Charlie reaches over and grabs my hand and kisses my knuckles. “We’ve got this. Together.” We get out of the car and head to the hospital entrance.
“We’re having babies,” I say loudly as we enter the hospital. The hospital reception staff look at us, and then calmly gather the details and send us up to the maternity ward.
I don’t even remember the blur between walking into that hospital room and ending up here. All I know is this. I’m sitting in a soft beige recliner in our private maternity suite, lights dimmed … and I’m holding our daughter.
London Vanessa is tiny and warm and wrapped up so tight she looks like a cinnamon scroll. All dark hair, pink cheeks, and the smallest nose I’ve ever seen in my life. I keep counting her little fingers like they might disappear if I blink.
Across from me, Charlie is in another recliner, staring down at Rocky Lyle, our son. Neither of us has spoken for minutes. We’re too overwhelmed. Too in love. Too everything.
Charlie finally looks up and whispers, “We made people, D.”
“I know,” I whisper back. My voice cracks instantly. “They’re real. They’re actually real.”
He laughs softly, but it’s the kind of laugh you make when you’re seconds from crying. “I can’t believe he’s ours.”
I swallow hard. “I can’t believe she’s ours.”
He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re a dad.”
“You’re a dad,” I echo, because somehow saying it back makes it more real. We sit there for another quiet stretch, the soft beeping of monitors somewhere outside the door, distant footsteps in the hall. Our surrogate is resting in another suite, happy, healthy, supported, and we’ve already thanked her so many times I’m sure we’ll have to send an edible arrangement to apologize.
I look back down at London. “She’s perfect. Charlie … look at her lips. Look at …”
A knock interrupts me, followed immediately by someone ignoring the concept of knocking entirely and pushing the door open.
Christian’s head pops around the door frame. “Are you clothed? Are you stable? Can we come in? I’m coming in.”
Before I can say “no,” he’s already inside.
Behind him is the entire chaos brigade.
All of Dirty Texas.
All their partners.
All their kids.
Vanessa, who looks nine months and forty-seven weeks pregnant with her miracle baby that she conceived naturally, they weren’t expecting to have any more babies. And Olivia, who looks only slightly less pregnant but equally done with life.
Christian takes one look at me and melts. “Oh, D …” His voice cracks immediately. “You’re holding a baby.”
“I am aware.” I sniffle.
He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Shut up. I’m emotional.”
Vanessa waddles in behind him, breathless. “Shit, they are gorgeous.”
“This is London Vanessa,” I tell her.
She bursts out crying. “No, you didn’t.”
Vanessa leans over me like she’s inspecting gemstones. “London Nash-Jones,” she whispers, and her face softens. “Oh, Derrick. She’s beautiful.”
“She looks like you,” I say.
“She looks like herself,” Vanessa corrects gently.
From the other side of the room, Charlie barks out a laugh. “Derrick, look who Rocky made eye contact with.”
