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Carson orders the hot roast beef, and she writes it down without looking at her pad.

The paperwork is spread across the table between us. My after-visit summary, along with a prescription for prenatal vitamins and a glossy pamphlet with a photo of two swaddled babies on the front. In big, bold letters across the top, it reads Expecting Twins: What to Know.

I stare at the title again. Twins. It's still there.

The food comes fast. I break the biscuit open, and steam curls up. I manage half before my stomach gives up.

"Two cribs," I say. "Two car seats. Two of every single thing. I'm going to need a raise."

Carson doesn't laugh. Neither do I, once the words are out. I set the biscuit down. "I was prepared for one."

He looks at me like I just said the dumbest thing in the world. He has to be rocked, too, but I told him he didn't have to change his life, while mine is about to implode.

"I mean, not prepared-prepared. Obviously." I rub my thumb against the damp edge of my water glass. "But I'd gotten used to one being the number."

His mouth shifts once. "Now there are two."

"Yeah."

That's all he says, but his voice is rougher than it was in the truck. He sets down his fork, wipes his hand on his napkin, and picks up the pamphlet.

The waitress refills my ginger ale. He doesn't look up, continuing to read, now on the third back panel of the pamphlet. The roast beef sits untouched while he scours every word.

I pick at the other half of my biscuit because I don't know what else to do with my hands. The thought of eating makes me want to vomit.

The ultrasound photo I tore off for him is tucked into his shirt pocket, with one corner sticking up. That nearly does me in.

I look away before he catches me staring.

"I haven't even told my mother."

His eyes lift from the pamphlet.

"Or my friends. Nobody."

He closes it halfway. "Why not?"

"I don't know." I rub my thumb over the edge of my napkin. "I was still trying to get used to one baby. Now there are two."

That comes out sharply, and I wish immediately I could take it back. I look down at the table. "I kept thinking I'd tell them after today."

"We need to talk about money."

"Carson, I told you⁠—"

"I'm helping."

"I know. I got the check. Do whatever you want. I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

"Five hundred a month. That's what I figured I could do through the pregnancy."

I stare at him. "Fine."

He rubs the back of his neck. "Didn't know what else to go on."

He looks down at the pamphlet, then back at me. "You tell me what you need after” he pauses. “Tell me how I can help after they’re born.”

I don't answer. The problem is, I probably will need help. I have no idea how much help, what two babies cost, or where I'm even supposed to start figuring that out.