Chapter 1: Tyler

As I'm standing in the checkout lane at the grocery store, there's a woman in front of me with two young kids in her shopping cart, both reaching for candy on the rack next to them. The poor frazzled mother is trying to shoo her children away from the candy while she's simultaneously handing the cashier a thick stack of coupons. It looks like we're going to be here a while. I glance down at the contents of my own cart—diapers, baby wipes, cans of formula, more bottles, and a package of pacifiers—and smile.

How many bottles do two babies need?

I quickly do the math—two bottles times approximately seven feedings a day. That's a lot of bottles. It's no wonder our kitchen counter has turned into a baby-bottle-sterilizing station.

"Mom sent you out to do the shopping, didn't she?" The amused voice comes from directly behind me. "You're a good husband to help her out."

I turn to the white-haired woman standing in line behind me. She's peering at the contents of my cart with a nostalgic smile on her softly wrinkled face. "I remember those days," she says wistfully. "How old is your baby?"

"Two, actually. They're two weeks old."

Her smile widens. "Twins? How wonderful. Congratulations to you and your wife."

My heart stutters in my chest, and it takes a moment for my pulse to even out. I'm still not entirely comfortable with outing myself in public. If my husband, Ian, were here, he'd be telling her his life story, and they'd be making plans to meet up for coffee. As for me? I'm the reserved one.

I steel myself for the potential blowback and say, "It's husband."

"I'm sorry?" She's clearly not following.

"I don't have a wife, ma'am. I have a husband." There . I said it. Ian would be proud.

She frowns, but I can't tell if it's from confusion or disapproval. "You have a husband? You mean two— oh! " Her blue eyes widen as her lips form a perfect O. "I see."

I'm expecting the worst, but she surprises me by smiling and saying, "Well, congratulations to you both." She studies me a moment. "I didn't take you for a gay man." She chuckles nervously. "Not that gay men have to look a certain way. It's just that you don't seem the type—you're far too serious. But I assure you, I fully support LGBTQ rights. In fact, I have a great nephew who's gay."

Before I can respond, the young female cashier calls to me. "Excuse me, sir?"

I face the young woman as she motions me forward. The woman who was ahead of me in line is now pushing her cart out the door. "Sorry." I start unloading my cart onto the conveyor belt.

"No problem," she says, grinning as she starts scanning my purchases. "Congratulations on becoming a father."

I return her smile. "Thanks."

After paying for the items, I push my cart out to the parking lot and load everything into the trunk of my black BMW. The thing is ten years old, but it doesn't look like it. It's in pristine condition and runs great. Ian keeps trying to talk me into buying something new, something flashier or more expensive, but I'm like, nah . It's paid off.

It's ten o'clock on a Friday morning in early September when I'm heading back to the townhouse Ian and I share in the Gold Coast neighborhood of Chicago. Before we met, I lived alone in a condo in Lincoln Park, a suburb just north of the city. After I lost my job with the Chicago Police Department, it made sense that I sell my place and move in with Ian. I was already spending nearly all of my free time there anyway, and I'd started to dread going home alone to my empty condo.

The two-story brick townhouse we now share is spacious, with four bedrooms and a rooftop greenhouse—Ian's happy place. Well, it's one of his happy places—the other is his small yacht moored at the nearby Chicago Yacht Club.

This morning traffic is light, which is a rarity for downtown Chicago. I follow Lake Shore Drive until I reach our turn off. We live on a quiet, treelined street of brownstones, a block from Lake Michigan.

I pull into our drive and park next to Ian's new gray Porsche SUV—he traded in his Porsche 911 for a larger vehicle to accommodate two infant car seats and a double stroller—and carry the groceries up the drive.

As I'm passing the recently renovated two-story carriage house that is home to our private investigation business, the door opens and Kimi, our twenty-three-year-old office manager, steps out. She's wearing a long floral skirt with a bulky white sweater and black-and-white high-top sneakers. Her spiky purple hair is cut short, and she's wearing a pair of large gold hoop earrings. It appears that flower power is still alive and well.

Kimi waves eagerly as she bounces on her feet. "Hey, Mr. J!" When she smiles, dimples appear in her round cheeks. "How's it going? How are the babies?"

Ian and I gave ourselves paternity leave for eight weeks after the babies were born, which means we're not actively taking any cases for another six weeks. Kimi is holding down the fort for us while we're on leave. She answers the phone, schedules appointments, and orders office supplies—she does all the things that keep our business functioning day-to-day.

"They're doing great, Kimi," I say, stopping to juggle all the bags and packages I'm holding. "Thanks for asking." I pause because I get the feeling she wants to say more.

"And Ian? How's he taking to fatherhood?"

"He's loving it. He's a natural with the babies." It's true. Ian has taken to his new role as a father like he was born to it, whereas I feel like I'm constantly fumbling. I nod toward our back door. "I should take these inside."

"Oh, right!" Kimi darts forward. "Let me help you." She grabs the supersized package of diapers and follows me as I continue around back to the rear entrance to the house. When we reach the back door, she says, "Hey, Mr. J, I was wondering…."

I set down my bags so I can unlock the back door. "Yes?"

"I've got a date tonight. Would you mind if I left work early so I can get my hair colored?" She runs her fingers through the short purple strands. Her blonde roots are clearly visible. "Jerry said he'd monitor the phones for me."

Jerry Harshman is our other employee. He's a former homeless veteran whom Ian befriended, and he now works for us as a general handyman and jack-of-all-trades. He lives in the apartment above the office.

"Sure, you can leave early."

"Thanks, Mr. J." She reaches out to open the back door for me.

I've asked her a million times to call me Tyler, but she just can't shake calling me Mr. J. It doesn't make sense to me, as she has no trouble calling Ian by his first name. Surely I'm not that intimidating.

Kimi holds the door for me as I carry the items into the kitchen. She spots Ian standing at the kitchen sink washing out the coffee pot. "Hey, Ian!" she says with a wave.

Ian waves at her with a soapy hand. "Hi, Kimi. Oh, wow! I love your skirt."

"Thanks, Ian!" she says with a salute. "You, too, Mr. J. Well, I'm taking off soon, so I guess I'll see you guys on Monday. Have a great weekend." The door closes behind me as Kimi takes off.

I set the bags on the kitchen table and start unloading. "I don't understand why she won't call me Tyler. She calls you by your first name."

"That's because you're wicked scary." Ian winks at me as he dries his hands and comes to join me at the table, peering at my haul. "Did they have everything?"

"Yes, everything on the list, exactly as you wrote." I made it clear to Ian that when he wants me to do the shopping, he has to be specific. Very specific. Like down to the brand name, size, flavor, and color of the package—or better yet, send me a picture. This way, we're both happy. He gets exactly what he wants, and I have the satisfaction of knowing I carried out my task correctly.

Ian peeks into the shopping bags. "Good job, babe." Then he gives me a quick kiss on the mouth. "You're such a good husband."

"I try." Yes, I'm smiling, because when he's happy, I'm happy. You know the saying Happy Wife, Happy Life? Well, it applies to husbands, too. When Ian's happy, I'm happy. And when he's not—well, let's just say I don't like it when he's unhappy.

I tell him about the little old lady behind me in the checkout lane. "She said I don't look gay. What's that supposed to mean?"

"She probably meant you're way too serious," he says, fingering the front of my white button-down, which is tucked into a pair of black trousers. "You can take the man out of his homicide detective job, but you can't take the homicide detective out of the man." He grips the front of my shirt and pulls me close for another kiss, this one far more lingering. "I wish I'd been there," he says. "If she saw us together, she'd know. I'm gay enough for the both of us."

That makes me smile, too, because he's right. At the moment, he's wearing ripped jeans and a white form-fitting T-shirt with a giant sparkly pink unicorn, with a rainbow-colored mane, emblazoned across the front. His light brown, curly hair is still damp from a shower, his beard trimmed short.

At thirty-one, Ian's a whole sixteen years younger than I am. But the age gap doesn't explain the difference in our personalities. He's a ray of sunshine, while I'm a middle-aged, practical man whom Ian sometimes calls Mr. Grumpypants .

The baby monitor sitting on the island counter crackles, and then we hear a breathy sob that quickly ramps up to a full-throated cry.

"Please go soothe your daughter," Ian says as he bumps my hip with his. "The bottles are almost ready. I'll bring them right up."

"You can tell that's Lizzie?" How can he tell?

Ian looks shocked. "You can't?"

"They sound the same to me—exactly like every other little baby on the planet."

Ian raises his brow. "And how many tiny babies have you heard crying?"

"Not many, I guess."

"Not many is right. Well, other than your sister Beth's kids. On second thought, there are a lot of McIntyre babies, aren't there?"

Ian's referring to my sister's in-laws. Her husband, Shane McIntyre, comes from a family of seven kids and a rapidly growing number of grandkids. I've lost track of how many there are now. Eight? I'm not sure. It seems like every time I turn around, one of the McIntyres is expecting. I can't keep up.

Ian nudges me toward the stairs. "Go cuddle your daughter before she wakes her brother up. I'll be right up with the bottles."

I head upstairs to our bedroom, which is located at the front of the townhouse overlooking the street. The view out our big bay window is mostly obscured by trees. Currently, the babies are sleeping in white bassinettes placed at the foot of our bed. As I approach, I gaze down into the first cradle to see a soundly sleeping two-week old infant wrapped up like a burrito in a blue blanket. I move on to the second cradle to find a squirming, squalling bundle of joy swathed in pink.

Ian was right. It's Lizzie who's awake and crying.

"I don't blame you, Lizzie," I murmur as I carefully unwrap her. "I'd be crying, too, if someone put me in a straitjacket."

I don't understand the whole swaddling thing, but Ian insists that babies like it. He says it makes them feel safe and secure, like when they were in the womb. I'm not so sure I buy that explanation.

Once she's liberated from her blanket, Lizzie does a full body stretch, extending her arms and legs and twisting her back like she's a pretzel. She stops crying as she gazes up at me with big blue eyes, blinking like a little owl. Like her brother, she has a good amount of dark hair on her head. It looks like both kids inherited my coloring—dark hair and blue-green eyes.

A daughter and a son.

Elizabeth Ruth and William Alexander Jamison. We named Elizabeth—Lizzie—after my sister, Beth. Her middle name—Ruth—is Ian's mom's name. William was my dad's name, and Alexander is Ian's maiden name.

I reach down and pat Lizzie's diaper, which feels suspiciously soggy. That might explain the crying. She hates being wet.

"All right, young lady. Let's change your diaper." I pick her up with both hands—careful to support her head with one hand and her bottom with the other—and carry her to the changing table.

It's still sinking in that I'm a father, not of one kid, but two. I have a daughter and a son. It's a bit overwhelming—the responsibility, I mean. Keeping them safe. Raising them to be good people.

When I skim my index finger over her tiny little hand, she grasps it tightly. My chest tightens as I stare down at her hand, holding my finger, and marvel at her existence.

As I'm finishing up with Lizzie, I hear Will stirring in his bassinette. "I hear you, buddy. Hold your horses. I'm coming."

Then it's Will's turn. And as I'm putting a clean sleeper on him, Ian walks into our bedroom carrying two burp cloths and two tiny bottles of formula. "Who's ready for brunch?"

* * *

That evening, after dinner, after the babies are tucked once more into their straitjackets and put in bed, Ian and I head for the living room for some down time. It's pretty much the first time we've had all day to relax together. After he turns on the baby monitor, we crash on the sofa to watch a movie. We prop our feet up on the coffee table and sigh in unison. I'm starting to suspect that being a parent is more taxing than being a private investigator. I don't ever remember being this tired, even after an all-night stakeout. Of course it doesn't help that we're getting up several times in the night to feed and comfort crying babies.

Ian reaches for the TV's remote control and starts skimming through our viewing options. "Let me know if you see something you like."

I glance over at him. Before coming downstairs, we had both changed into shorts, no shirts. Ian's long legs are stretched out in front, and his feet are bare. My mind is fixated on the knowledge that I could undress him in less than thirty seconds.

"See anything good yet?" He has scrolled through the previews of half a dozen movies, everything from rom-coms to sci-fi to action movies. "What are you in the mood for?"

"You can stop now," I say. "I know what I want."

Ian pauses his scrolling and glances at me. "And what's that?"

I take the remote from him and toss it onto the coffee table. "You."