Page 229 of Say My Name

He sets the bag on the floor and moves in front of me. I grab both his hands.

“Breathe,” he says.

“I'm already breathing.”

“I know.”

“You're saying it like an order.”

“Would you prefer a suggestion?”

A fresh wave of pain radiates from my tailbone, sharp and unforgiving. “I’d prefer a different spine.”

His mouth almost moves, but the pain sharpens and erases the thought.

I lower my head and squeeze his fingers.

“Dominic.”

“I'm here.”

His voice gives me something to follow.

A cart rolls over the tile behind him. Phones ring at the desk. Someone laughs farther down the hall. I concentrate on the solid pressure of his hands holding mine. On his calm answer every time I say his name.

Dominic has made me say it in pleasure. He's used it to pull the truth out of me when I wanted to hide behind anger, practicality, or silence.

Now I say it because I need him to keep me here while my body does something I can't stop or control.

He understands.

When the contraction ends, he waits until I straighten before picking up the bag.

A nurse leads us into triage and asks a series of questions. Dominic knows every answer. My medications. My allergies. The last time I ate. The exact length of the last three contractions.

He lets me respond.

When I pause because another ache is building and I can't remember the name of a medication I have taken every day for months, he looks at me.

“Do you want me to answer?”

My first instinct is to push through, to find the word myself. But the effort feels monumental, and he’s right there, waiting. I nod.

He gives the nurse the name and dosage, then returns his attention to me.

Months ago, he would've answered because he had the information and believed that made him the best person to speak. Tonight, he waits for me to decide when I need his voice.

A nurse moves us to a labor room as the sky begins to lighten. Dominic listens while our nurse, Danielle, explains the call button, the bed controls, and what will happen over the next few hours. He asks two questions, writes down one answer, and places his phone facedown when she leaves.

I lean my head back. “You took notes.”

“I won't remember everything.”

“You remembered which level we parked on.”

“That's different.”

“How?”