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“I did. It’s not as if you didn’t have warning, Mia. As has been previously stated—by that bastion of fine reporting, InTouch, no less—I am the world’s greatest lover.”
“More like the world’s greatest idiot.”
He got up from his chair, leaned against the exam table, and kissed me.
“Come on.” He pressed his forehead against mine, grinning. “You’re happy about this. I can tell. It wasn’t exactly what we had planned, but it’s a surprise, not a disaster. A surprise is a good thing. Right?”
The frustrating thing about being in love with Michael Moscovitz is that it’s impossible to stay angry with him, especially when he’s got his hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he’s resting his forehead against yours and that clean Michael smell of his is filling your senses.
Then all you want to do is throw your arms around him and say, “Oh, all right, I give up, I’ll do whatever you want. What does it matter?”
He’s very hard to resist.
“If that ultrasound shows that I’m having twins,” I snarled, “I will kill you.”
“If that ultrasound shows that you’re having twins”— he grinned back—“you have my permission to kill me.”
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 c
ompletely 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.”
