TUCKER
I'm staringat the ultrasound photo for probably the hundredth time since leaving Sloane's apartment three hours ago.
My babies.
Our babies.
The urge to call someone—anyone—is overwhelming. Alder. My dad. Hell, I want to post it on social media with some caption like "Plot twist!" but I know that would be the worst possible thing I could do.
Sloane needs time. She needs space. She gets to decide when and how to tell people.
But keeping this to myself feels impossible.
I stand, pacing the length of my living room. The space suddenly feels both too big and too small. Three thousand square feet of bachelor pad that will need to become... what? A home? A place where babies live?
I hate that Sloane and my babies are in that apartment building with unlocked doors and no security. I have a really strong urge to barrel over there and scoop her up and bring her here, but obviously that’s not the right approach.
I stop pacing in front of the bar cart, staring at the collection of expensive liquor. Glenlivet, Macallan, Japanese whisky I bought because the bottle looked cool. When did I become theguy with a liquor collection? When did that seem like a personality trait worth cultivating?
The weird art on the walls catches my eye next—abstract pieces the decorator chose that I thought looked sophisticated. Now they just look like what they are: empty attempts at appearing grown-up while remaining fundamentally immature.
My place might be secure, but it’s not a place to bring a baby, either.
This apartment is a monument to T-Stag the Enforcer. And that douche needs to go.
I pull out my phone and scroll to my designer's number, then hesitate. What am I even asking for? "Make my bachelor pad look less like a bachelor pad"? "I'm having twins, so please remove anything that suggests I've ever had fun."?
I skip texting her and move to my bedroom instead. The California king bed dominates the space, unmade as usual. The closet—bigger than my first apartment, as I once bragged to Sloane—is full of clothes I barely wear: designer labels, expensive fabrics, more shoes than any reasonable person needs.
What do you even wear when you're a father? Do I need different clothes? Or am I overthinking this? My dad always looks pretty slick, but did he when he had four sons pooping their pants all day?
I sit on the edge of the bed and open my laptop, typing "parenting advice” into the search bar. The results are overwhelming—articles about feeding schedules, sleep training, developmental milestones, the importance of establishing routines.
I immediately order the first book that comes up from the American Academy of Pediatrics, because that sounds important. Then I orderHeading Home with Your Newborn,The Baby Book, and something calledWhat to Do When You're Having Two.
My shopping cart is up to eight books, and I'm contemplating a ninth when my phone buzzes.
Alder
You alive? Haven't heard from you since Sunday dinner.
I stare at the message. My twin. The person who knows me better than anyone.
I should tell him. Alder would understand. He'd help me figure this out. And it’s been hard talking to him at all, knowing I can’t be totally honest with him.
But Sloane asked me to wait. And I promised I'd respect her timeline.
I'm good. Just been thinking.
Alder
About Sloane?
Yeah. Among other things.
Alder
Want to grab dinner? You're being weird, and I'm worried.
