Chapter 6: Life Changing
The stale bus smell – diesel and microwaved noodles – still clung to Whitney’s sinuses even after three days in the Milan hotel suite. This place was the opposite: all gilded mirrors, deep crimson velvet armchairs, and the heavy, sweet perfume of white lilies blooming in a crystal vase on the ornate marble console. Colson had lit candles too, dozens of them, their flickering light dancing across the intricate plaster ceiling. Romantic as hell. And Whitney felt like she might puke.
She paced the plush Persian rug, bare feet sinking into the pile. Four months. Four months since Vegas, since the cake, since the terrifyingly thick engagement ring and the battery-acid birthday drink. Four months on the road, bouncing between stadiums and tour buses, Colson’s raw energy a constant hum against her skin. And no period. Not since before the wedding night. The ache low in her belly wasn’t the familiar cramp. It was something else. A low, persistent thrum of… something.
The ornate door clicked open. Colson slipped in, a plain paper pharmacy bag dangling from his tattooed fingers. His usual, pre-show crackle was gone, replaced by a wired stillness. He looked… pale under the artfully messy blonde hair. "Got 'em," he said, his voice rough. He tossed the bag onto the silken duvet next to a pile of discarded lyric notebooks. "Three different kinds. Like you asked."
Whitney stopped pacing. Her mouth was dry. "Javier didn't... ask?"
Colson snorted, a short, sharp sound. "Told him it was an emergency tampon run. He looked confused, but he's paid not to ask." He crossed the room, his movements unnaturally precise. He pulled out the boxes. One digital, two with the little windows. "Okay. Which one first?"
The bathroom was enormous, all black marble and gold fixtures. Whitney locked the door, leaning her forehead against the cool surface. Her reflection looked wide-eyed, frightened. She followed the instructions meticulously, hands trembling slightly. Pee on the stick. Cap it. Set it on the edge of the sink. Repeat. Repeat. Three plastic soldiers lined up, waiting to declare her future.
She washed her hands, the scent of expensive lemon soap doing nothing to calm the churn in her stomach. Opening the door, she found Colson right there, leaning against the frame. He’d ditched his jacket, just a thin white tank top showing the black blocky intricate ink that mapped his arms and chest. His gaze locked onto the tests on the sink, then snapped back to her face.
"Now we wait," Whitney whispered.
He didn’t move. Just held out his hand. She took it, his fingers warm and tight around hers. He led her silently back to the bed. Not to sit. They stood in the middle of the luxurious room, surrounded by candlelight and flowers, holding hands like lifelines, staring at the open bathroom door. The digital one would beep. The others… they’d just change. Time crawled. Each second stretched, filled only by Whitney’s hammering pulse and the faint, rhythmic suck of Colson breathing through slightly parted lips.
Colson’s phone rang, the FaceTime ringing startlingly loud. Colson flinched. He cursed under his breath, a low, vicious stream. "Ignore it."
It kept ringing. Insistent.
"Could be important," Whitney murmured, her voice thin. "Tour thing?"
He stalked to the nightstand, snatching the phone and answering it without looking at the caller. "WHAT?" he barked. His expression shifted, the fierce annoyance giving way to a strained neutrality. "Sorry, didn’t see it was you Cas." He held the phone out so that Whitney was in the frame too. "Hey guys." His voice was forcibly light. Too light.
"Dad! Whitney!" Casi's voice bubbled out, tinny over the speaker. "We're all here! Me, Megs, Saga, and Mason! Doing a pre-Europe-show check-in! How's Milano?"
"Fancy," Whitney managed, forcing a smile onto her face though they couldn't see it. Her eyes stayed glued to the bathroom doorway. "Big suite. Lots of flowers."
"Candles," Colson added, his gaze fixed on the same spot. "Romantic shit." He squeezed Whitney’s hand so hard her knuckles protested.
"Oooh la la!" Saga sang. "How’s tour daddy?” She asked excitedly.
"Whitney's looking a little pale, Colson," Megan chimed in, teasing. "You wearing her out already?"
Colson didn't laugh. He was vibrating again, a low thrum Whitney felt through their joined hands. "She's fine," he clipped out. "Just tired."
Whitney barely heard them. Her entire universe had narrowed to the sink ledge inside the bathroom. Was that…? Was the digital one…? Beep.
The sound was small, precise. Like a tiny bomb detonating in the silent suite.
Megan’s voice cut off mid-sentence. On the speakerphone, the faint chatter died instantly.
Whitney’s breath hitched. Colson’s head whipped towards the bathroom, his eyes wide and dark and utterly terrified.
Megan’s voice, sharp with sudden understanding, sliced through the silence. "Oh my god. Whitney. Look."
Colson dropped Whitney's hand. He moved like he’d been launched, crossing the room in two strides. He didn’t go into the bathroom. He reached in, a long, tattooed arm snaking towards the sink. His fingers closed around the digital test. He pulled it out, staring down at the little screen.
Whitney couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her heart was a trapped bird slamming against her ribs. She saw his throat work. Saw the muscle in his jaw clench, then go slack. His gaze lifted from the plastic stick. Found hers across the room. His eyes… they weren’t scared anymore. They were huge. Drowning-deep. Shocked down to his bones.
He didn’t speak. Just slowly, slowly turned the test around so she could see the screen.
Whitney fumbled in the pocket of her soft jersey pants. Her phone. She pulled it out, fingers clumsy. Swiped. Opened the camera. Turned it to face them. Record. She needed to see this. Needed to keep it. Her hand wasn’t steady. The image wobbled: Colson’s stunned face, pale in the candlelight, his eyes locked on hers. The little white stick held shakily in his other hand. The digital display clear even in the flickering gloom.
PREGNANT.
The word glared back, stark and undeniable.
A sound escaped Colson. Not a word. A raw, punched-out gasp. "Fuck," he breathed. The sound cracked. "Whit…?"
The phone on the bed erupted. "WHAT IS IT?" Casi shrieked. "DAD? WHITNEY? WHAT DO YOU SEE?"
"Colson Baker, you answer me right now!" Megan yelled.
"Tell us!" Saga pleaded.
Mason’s quieter voice, laced with concern: "Guys? Everything okay?"
Colson didn't look away from Whitney. He took a step towards her, then another, the pregnancy test still clutched in his hand like a talisman. The shock on his face was melting, reforming into something else. Something dazed. Wondering. Terrifyingly intense. He reached her, his free hand coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. His touch was trembling.
"Colson?" Whitney whispered. Her own voice sounded miles away. Her eyes flickered down to the test in his hand, then back up to his. "Is it…?"
A slow, disbelieving smile began to spread across his face. It started small, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, then bloomed – wide, bright, almost feral in its joy. It lit up his entire face, chasing away the lingering shock, leaving pure, unadulterated awe. He looked down at the test again, then back at her, his dark eyes shining.
"Yeah," he rasped. The word was thick. Full. He let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. "Yeah, baby. It is." He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes closing for a second, his breath warm on her skin. "Holy fuck. It is."
The shouts from the forgotten FaceTime were a distant buzz. The candles flickered. The lilies scented the air. And Whitney, her phone still recording her husband’s stunned, radiant face, felt the world tilt and settle onto a brand new, terrifying, miraculous axis. The tiny word on the screen, echoed in the dazed wonder in Colson’s eyes, was the only truth that mattered.
The tiny word on the screen, echoed in the dazed wonder in Colson’s eyes, was the only truth that mattered. Whitney’s phone, still recording his slack-jawed awe, trembled in her hand. Colson’s gaze flickered past her shoulder towards the bathroom sink.
"The others," he breathed, the words barely audible over the frantic squawking from the phone discarded on the crimson duvet. He moved again, lightning-fast, snatching up the two remaining tests lined up on the marble edge. He held them close, his knuckles white against the plastic. Both windows screamed the same undeniable verdict: two bold, parallel pink lines. Strong positives. Unmistakable.
The cacophony from the FaceTime call finally pierced the bubble of their shock. "COLSON!" Megan's voice cut through, sharp with frantic curiosity. "ANSWER US! WHAT IS IT?"
He stumbled back towards the bed, the three tests clutched in one fist like a bizarre bouquet. He scooped up his ringing phone with the other, his thumb fumbling over the screen to activate the camera. Whitney’s own recording caught the exact moment his face filled the frame he held up towards Megan, Saga, Casi, and Mason. Tears weren't just pooling; they were spilling, tracing glistening paths through the anxiety sweat still clinging near his temples. His blue eyes, wide and utterly shattered with joy, met the lens. Whitney stepped into the frame of his phone, her smile blooming wide and incandescent, tears mirroring his.
"Oh!" Megan gasped, the sound sharp and immediate through the speaker. Her face morphed from confusion to explosive understanding. "OH! YES!" Her shriek was pure elation. She yanked Saga into a fierce hug, bouncing slightly. "Yes, yes, YES!"
"Wait, what?" Casi’s face scrunched up, bewildered, looking from Megan’s ecstatic dance to the screen. "What’s happening? Dad? Why are you crying?"
Mason just looked utterly lost, blinking.
"Nothing!" Colson choked out, his voice thick and watery, a grin splitting his face wide open even as tears kept falling. He swiped roughly at his cheek with the back of his hand holding the tests. "Just… happy. Love you guys. Gotta go!"
"Congratulations! Oh my god!" Megan was still yelling, beaming, her eyes locked on Whitney’s radiant image. "Secrecy! Got it! Absolute secrecy! Love you!" She mimed zipping her lips, nodding frantically.
"We love you!" Colson managed, his voice cracking again. He jabbed a finger at the screen. "Swear it, Megs. Not a word. To anyone."
"Sworn! Death before dishonor!" Megan declared dramatically, still clutching a giggling Saga. "Go!"
He ended the call abruptly, the screen going dark. The sudden silence in the opulent suite felt vast, charged. He dropped his phone onto the bed, staring at Whitney like she’d just materialized from stardust. He held up the three tests, the digital one still boldly declaring ‘PREGNANT’, the other two showing their stark lines. "It’s real," he whispered, the words thick with disbelief and a burgeoning, terrifying joy. "You're… we're…"
Whitney nodded, a fresh wave of tears blurring the gilded room. "We are." She moved into his space, her hands finding his waist. "We need… to confirm. Officially. Now. I need to know…"
"Clinic," Colson stated, the haze clearing instantly, replaced by focused intensity. The tour leader, the protector, snapping into gear. "Right fucking now." He spun away, grabbing his discarded hoodie and shoving his arms in. "Where's the nearest? Javier! Javier knows!" He was already barking instructions into his other phone, voice low and urgent, demanding immediate locations while Whitney pulled on her sneakers, hands shaking with adrenaline. The lilies’ perfume suddenly felt overwhelming, cloying. Reality was a roaring freight train bearing down.
The clinic was a stark, fluorescent-lit contrast to their hotel – sterile white walls, hushed voices, the faint smell of antiseptic undercutting the lingering aroma of Colson’s expensive cologne. Whitney lay back on the crackling paper of the examination table, the cold ultrasound gel making her flinch as the technician smoothed it over her lower belly. Colson stood rigidly beside her, one hand gripping the bed rail, the other holding Whitney’s hand so tightly her fingers tingled. His gaze was laser-locked on the grainy grey screen.
The technician, a woman with kind eyes and practiced calm, moved the transducer. A rhythmic, rapid thumping filled the small room – a fast, strong heartbeat. Whitney’s breath caught. Colson squeezed her hand impossibly tighter, his jaw clenched, his own breathing shallow. The sound was primal, anchoring.
"Everything looks wonderful so far," the technician murmured, her eyes scanning the shifting images. "Strong heartbeat. Good position…" She paused, tilting her head slightly. Her fingers adjusted the transducer, pressing slightly deeper. She moved it minutely, once, twice. A thoughtful hum escaped her. She shifted the angle again, concentrating. "Okay," she said slowly, a small professional smile forming. "Well, here’s the heartbeat we’re hearing." She pointed to a pulsing flicker on the screen. Whitney traced the shape, a tiny, indistinct bean.
The technician nudged the wand again, just a fraction to the side. "And… here," she pointed to another distinct, separate pulsing light, slightly offset. Another tiny shape, another rhythmic, rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. "Is another one."
Silence. Thick and absolute. The only sound was the doubled, insistent drumming echoing in the room – two distinct, rapid heartbeats, overlapping slightly.
Colson froze. Utterly still. Not breathing. Whitney stared at the screen, her mind struggling to process the two separate flickering lights, the two distinct rhythmic sounds thrumming through the speakers. One heartbeat was miraculous. Two was… incomprehensible.
The technician smiled warmly, mistaking their frozen silence for awe. "Congratulations," she said gently, looking between their stunned faces. "You're having twins."
Colson slowly turned his head. His blue eyes, wide as saucers, locked onto Whitney’s. The color drained completely from his face beneath the tattoos. His lips moved soundlessly for a second.
"Two?" The word finally escaped him, barely a whisper. A strangled sound, raw with disbelief. His grip on her hand went slack, then tightened again, convulsively. He looked back at the screen, then at Whitney, his expression shifting from shock to a dawning, overwhelming terror mixed with awe. "Whit… two?"
The doubled heartbeat thrummed through the small room, a relentless, overlapping rhythm that vibrated in Whitney’s bones. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Two distinct, rapid drumbeats against the sterile silence. Whitney stared at the grainy screen, mesmerized and terrified by the twin flickers of light pulsing in time. She leaned closer, squinting past the obvious shapes. "What’s that weird thing off to the side?" she murmured, pointing a trembling finger towards a faint, separate shadow near one of the pulsing beans. "That little… blur?"
The technician, her expression shifting from professional calm to focused curiosity, adjusted the transducer slightly. She tilted it, angling the probe with careful precision. The grainy image shifted, resolving. Another distinct, pulsing light flickered to life on the screen, separate from the first two. Consistent. Strong. The rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh didn't just double; it tripled. A third heartbeat, clear and undeniable, joined the cacophony filling the small room. The technician blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise before a slow, disbelieving smile spread across her face. "Oh my," she breathed, her professional composure cracking for just a second.
Whitney felt Colson’s hand spasm in hers. His grip, already a vise, went rigid. She tore her gaze from the tripled heartbeat light show on the screen to look at him. He was sheet-white beneath his tattoos, his eyes wide and unfocused, fixed on the monitor. She felt the tremor start in his hand, a violent vibration that traveled up his arm. "Colson," she whispered urgently, "sit down. Sit down right now before you pass out." Her voice was surprisingly steady, cutting through the thundering heartbeats. He didn't argue. He simply folded, collapsing heavily into the plastic chair beside the exam table, his knees giving out. He stared at the technician, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his expression pure, unvarnished shock. "Three?" he rasped, the word a fractured whisper. He looked utterly wrecked, his gaze pinned on the nurse, silently begging for an answer he couldn't seem to process.
The technician met his desperate stare, her earlier surprise replaced by gentle certainty. "Yes," she confirmed, her voice warm and clear over the tripled heartbeat soundtrack. "Three distinct cardiac activities. Three gestational sacs. You're having triplets." She smiled fully now, the news settling into professional delight. "Congratulations."
"Triplets." Colson echoed the word like it was a foreign object, heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue. He stared at Whitney, then back at the screen where three tiny, separate lights pulsed with stubborn life. The color didn't return to his face. He just kept staring, his chest rising and falling too fast. "Holy... fucking... shit."
Whitney’s own shock was a cold wave, followed immediately by a surge of protectiveness so fierce it stole her breath. Three. Three. She squeezed Colson’s frozen hand. "Breathe, baby," she murmured, her own voice thick. "Just breathe." She looked back at the screen, at the three flickering heartbeats – their heartbeats, separate but impossibly together. The clinic walls seemed to tilt. The technician’s voice became a distant hum. All she could hear was the rapid, insistent whoosh-whoosh-whoosh filling the room, a chaotic, miraculous drumroll announcing their impossible future.
Colson finally dragged in a shuddering, ragged breath. He leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his forehead dropping into his hands. His shoulders shook. For one terrifying second, Whitney thought he was crying. Then a sound escaped him – a choked, disbelieving laugh. He lifted his head. Tears were streaking through the smudged eyeliner under his eyes, but his mouth was stretched into a wide, dazed, almost hysterical grin. "Three," he repeated, shaking his head slowly. He looked at Whitney, his blue eyes wide and wild. "We made three. How the fuck did we make three?" He ran both hands through his hair, making it stand on end like a shocked halo. The grin faltered, replaced by bewildered awe. "What... what do we even do with three?"
The technician chuckled softly, wiping the gel from Whitney’s belly. "You love them," she said simply, handing Whitney a paper towel. "One incredible, overwhelming, exhausting day at a time. Starting now." She began printing grainy black-and-white images. "Three heartbeats. Three little fighters."
Colson pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, swaying for a second before finding his balance. He moved to Whitney’s side, his hand hovering over her stomach like he was afraid to touch it. "Fighters," he echoed, his voice rough. He looked down at her, the reality finally hitting him with physical force. "Jesus, Whit. You're carrying three." The sheer scale of it, the impossibility, was written all over his face – terror mixed with a burgeoning, overwhelming protectiveness that mirrored Whitney’s own. His tattooed fingers brushed her belly, feather-light, a reverence replacing the shock. "My tiny hurricanes."
Walking out of the clinic felt like stepping onto another planet. The Milanese street bustled – scooters zipping, people chatting, the smell of espresso and exhaust cutting through the lingering clinic antiseptic. Reality felt thin, stretched over the impossible truth they now carried. Whitney clutched the small envelope containing the ultrasound images like it was made of spun glass. Colson walked beside her, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, pulling her close. He hadn't spoken since the technician's final words. His usual crackling energy was replaced by a stunned silence, his gaze fixed straight ahead but seeing something else entirely – three flickering lights, three rapid heartbeats.
"They need... things," he said abruptly, his voice startlingly loud in the street noise. He stopped walking, turning to face her. The stunned look was hardening into fierce, practical determination. "Like... three of everything. Cribs. Car seats. Tiny little... outfits." He ran a hand over his face. "Fuck. Three car seats. In what car? We need a bus. A fucking tour bus just for the car seats." He started walking again, faster now, pulling her along. "Javier!" he barked into the phone he’d yanked from his pocket. "New priority. Find me the biggest, safest, most indestructible SUV on the planet for LA. Today. No, yesterday." He listened for a second, then cut across the agent’s response. "Why? Because three, Javier. Three. My entire life just got multiplied by three." He ended the call without waiting for a reply, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He looked at Whitney, that dazed grin flickering back. "Indestructible, right? Like Casi’s ring. Gotta be." He pulled her against him again, his hand resting low on her back, over the place holding their impossible future. His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for her ear, rough with awe. "Three. We made three." He kissed her temple, a hard, brief press of his lips. "My fucking champion." The city noise faded as they walked, their steps falling into a new, slightly unsteady rhythm. The envelope in Whitney’s hand felt heavier than the world. Lighter than air. Three. They walked on, holding onto each other like the only solid thing left.