Page 101 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“He doesn’t know,” I admit, and she nods. No questions asked. She just simply nods.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we do an ultrasound, confirm things and check on things and give you peace of mind that you and baby are okay. And then we can talk about resources and options. Counselors and things like that.”

“Okay.” I nod. Because I don’t know what else to say. Yet her baby step method in dealing with my crisis is helping to calm my nerves a little. No pun intended.

I’ve seen enough movies to know how this works. I put on a gown; I pull the gown open; they squirt jelly on my stomach; they turn the lights down, and the doctor runs the wand over my belly, making a whirring sound.

“Well, I have news for you, honey,” she says.

“I’m pregnant,” I state.

“Yes.” She smiles. “Yes. You are very pregnant.”

I sigh. “I figured those bright pink lines don’t lie,” I say.

“Were they? Bright, I mean,” she asks.

“Oh yeah. Glaringly so,”

She nods. “I’m not surprised.”

“Why?” I ask, my eyes narrowing as I think about her words.

Very.

Not surprised.

I turn to the screen in an attempt to decipher it. “What am I looking at?” I ask.

“Well, this is the sac, this is the baby right here,” she points out.

“And what’s that?” I ask. “On the other side of the screen.”

“That is the baby, too. Baby B, to be exact.”

“Baby…B,” I echo, realizing that there are two of everything. And the term Baby B means there is a Baby A.

“You’re having twins, honey,” she says, moving the wand around like she does this every day and it’s nothing new. Maybe she does do this every day, but I do not. I’ve never even been pregnant before, let alone with twins.

“Cheese and rice,” I let out, and I can’t tell if I am going to cry, be sick, or pass out. Maybe all three.

* * *

After the doctor’s appointment, I let Morgan know that everything is fine. The office was kind enough not to give out any information other than a possible stress-induced stomach bug. They give me a prescription for prenatals, and I tell Morgan it’s just an anti-nausea med. Then we go back to the hotel where I proceed to demand that I can go for a walk on the beach alone. Morgan reluctantly agrees, but considering I literally have doctor’s approval for such activities and he has another conference call, he agrees.

Thank goodness.

I need time to think. To reflect. To cry if I need to. Laugh if I need to. Talk to myself if I need to. I cross the length of our private beach, and my thoughts are swirling so much that I cross over to the public side without realizing it. It isn’t until I see a mom with a few kids playing in the sand that I even realize there are people around me.

“Excuse me,” a little girl says, stopping in front of me and looking up at me with eyes bluer than the water itself. “Do you want a seashell?”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly surprised by the sweetness of the gesture. “Sure.”

She hands me one, and I smile down at it, turning it over in my hand.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell her. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

“I’m sure,” she says with confidence. “My sister and I have already collected bunches. But you don’t have any. So you can have that one. Actually…” she rummages around in her bucket. “You can have two.”