Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
She takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye.
“So what’s changed?” comes her even tone. “What’s different now, Dylan?”
Luckily, I have an easy answer for this question.
“I haven’t stopped dreaming about you, Fiona. Every night,” I add emphatically. And to my enormous relief, she smiles a little, her lips trembling.
“I’ve been dreaming about you, too,” she admits in a soft voice. Encouraged, I reach forward and take her hand in mine, gazing up at her.
“When I woke up tonight, I knew something was up. Even though the baby is coming two weeks early, I had this instinct that this is where I needed to be. With you. Everything became so clear - I don't care whether I am the father or Ricky. I love you. And I will love that baby. I will look after both of you, until the day I die. If you’ll let me,” I say earnestly, looking into her eyes.
Her eyes mist over with emotion, but she doesn’t say anything, throwing me into a semi-panic.
“Please forgive me for being such an idiot, Fiona. I promise I’ll never leave your side again,” I rasp desperately. Before she can reply, there’s is a banging on the door, and Ricky’s voice comes floating through to us. He sounds angry. Something about there being no coffee in the hospital vending machine. That idiot. I exhale in frustration.
“We better let him in before he causes a scene,” I say, stepping over to the door and opening it. Ricky barrels in, furious.
“Enough of this bullshit! What the hell is going on? Fiona?” he demands of her. “By the way, the mud that they serve here is terrible,” he squeaks, one hand clutching a paper coffee cup.
“Look,” she says, exhausted. “I think you should go, Ricky.”
He looks indignant.
“That child could be mine! I have a right!”
I face him squarely.
“That might be the case, but it might not. We can take a paternity test.”
Ricky sneers.
“Don’t be an idiot, we’re identical twin. A paternity test would be useless.”
Here’s where I pull out the big guns.
“Actually,” I reply. “There’s a new technology that we could use to get a more accurate result. It just takes longer, so you need to stick around for a while instead of jaunting off to Europe,” I add, making his piercing blue eyes flash. “The question you need to ask yourself, Ricky,” I continue, “is whether you even want a child? Whether you can love that child? Whether you can love Fiona and give both of them the life they deserve? Or whether you’re trying to do this so you can have one up on me, after all these years?”
Ricky sneers again.
“Of course I can manage being a dad!” he squeals. But I can tell from the way his voice is trembling that he’s frightened by the prospect. “Of course I can!” he repeats again, eyes bulging. And then contrary to his words, my twin turns and runs out of the hospital room in a huff, making Fiona gasp.
I merely follow his departing form with my eyes, doing nothing.
“I think that’s the last we’ve seen of Ricky,” I say ruefully. “He’s always been a coward, and faced with the prospect of being a father, he turned and ran. As expected.”
But Fiona’s gasp had nothing to do with being shocked at the drama. One look at her and I know she’s in labor.
“Call a doctor,” she breathes in pain. “The baby’s coming!”
My heart pounds in my chest in excitement. Oh shit, is the moment really here? Am I about to become a father? Suddenly, I know that this is the best moment of my life … and I’m ready for it.
14
Fiona
Dylan didn’t leave my side during Rosie’s birth, and hasn’t left my side since. She’s six months old now, and asleep in the cradle in the next room. I’m in that sweet, delirious half-sleep, between awake and dreaming, only vaguely aware of the rising sun throwing its shadows across our bed. Dylan’s sound asleep next to me, his soft snores coming from the crease between my body and the mattress - he likes to sleep with his body curled around mine, his face pressed into my skin and one arm flung across my waist.
He sold his penthouse the week after Rosie was born; it wasn’t hard to sell, and he had few personal belongings he truly cared about. So he mostly left it to his agent, throwing his attention into finding and buying our own home, just outside the city. A luxurious six-bedroom home on Long Island, with not another soul in sight for miles. We’re paying for the privacy of being alone together in our little world of bliss. I can hear the crashing of the waves through the open French windows, matching the rhythmic breathing of my sleeping family: Dylan next to me, and Rosie in the next room.