Epilogue Part One

Row 7 years later

I lie flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel right now, but if I'm honest, the emotion I'm feeling is...disappointment.

Which doesn't really make sense.

Beside me, Riley breathes. Says nothing. Just breathes.

I learned a long time ago not to assume he's feeling the exact same thing as I am. Given all we've been through, I could expect he might be feeling the same vague sense of it's-not-supposed-to-be-like-this, but I could be very wrong. Making that assumption could rob him of his need to express his own feelings. It could rob me of his comfort as well.

I know all this. Yet somehow I fail to be mature and loving. Somehow I manage to say...

"Well. That was the worst sex we've ever had."

He gives me a weary chuckle. Takes my hand. Pulls it to his lips, kisses it.

"IVF Embryo transfer is not sex," he says. But gently. The last six months have been the hardest we've had in nearly a decade, and Riley has been more incredible each and every day.

I look over at him, sitting on a stool with a gimlet eye trained on me. I'm stuck on my back, on a procedure table where I am required to lie flat with my legs elevated for the next two hours.

"Well, I disagree," I tell him. "It's penetration of me with a part of you. That's the very definition of sex. And frankly, my darling, it pretty much sucked."

It really did.

It was just as awkward as if I had been having a gyno appointment with my husband watching, but much more head-trippy, because if you really think about it? In essence, a doctor I hardly know was using a tiny plastic tube to knock me up. He was performing the act, though the little blastulas of hope who were birthed into creation in a petri dish were sired by my husband.

Riley and I weren't even present at their conception. We weren't there when they were nurtured for the first three days on some artificial support medium. We definitely weren't there when our potential children were evaluated and genetically tested and chosen from their potential siblings as being the strongest, the most perfect. We didn't decide which of the twelve embryos got a chance at life and which were put into the purgatory of cryo-freeze.

A dozen people—technicians and embryologists—have looked at our babies through a microscope for days, and now three other people were in the room with us handling the embryos that were injected up into my uterus.

Presto pregnancy.

Poof!

I'm pregnant. For the moment, I suppose.

It's all kindsa weird if you really think through all the steps. Basically, in-vitro fertilization is like the Hunger Games of having a baby. But instead of a televised fight to the death, it's a monitored struggle to life, where only the strongest survive.

And these little guys will need to be strong. Very strong. Just because they're alive inside my body at this moment, doesn't mean they will be in two weeks. Or in four weeks. Or not even in ten weeks, when they should be nearly safe. Secure.

I say as much to Riley.

"Row, it's going to work. IVF gives the doctors control of your hormones while at the same time making sure the embryos are healthy. The doctor said we have every reason to think, with a little hormonal support, that we'll have a good outcome on the first try. I believe this is how we get the family we want. I really need you to believe it, too."

He does need it. But it's so hard, after back-to-back miscarriages, and a third one in my distant past. I take a deep breath and try to be less snarky and more...available to him.

"I know. I'm hopeful," I tell him, squeezing his hand. "I really really want this pregnancy to stick, Riley. I'll do anything to make it so. I'm just...a little sad right now, that it's come to this." I say softly, gesturing to the sterile room, and the instrument tray against the wall, now covered discreetly in a surgical cloth. "It's so clinical. It feels so...weird." I put a hand on my stomach. "Like... I was just implanted with aliens or something. I mean, how do we even know they are our babies? What if they made a mistake or something?"

"Rowan, I read the entire protocol. There's a three-step verification every time anyone did anything with your eggs, my sperm, or our embryos. Three people would have had to make the same mistake at the same time for something like that to happen."

"I guess so," I say slowly, but still trying to explain my feelings. "But it's not the same. It's not like before. I knew every time, exactly where they were conceived. In that limo, the first time, so long ago. And in our bed in Asheville. And in Scotland, in that castle..." I begin to cry thinking of Scotland and the aftermath.

The last time was really hard. I was eight weeks pregnant—not as far along as the first miscarriage I had almost fifteen years ago—but the last miscarriage was the culmination of four cycles of actively trying to get pregnant, and two resulting pregnancies, and two heartbreaks. That's a lot of hurt for the space of four months.

He rises from the chair and sits down on the procedure table beside me, trailing his fingers down my hairline with one hand as he offers me a tissue with the other. "Listen to me. I know exactly how you feel. It's scary because of before, and it's sad, right now. It does feel...bizarrely detached from what babymaking should be. But this will work, Row. And that feeling of detachment will fade. In a few months, this life we've created will be a part of you. I'll lie with you in bed, my hand here," he places it so very carefully on my belly, " and we'll both feel our child...or children," his eyes widen in a sense of mild alarm, "moving inside you. The intimacy, the love? It will be there in the growing, if not in the conception. Do you see, darling?"

"If it works. If all the hormone injections actually help."

"They will. All those tests. You and me both. The only thing they found was that you needed a little help with your progesterone. And it's perfectly balanced this time, thanks to the IVF cycle. And it's going to stay perfect because I'm going to give you a shot of the stuff in the bum every day. Rather looking forward to that part," he waggles his eyebrows wickedly.

"Sadist," I give him a half-hearted smile.

"My turn to pay you back for all those humiliating things you did for me, after the accident. All the transfers and sponge baths and shoe-tyings."

"I was so happy to do all of that for you. So happy you let me touch you. Take care of you. Show my love for you. You almost died, Riley..."

Oh god, now I'm bawling over Riley's accident that happened ten years ago. What is wrong with me? It must be the artificial hormones pumping through me.

"It's alright. Everything's alright. I'm not dead, am I?" he reminds me in that practical British way. He's so bloody adorable. I raise up and clutch on to him, the full force of sobs wracking my body.

"I love you so much!" I squeal through the messy gasps.

"And I you, as you well know," he squeezes me tight. "But I really think you should lie back down, Row. The doctor said—"

"I know," I sob, falling backward, covering my face with the nearly shredded tissue. "Just... go away, Riley! Just go away and leave me to my insanity and—"

"Not on your life," he says firmly, clawing away the scraps of tissue and supplying me with another one, pinching my nose. "Blow."

"No."

He squeezes my nose harder. "Blow!"

I snatch the tissue out of his hand and blow, then throw it as hard as I can. It floats a few futile feet away and mockingly drops to the floor.

I bang my hands on the cold vinyl of the exam table and shiver. "I hate hospitals. I hate lying flat on my back. I hate feeling—"

"Vulnerable. Powerless. Out of control," he supplies, wrapping both my hands in his.

"Yes." Of course, he understands. He's faced all those feelings in a situation much more serious than this.

"You're not any of those things, really. You're just terrified to be hurt again, so it feels like all those things. But I'm here with you. I'll always shelter you when you're vulnerable, recall you to your power..." He gives me a small kiss on the lips and rubs the fingers of my hands, even the pinky I can still never feel. "And I'll help you make sense of life's madness. Always."

"Stop," I beg him. "For the love of God, just stop being so wonderful, Riley! I can't take it. Because it only makes me think what a wonderful father you will be and if I can't...if I can't give you children—"

"You can and you will. But if I'm wrong and you're right—which hardly ever happens, by the way—we can still have a family—"

"I want your baby, Riley! Your baby! Not some rando!" I sob.

"Rowan," he says his tone darkening now, with a hint of impending castigation. "Think of what you're saying. Is Luis a rando? Or Lucy? Or Cash?"

"No..." I'm bawling helplessly now. "No...I'm...I'm...just...a...horrible...person..." I curl over on my side away from him. Riley rolls me right back over.

He gives me a stern look.

"You are not horrible, you're just a bit bonkers at the moment. Now, lie flat, woman, as the doctor bloody well said. You're a mother now," he lectures me. "It's your job to take care of them, and my job to take care of you. So stop this bloody bawling right now, and get a hold of yourself!"

"Are you actually yelling at me right now?" I hiss. "Do you have any idea what I've been going through for weeks? I have been pumped full of hormones, then aching so bad from producing super-eggs that I thought I had appendicitis, then knocked out so the doctor could repeatedly poke me in the ovary with a needle that must have been the size of a screwdriver from the way it felt when I woke up. I've had more probes up my vagina this month than in my entire life—and that's saying a lot considering your penchant for sex toys—and now I'm cramping, and scared that's a bad thing because cramping lately has meant a whole lot of horrible—"

"Rowan, do try to calm down, love. The doctor did say cramping was to be expected." He looks sympathetic now, but his condescending British inflections only enrage me more.

"Oh, go fuck yourself, you fucking-British-know-it-all-bastard!" I yell and shove him off the procedure table.

He was expecting it. He lands perfectly on his feet, steadying himself with a hand on his cane. He grins at me. That's when I realize what he was doing.

"Feel better?" he asks.

"Really go fuck yourself, now," I mutter, but the burst of irritation with him and the subsequent profane release dried my hysterical pity party.

"It's so much more fun when you do it, darling," he quips, retaking his seat on the stool beside me.

"Well, you're on your own with that for now. I'm on 'pelvic rest' for two weeks, remember? Longer, if—"

"When implantation is confirmed," he retorts.

"I don't want to argue anymore. Not even to keep from crying. I'm just...really tired, Riley," I sigh, reaching for his hand.

"Okay," he squeezes. "Cold?" he says, reacting to my slight shiver.

"Mmmm."

He retrieves another medical blanket for me from a supply cart.

"How much longer?" I ask.

He checks his watch. "An hour forty."

I let a huge sad sigh escape. Riley squeezes my leg. "Try to rest, all right?"

"Hold my hand," I say, and that's the way I doze off.

###

Two weeks later

"Can you give me a little more?" I murmur into the microphone. The front of house adjusts the levels in my ear monitors.

Riley is playing guitar beside me. We are eying each other like always. At precisely the proper moment, both our mouths open like clockwork to sing the first line of my personal favorite —I Believe. We wrote that one the first time we ever visited Sean Faraday's mountaintop songwriting spot. We've been there many times since and written dozens more songs.

I smile at Riley. It's a song about faith, and God knows we need some. This two-week wait has been hell. If this pregnancy doesn't take, I'm not sure I can go through more IVF again.

After the first verse and chorus, Riley declares the soundcheck all good. It's just us, our regular keyboardist, Damien, and our touring drummer JoJo. We've been doing this for a very long time now, and though the live show never gets old, we don't waste time unnecessarily in soundcheck or over-rehearsals. No need. Our entire crew are top-notch professionals, and Riley and I are locked in. Total professional sync.

"Sounds great," Leander says, walking onto the stage as Riley unstraps. "So, how about a radio interview this afternoon to break the news about this impromptu show? The ticket office says the pre-sale was only quarter capacity. Of course, that's to be expected, since you've kept the show a secret."

"Can't do the interview. But we can co-tweet the appearance with the venue if you want. Wait until a couple of hours before the show. Don't want a repeat of what happened last week."

Last week, we played a standing-room-only-ticket-at-the-door show at a small capacity club in Atlanta. The place got swamped because they hyped us all week long on their socials. They had a couple of thousand angry people outside who made their own party because they couldn't get in. It got out of hand, and the police were eventually dispatched to disperse the crowd, but not before our show was finished.

It's been a very long time since I actually needed security, but that night it took our two guys and two venue guys to muscle me through the backdoor crowd after the show. Riley nearly had a heart attack, considering my delicate state of limbo, but I was safe inside a cage of brawn.

After that, he wanted to cancel Nashville and this show, but I wouldn't let him.

I need to stay busy because it's the only way I can cope with the insufferable two-week wait to see if I'm pregnant. The day after the embryos were transferred, I felt much more like my normal, energetic self. I wheedled and cajoled Riley until I convinced him to get behind an impromptu five-show circuit. After all, it's been more than seven months since our international tour ended, and I think he misses the stage more than I do these days. So he agreed, but he nearly drove Leander crazy trying to get the small informal clubs we chose to work with Riley's seemingly unreasonable list of riders.

No selfies after the show. (Because fans always try to force drinks on us.) No smoking allowed in the typical backdoor employee smoking areas. (Because a potential two-second exposure to cigarettes as I enter the venue is completely unacceptable, in Riley's opinion.) No seafood of any kind can be served on premises the day of the show, including food trucks. (I really do think the embryos might have implanted because I thought I might vomit when Riley brought home fish and chips while we were planning this little club tour. Then again, the hormone shots make me nauseous.) No deli trays in green rooms—in fact, no meat of any kind. (Riley doesn't trust anyone's meat temperature control but his own right now.)Extra security, details ad nauseum. (That one was insightful, I'll give Riley that.)

There are more riders, but even I got tired of reading Riley's demands to make sure nothing could possibly interfere with our little bundles of potential joy(or heartbreak) trying to burrow into my body.

Today is the last show of our mini-tour. We started at home in Asheville ten days ago, went south a short distance to Greenville South Carolina, then over to Atlanta, then up to Nashville, where we snagged a sweet last-minute gig at the Blue Bird Cafe two days ago. Now we are home, playing a final show in Asheville this evening.

All very small venues like we used to play before our big break. None over a few hundred people. Our last few tours have been so different. Small arena tours—ten to fifteen thousand fans a night. These last couple of weeks have been a treat for us to get to play a few intimate shows here and there.

"Any reason you can't do the interview? Anything I can help you with, I mean?" Leander asks casually. He knows we've been trying to have a baby—it was the entire reason we've scheduled an indefinite hiatus on touring. He also knows about the two miscarriages this year. He may assume we are trying again or maybe he even suspects we are pregnant considering Riley's longer than normal rider list. However, he's a good enough friend not to pry, even though as our very competent manager who plans for all eventualities, he probably wants to.

We haven't told anyone about our decision to have IVF. News spreads like wildfire in our family and in SCIC. It's too hard for me to deal with their well-meaning insanity over stuff like this.

"Just have some domestic business at the house before the show," Riley says vaguely. "In fact, we're off there now."

He claps it out with Leander.

"Car will be round for you at 6," he reminds us.

Our tour bus driver brought us directly from Nashville to our house this morning, and we didn't cross our threshold before hopping in a Landrover and speeding over to soundcheck—with a pit stop at the fertility clinic, where I had labs drawn. Tonight, we'll have a hired car—probably a limo—and driver to bring us to the show. The days of arriving in the Airstream and packing in our own equipment are long gone. We don't shop Rodeo Drive in a limo or race Italian sports down my daddy's street like we did in our "former life," but we always arrive to our shows in style.

Riley drives us out of downtown Asheville and up into the mountains. We finally finished building our dream home last year. It's a gorgeous, modern, stone-and-glass hideaway on a few acres not too far from Faraday's Mystic Mountain community. But we access it by a different route. It's less than a twenty-five-minute drive to downtown.

My favorite part of our gorgeous retreat is the infinity pool that seems to drop away down the side of the mountain. Even though infinity pools are safe, Riley had special nets installed over the catch basin and down the cliffside because, "You can't fall over the edge, but you can bloody climb the wall and leap off, and I'll not have Lyra Daredevil Lawson jumping to her death on my watch."

"She's thirteen; she knows better," I reminded him.

"She'll do anything on a dare," he retorted.

She is fairly fearless. I refrained from mentioning that those nets look pretty fun and if I were my thirteen-year-old self? Knowing they were down there, I would have definitely planned to utilize them at a time and place to cause maximum chaos. But the Lawsons have only been to our place twice since we moved in last year, and it apparently didn't occur to her. Maybe she isn't as much of a wild child as I was.

We reach our driveway, and as glass gleams and stone hides through green trees, I'm surprised to feel such a longing for it. We were gone less than two weeks. We've spent most of the last eight years on the road, but the last few months, we've been home so much, I've grown more attached to it than any place we've ever lived. Wouldn't trade my mountain hideaway for my Bel-Air mid-century modern for any price now.

The house has a basement and upper story, and there's an elevator, but I confuddled our builder by insisting that four bedrooms be built within steps of the main-floor master suite, and all of that needed to be on the same side as the garage. Not many people even perceive Riley's deficits anymore, because he manages to hide them well in public, but he still has balance issues, especially when he's tired or carrying an awkward weight. If we ever do have all the kids I dream of, they need to be close to our bedroom when they are little. They can't be all the way across the house, with an exhausted dad stumbling to them in the dark. Their rooms also need to be close to our entry and exit point of the house. Kids, especially ones with parents who live the musician life and keep them out past bedtime, always fall asleep in cars and have to be carried inside. I know from seeing all of the Souncrusher's families that this happens until they are practically gigantic.

My gaze blurs as the stonework facade comes into full view. I had so many plans for this house. To fill it with four kids. But today, I could very well hear that I've had another failed pregnancy attempt. And I just don't know how much longer I can keep hoping for family, and watching my dreams die and bleed away from my body.

Riley pulls into the garage and turns off the truck. He reaches for my hand, to keep me from exiting too quickly. "All right?"

"Yeah. Just...cramps," I say. "I think I'm getting my period."

He nods. "Or it could be from the hormones."

"Yeah, maybe," I say. "I just want to lie down."

We enter the house and head straight-away to the haven that is our bedroom. It's not overly fancy—reminiscent of modern Asian decor, a gray palette with plum and persimmon accents— but I love the feel of the black floral Persian rug my parents gave us as a housewarming gift. Every time I walk across it, I sink into the past. It's a pristine antique, but there's history in that rug, just like the history I want to build so badly here.

I slip off my clothes and slide into bed in my underwear. Riley rummages in the bathroom for a few minutes then also comes to bed, wearing athletic shorts, but carrying the syringe kit.

"Roll over and present your fine ass, Mrs. Ems," he smiles apologetically.

I'm used to it now. Mutely, I turn on my side, and he draws back the covers. I close my eyes as I listen to all the sounds of his preparation. The syringe packet being stripped open, the syringe filling, then him replacing the needle in its sleeve while he rips open the swab for the injection site. Then there's the chill of the alcohol swab on my hip, one gentle hand squeezing, a sharp prick, and the worst—the fiery spread of the hormones rapidly invading my tissue, demanding access to my bloodstream, where they make me batshit crazy.

This time, Riley leans over and places a kiss on the injection site, before swabbing away any potential germs he might have planted there. He rolls me over and places another on my flat belly, above my nude panties. "For luck," he tells my uterus, and I wonder if there are blastulas turning into babies in there, or if they simply disappeared.

I rake my hands through his hair. He's so adorable, and I wish I could feel happy at the sight of him kissing my belly, but he did it last time. The first time he'd ever made such a gesture, when I was eight weeks pregnant—the natural way— and we were actually beginning to believe that I might stay that way. The next morning, I woke to horrible cramps and horror all over the sheets.

I think about the stain on the mattress that couldn't be fully removed, even after several attempts by our very competent housekeeper. It was a brand new, very expensive mattress, so when it dried out with only a faint beige stain, Riley, ever the pragmatist, flipped it over and ordered a mattress cover.

I try to imagine exactly where the stain is now. Did he flip the mattress only horizontally or both horizontally and vertically?

"I think we should get a new mattress," I say.

He is quiet for a moment, he knows exactly why I am saying that. He's hoping for good luck, but I'm trying to ward against bad.

"Sure, if you want to. I'll order one tomorrow. Let's take a nap," he suggests.

He zips up the syringe case, takes the medication back to the kitchen refrigerator, and I'm nearly already asleep when he slides into bed behind me with a satisfied groan.

"There is nowhere better on earth than this bed, and that view, with you," he tells me, and I open my eyes, letting them drift lazily over the mountain valley in early spring bloom.

"I love you," I murmur and sleep in the surety of my words.

"Rowan," Riley is shaking me awake. "Rowan."

"What?" I sit up, but I know what. What is the whole reason we came home and crawled into our bed, seeking a peaceful shelter. What is...we were waiting on the call from the doctor about my labs.

"Doctor's office," he says to me. Then, "Yes, she's here. She's on speakerphone."

"Rowan, this is Kelly, Dr. Quindall's nurse. We got your labs back. Your pregnancy test was positive, honey. The numbers were very good. Your progesterone level is just where we want it to be right now. Congratulations."

Riley is smiling softly at me, but I feel numb. "Thank you. Am I... uhm, I mean...is it one or two? Can you tell from the numbers?"

Kat said they told her she was pregnant from twins from the numbers.

"It's a little too early to speculate. We need to see your HCG numbers doubling and confirm with an ultrasound to know how many embryos implanted. We want to check your hormone levels every other day. Keep taking your progesterone injections of course. I want to schedule you an ultrasound in two weeks to view the embryo or embryos, okay?"

"Okay," I say, but Riley is the one that schedules the appointment. Then Kelly hangs up, and I lay back down, covering my face with my hands.

"Rowan. Look at me." Riley's voice is quiet but it has a strange quality to it that I can't quite read. When I open my eyes and look at him, his smile has gone from small to big.

Oh. The way he sounded? It's happiness.

It's not exactly what I feel. Three miscarriages have completely robbed me of the ability to feel happiness in this moment. I want this so badly, and it is wonderful to know that the man I love wants it badly, too. I'm just scared. Scared to lose another baby, scared of the pain between us. It hurts a lot-that vague kind of grief, that loss of potential, of life yet lived.

"You were right," I say and smile back. He kisses me, and I get lost for a minute in his joy. But then I pull away. "Let's not make a big deal yet. Okay?"

He does his best to restrain in his joy. He understands that I cannot celebrate. Not yet. Not for long while yet. He presses another kiss to my forehead. "Of course, darling." He snuggles us together like spoons. "Are you looking forward to the show?" he murmurs.

"Most def. These days? The Orange Peel feels like the Roxy used to," I respond.

"Hometown stage? Yes, I feel that, too. We should talk with them about a quarterly show, what do you think? Kind of...a regular fan appreciation event. Asheville's been good to us."

"Not as good as Nashville," I snort.

"Well, Nashville is the LA of the South," he replies.

"But Asheville is home," I yawn.

"Precisely. Where we'll raise our family."

I hope so. I really do.

###

Two weeks later

I don't know if it's pregnancy symptoms or simply nerves, but I throw up on the way to my doctor's appointment. At a stoplight in a very pedestrian part of town. Riley was pulled up a little too far, nearly in the crosswalk.

Sorry, hipsters, too busy on their phones to notice their missteps. Really fucking sorry.

At the fertility clinic, I sign in and sit down, bypassing Riley who had been standing just behind me. He doesn't sit. Instead, he takes my arm and pulls me gently to my feet, whispering in my ear. "This isn't the dentist, darling. I know we're regular folk these days, but for this place we have a protocol, remember?"

"Oh, shit. Pregnancy brain," I mutter, remembering that I'm in a mousy brown wig, slouch hat, and sunglasses, wearing yoga pants and one of Riley's bulky hipster jackets instead of my own hair and something more my recognizable style. Riley is clean shaven, using his glasses instead of his contacts, and wearing Southern casual khaki's and a navy button down and a similar corduroy jacket—all details which dramatically alter his appearance from his public persona which is both dirtier and dressier.

Riley is already escorting me to a side door, and a nurse opens it, delivering us to one of the small rooms where men give their samples. That's basically the only place where we can wait for an exam room in private and not risk being recognized. We're maybe not LA famous anymore, but we're pretty damn recognizable in the South.

Riley stands against the wall, checking his phone. I examine the selection of porn made available for men to use as inspiration.

"Were you in this room? You know, when you gave the sperm that was eventually used to impregnate me?" I ask him.

He looks at the generic artwork on the walls. "Mmm. Not sure."

"Remember her?" I show him the full spread of a D-list actress, fully spread. "I'm just wondering whom I have to thank, for the morning sickness..."

He laughs at me. "Christ, Row. I didn't use the supplemental materials."

"Oh, you just thought of how much you love me, I suppose? Calling bullshit, darling." Don't believe that at all. Not one bit. Men are very visual.

He raises an eyebrow, thumbing his phone. "If you must know, I brought my own material."

He hands me his phone. It's a naked picture of me, taken shortly after we were married. The first time, I mean. I still had gray hair and a fearless attitude about everything, as indicated by my willing pose.

"Oh my god, my rack looked fucking amazing." I look down at my boobs, cupping the left. "Sorry girls, gravity is a bitch." I cock my head. "Has my pussy gotten fat?" I look up at him. "You would tell me, right?" I stand up, putting the phone near my crotch, lifting up the jacket to expose my rather tight yoga pants.

He gives me a cool stare. "You are utterly ridiculous, do you know that?"

"But you love me," I grin.

His feigned frostiness breaks into a grin he tries very hard to suppress. "God help me, I do," he murmurs as the door opens, and we are led away to a room where I won't be as tempted to perform as his "spectacular heathen."

Things move fast from there. Dr. Quinlan is right on schedule, breezing in with the assurance that my hormone levels from yesterday's labs look perfect, as he rolls swiftly toward me on a stool with the intent of stabbing a very unyielding probe up my vagina.

I barely refrain from making lewd jokes with him, too. Just barely. Vulgarity is better than crying, right?

Perhaps I didn't give Dr. Quinlan enough credit. He's brisk until it comes to the sensitive stuff. He does a really good job of slowing down and approaching me with care, directing every part of me calmly until I'm positioned how he needs me. God, you'd think I'd be better at this, I've certainly done it enough.

"Okay. So I remember that we transferred six embryos—"

"What?" Riley and I say sharply, in unison.

"Kidding," he chuckles. "Thought maybe you had two wicked senses of humor, being cool musician types."

"Time and place, Doctor," Riley says coldly.

Dr. Quinlan clears his throat. "Of course. Sorry."

Now I feel sorry for him. He's a Kade, I guess—young cool doctor—but he picked the wrong moment.

"It's all good," I say. "Or actually, maybe, you should tell us if it's all good..."

"Just a sec..." suddenly we hear sound rising as I feel him sliding the probe solidly against my aching cervix. I wince. Riley looks at me in concern but I say, "Is that a heartbeat?"

"It's the sound of your blood flowing properly," he says. I feel disappointed. The murky gray screen shifts this way and that, as Dr. Quinlan pressures my cervix with the transducer-thingy.

"Okay," he points at the screen to a little, round, vacuous space. "Here we have an embryo. It's embedded in a great position. Let's measure."

The screen stills, and he makes movements with the mouse, then some calculations come up on screen. "This embryo is measuring perfectly for dates. Congratulations, that's a very healthy pregnancy."

Riley makes a small volatile sound and kisses my head. "Row. Look."

I'm looking. It's such a small little squidge, to feel so much about. Hope, terror, love, fear. Then my little squidge disappears.

"Where'd he go?" I say anxiously.

"He's there, my instrument is just roaming. I'm performing a full scan. We did transfer two embryos..."

He keeps moving the wand, silently, without comment. That's when I realize, I really really really want twins.

"Is there a second baby? Please let there be a second baby," I whisper.

Riley sucks a breath of surprise in at my first confession that I am hoping for a twin pregnancy, but he squeezes my hand.

"Ah. There. Yes. She was hiding from me," the doctor laughs.

For the first time since we started this IVF cycle, I feel a flood of happiness. "Twins!" I say. "That's awesome! I'm a twin," I laugh. "Oh my god, my twin is going to freak. She's going to be so happy."

Riley laughs. "Our twin nephews not so much, perhaps. They love their status, and now there will be a rival set of cousin twins. So you said she...is that one the girl?" He peers closely.

"I only said she because Row had labeled the other embryo as male. There's no way to tell which is which just yet. But one is definitely a male and one female. That's what we transferred, at your request."

Then he measures the second twin, and it's a tiny bit bigger but perfectly normal for its age. Riley and I do all the dumb things people do in this situation. We exclaim and laugh and I cry a little and Riley asks a million questions. We are exuberant, expectant parents.

And then we're out the door with the pictures, and it gets scary again. No live image to reassure us. No doctor cracking jokes. No nurse providing us with lab results. Just a direction to keep stabbing my ass with hormones and a whole week we have to wait to make sure the levels are what they are supposed to be.

###

Three months later

Riley unbuckles his seatbelt in the private jet and rises to mix me a juice spritzer and himself a gin and tonic without the gin. However, I'm not that gullible. I'm sure he's sneaking a tiny splash of gin in somehow.

I would be if I could.

I focus on his every movement, but I can't make out his sleight of hand. It honestly looks like he only poured tonic and squeezed lemon in his glass.

He turns around, offering me my drink first—a healthy dollop of watermelon juice, some club soda, and a squirt of lime juice, then takes a heavy swallow of his own.

Nope. That gulp was too big. He definitely managed gin in there somehow.

"Let's trade," I say. "Yours looks so refreshing, and the watermelon is not sweet enough."

He rises smoothly. "I've drunk half this already, but I'll make you one, darling."

"No need, I'll just finish yours, and you can make yourself a new one."

"Actually, I think the tonic was a bit flat, let me open you a new bottle—" He's waving the flight attendant off who's rushed to aid our flurry of early-onset bar cart activity.

"You had the attendant pour the gin into the tonic before we boarded, didn't you?"

He pauses. He laughs. He pours the drink down the small sink and turns to me with a sheepish grin. "I'm an arsehole. I told you I wouldn't drink if you couldn't, and I caved at the first obstacle."

"Well, you managed for three months," I concede. "And it's not the first obstacle. There's been plague and famine and locusts..."

"Nursing you through extreme morning sickness, making midnight ice cream runs when you felt better, and providing first aid and mental health counseling when you were convinced you were going to miscarry from one wasp sting are not causes to drink, darling. But what we're facing now?" He drops to his knees in the aisle and places his head in my lap. He looks up at me with a bleak, all-hope-is-lost look.

I take pity on him and nod sympathetically, as I rake through his hair. "I know. This is major. This is... del Marco family dinner night. No one goes to it without a little liquid courage, if they can help it."

He bites his lip. That doesn't seem like it would be sexy on a guy but on Riley? Those lips, those cheekbones, those deep-set, intelligent eyes? It's fucking sexy.

"So you don't mind if I have another G&T at dinner, then?"

"Let's make a deal. You can drink, and I can pretend to drink so we don't have to tell my family about...Sonny & Cher." I point to my belly, slightly rounding, but perfectly concealed beneath my high-waisted, crinolined, almost rock-a-billy dress.

"Johnny & June," Riley said with emphasis—this a thing we do, calling the babies by the names of different famous duets— "simply can't be kept under wraps any longer, darling. You are more than four months pregnant. With twins."

I stand up and put my hands on my hips. "Can you tell I'm pregnant?" I twirl in the full-skirted navy dress, bulked with red tulle that peaks out beneath the skirt.

Riley has reclaimed his feet and he looks at me with regret. "No. But only because you've been in hospital with hyperemesis gravidarum."

He's not wrong, and that sounds bad, but hyperemesis gravidarum is just a scary term for acute morning sickness. The Brits love saying hyperemesis gravidarum, ever since the Duchess of Cambridge had the same thing, and they figured out they sound so frickin' much smarter saying Latin medical terms than the rest of the world.

"I'm fine. Elton and Kiki are totally chill, and you need to be too."

"Elton and Kiki. That's a good one." He settles back into his chair, inspecting every inch of me, as he does about every five minutes.

"Row, it's time. If we don't tell your family tonight, you may not be able to tell them in person."

He's right. We rarely come to LA anymore. We probably won't return before the babies are born. The next family dinner will be in three months and the doctor will probably have restricted my ability to fly, by then, considering I'm pregnant with twins.

Sometimes I feel guilty about our new life on the other side of the country. We see a lot of Soundcrush with Madam in Nashville, TrayKat spending half the year at the Clink, and Lash and Barley both having homes in Atlanta they visit periodically. But my family?

Things are so different now. Life has twisted for each one of my siblings. I see them so rarely. I still like to think of them the way they were a decade ago when Riley and I first came east.

I especially like to think of my mom and dad that way.

There is a part of me that would love to tell Bridge about our twins in person. But to say it out loud to anyone else makes it real. I don't want to jink it.

"Mac was so much farther along than me with Faith," I whisper. "Riley, please...let's just wait a little longer "

He tugs at my hand, pulls me down in my lap. "Faith was not a miscarriage. Faith was born too early, Row."

"And that could happen to us, too. Especially with twins," I reason.

"It's not likely—"

"But it could."

He leans his head against mine. "Allow me to play the devil's advocate. What if the worst did happen? You would what, darling? Pretend to your family like we hadn't experienced a horrible tragedy? Rob your family of the right to comfort you, to grieve their own?"

I cling to his neck. "Riley...it's just...once you tell about a pregnancy, it's just so hard to untell.

He knows it true. The last two times were awful. He looks at me with tender sympathy. "Alright, we'll do it your way. We will plan to continue our secret. But you know how circumstance has a rather large tendency to go sideways at these dinners..."

"Del Marco Family Dinner Night? Go sideways? No way," I smirk, and he laughs like a loon.

To Be Continued...