Page 183 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
The sound changes. The rhythm syncopates. Swish-swish-thump-swish.
“You have a good eye,” Dr. Aris says, her eyebrows shooting up. “Or a very good ear.”
“What?” Owen asks, leaning in. “What is it?”
“Is something wrong?” Tessa panics, trying to sit up.
“Lie back, Tessa,” Dr. Aris says gently. “Nothing is wrong. Actually, everything is double.”
She points to the screen. Two distinct shapes appear in the static, each with its own fluttering pulse.
“Here is Baby A,” she says. “And here is Baby B.”
The room drops into absolute stillness.
“Two?” Ethan whispers. He goes perfectly still, a sudden flush rising to his neck.
“Twins,” Owen breathes, a massive grin breaking across his face. “No way. No way.”
“Twins,” I repeat. My mind instinctively pulls up the probability models—dizygotic twinning, genetic factors, a one-in-250 chance—but the data feels entirely inadequate for the weight suddenly pressing against my ribs.
I look at the screen. Two heartbeats. Two lives.
“Oh my god,” Tessa whispers, covering her mouth with her hands. “Two? We’re having two?”
“Well,” Owen laughs, kissing her temple loudly. “That settles it. We definitely don’t need a paternity test now. Two out of three isn’t bad. Who wants to draw straws?”
“Owen, shut up,” Ethan says, but he’s smiling. He’s actually smiling, staring at the grainy black and white image with a look of pure, unadulterated awe. He reaches out and touches the screen with one finger. “Two.”
“We’re going to need a bigger stroller,” Tessa says.
“I will redesign the nursery schematic,” I state, as I rotate furniture arrangements to manage the overflow. “We need double the square footage. We need to reinforce the soundproofing.”
“We’re having twins,” Ethan says again, as if saying it makes it real. He looks at me. “Ash. Two.”
“Two,” I repeat. The word feels massive. A strange, heavy warmth builds in my chest, expanding to make room for the new reality.
We leave the clinic in a daze. Ethan pauses by the open door of the SUV, staring at the two grainy photos printed on thermal paper. The stress of the company suddenly feels insignificant. He turns and pulls Tessa in, his hand resting flat against her lower back as he kisses her.
Owen crowds close, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple, and I step up to take her hand. We stand there in the humid parking lot, anchored together around the new reality, before we finally climb into the vehicle.
We return to the penthouse. It’s become our de facto headquarters. Tessa’s apartment is too small, and Owen’s is too chaotic. Ethan’s place is a fortress.
But today, the fortress is under siege.
“Surprise!”
The elevator doors open directly into the living room. Owen gave Harper the emergency override code three years ago—a securityflaw I have repeatedly told him to patch—and now she’s standing in our kitchen.
Our sister. Tessa’s best friend. The one person we’ve successfully ghosted for three weeks because we didn’t know how to look her in the eye without spilling our secrets.
She’s holding a pizza box. She looks like us—dark hair, sharp eyes—but she possesses a lightness we lost years ago.
“Harper,” Ethan says, stopping dead in his tracks. He quickly shoves the ultrasound photos into his inner suit pocket.
“Don’t ‘Harper’ me, Ethan Richard Branson,” she scolds, marching over. “I’ve been texting you for a month. I haven’t seen Tessa in weeks. I flew back from Paris, worried because you idiots ghosted me, and I find my own brothers holding my best friend hostage in a penthouse?”
She stops, eyes darting between us.
