the love between Rachel and me. I love getting to watch Rachel be a mom. Hold them while they're sick with fever and sing to them when they have growing pains. Teach our children what it means to love life and nature and family and each other. Tell them the stories of the stars her mother told her.
And being a dad is the best role I've ever filled. I love letting the girls paint my toenails and pick my shirts. Sometimes they pack my lunch for work, and I'll end up with a pack of hot dogs, six bananas, four Rice Krispy Treats, and, randomly, two lemons. I will eat all of it.
I kiss Rachel then, passionately, molding my lips to hers. It's honestly surprising we haven't had more kids, with the way she gets me going.
The tech clears her throat, and Rachel's cheeks are pink when I pull back. "Ready?" she asks again.
"Ready," I say, and clutch Rachel's hand as we look at our second set of twins.
Holy shit. Yeah, that's going to take some getting used to.
"Do twins run in your family?" the tech—I should really learn her name—asks.
Rach laughs, swiping under her eyes with her free hand. "They run the family. I'm a twin, and we have twin girls at home."
"The passing out makes a little more sense now," the tech says, eyeing me.
Rachel is so smart, she asks all kinds of questions I don't think to: can we tell if they're fraternal or identical (not yet, since they're in separate sacs, which is the best case scenario for growth and development), is this why she's been so sick (absolutely yes), and is it normal to already feel like she has to pee every hour (also absolutely yes).
"I'll get these printed out for you," the tech says, hitting one last button on the computer. "Any more questions?"
"Just one," I say, glancing to Rachel. She must already know my thoughts, because she smirks at me. "Does this office handle vasectomies, or do I have to call somewhere else for that?"
