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“Finally!” Alessandro says when he sees me closing the door. “Hurry up.”
I slide into the booth next to my wife and kiss her on the cheek. “It’s done. Happy birthday.”
Warm brown eyes regard me, then she sighs with relief. “We can go home, then.”
“We can.”
“Eat now?” Napoleone asks. He’s five minutes younger than Alessandro. Cristina and I had twins, and as soon as she found out there would be two, instead of telling me, she exchanged the single stroller I bought for a double one. She placed the double one in front of the bedroom door to tell me there would be two.
She serves the boys the nuggets and fries, which they’re excited about since Cristina rarely lets them eat processed food. They dig in with their fingers while we enjoy fried fish and chips.
I notice she’s not eating. “Not hungry?”
“The smell of fish is bothering me.”
I frown. Strange. She prepares fish all the time. “Have some nuggets.” I reach for the large bowl of nuggets and fries, but my boys pull it back toward them.
“No,” they say in unison. Being a twin sometimes means thinking the same thoughts. Paulina and I weren’t this way, but these two are.
“Like father, like sons,” my wife says. “You don’t share either.”
“Your mother is hungry.” I hold out her plate, expecting them to fill it.
They stare back with identical blue eyes, the same color and shape as mine, until I say, “Please give your mother some chicken.”
Napoleone gives up a single nugget. Alessandro scoffs at him but matches his twin’s effort.
“Wow,” Cristina says. “How generous of you. All of two nuggets.”
Napoleone dips his french fry into ketchup. “Mommy’s baby can’t eat.”
Cristina gasps. “Noooo.”
I lean in toward my wife, who’s looking sheepish. “You’re having a baby I don’t know about?”
“Yes,” my son Alessandro answers.
“Baby cake,” Napoleone says, ketchup smeared all over his chin.
Cristina sighs. “Might as well bring the cake now. Hold on.” She gets up and fixes her yellow dress. “You two are fired from Mommy’s secret society.”
“But you can enter Daddy’s anytime,” I say. We don’t discuss Order business with toddlers, but I can’t let a good joke die. Besides, my toddlers don’t care. Nuggets and fries are more important.
Cristina returns with a small birthday cake she baked. On top is a pink stroller. She puts the cake on the table and says, “I was going to surprise you.”
“You’re really pregnant?”
She nods.
I smile. “How far along?”
“Three months.”
I glance at the pink stroller. “You think it’s a girl?”
“I hope,” she says. “Either a boy or a girl is great. But I think you want the baby to be a girl, so I hope it is.”
I scoop her up into a hug and place her on my lap. I kiss her hard and shove my tongue into her mouth until my kids protest for me to stop. I do want a baby girl, but I won’t say it until we know the sex of the baby. I cup Cristina’s face. “But you’re on the pill.”
