Two Pregnancies, One Threesome, and a Rom-Com That’s Not Joking

A threesome that results in two pregnancies sounds like something scribbled in the margins of a freshman screenwriting class after three Red Bulls and a nervous breakdown. But in the trailer for Zoey Deutch’s upcoming rom-com, that’s not the punchline—it’s the pitch. This isn’t just chaotic love geometry; it’s a surgical strike on what we once called “romance.” The question is whether it’s evolution or detonation.

The trailer moves fast—too fast for comfort. One minute, a sun-dappled apartment and the promise of sexual liberation; the next, morning sickness and prenatal vitamins multiplied by two. Laughter, then a sharp turn. And Deutch, all Gen Z charisma and emotionally aware quips, doesn’t wink at us once. She plays it straight, even as the plot spirals into sitcom surrealism. There’s something audacious about that—about treating absurdity as ordinary. It’s not just a movie. It’s a provocation wrapped in a pastel filter.

Love, Actually, Is Unhinged Now

We used to know what love stories looked like on-screen: monogamous, mildly neurotic, and ultimately resolved in time for the credits. But this film—still unnamed, still brewing—seems to be making a new kind of declaration. That love is not only messy but genetically untraceable. That intimacy, when mixed with impulse and freedom, might come with more than emotional baggage. It might come with twins.

Polyamory in fiction is hardly new. But pregnancy—unexpected, doubled, and the shared product of a shared night—feels different. It carries stakes. It removes the safe detachment usually afforded to stories about “experimenting.” One character in the trailer mutters, “This was supposed to be fun,” like someone realizing too late they’re not in a French farce but a full-blown paternity panic. And that’s the thrill of it. We don’t know how—or if—this ends well.

The Rom-Com Is Dead, Long Live the Chaos-Com

Romantic comedies were once about predictability, about pleasure rooted in knowing the third act was safe. Now, this new wave of storytelling seems determined to unravel that comfort. These aren’t films trying to restore order after conflict; they’re throwing glitter on the conflict and calling it closure. In doing so, they’re mirroring something cultural: the collective unease with labels, with permanence, with fairy-tale formulas that no longer match the apps on our phones or the relationships in our group chats.

And yet, there’s a strange hopefulness buried in the madness. That perhaps love, in all its unpredictable, hormonal absurdity, is still worthy of being filmed. That romance doesn’t have to be tidy to be cinematic. Zoey Deutch isn’t playing the manic pixie dream girl; she’s playing the rational chaos of a world where choice doesn’t always mean control. That’s not just refreshing—it’s subversive.

So we return to that first, ridiculous premise: a threesome, two pregnancies. You laugh. But then you wonder—what if that’s the most honest thing a love story has told us in years?

Maybe the real comedy isn’t in the outcome, but in the myth that we ever had any control.