Page 74 of Honest Boys Don’t Play

I look up into Luke’s panic filled eyes. We have an hour drive back to Nashville where my new doctor is.

“We’ve gotta go,” he says, practically ripping the door open. He helps me inside the car and straps me in even though I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.

He jogs around the front of the SUV. Panic is written plainly in the lines straining the edges of his mouth. Yanking his phone from his pocket, he tosses it at me.

“Put the address for the hospital in.”

“You don’t know how to get there?” I blurt.

He stares at me for a second. “I’m panicking here, Bertie, forgive me if I’m forgetting how to navigate at the moment.”

“Right.”

He buckles himself in and speeds away from the venue.

“After you get that set up can you call your doctor and let them know we’re coming?”

“Yeah,” I answer just before another contraction hits me. A scream rips out of me at the intensity. It’s hands down the worst one I’ve had all day.

“Bertie?” His voice is choked with concern.

I breathe through the pain and when it dissipates, I manage to say, “I’m fine.”

Poor Luke looks like he’s going to be sick, and a wave of realization hates me. It hasn’t been that long since he shared with me about his OCD and his rumination of something exactly like this happening. Truly, for most of the day I didn’t believe I was in labor. Early labor with first babies is less likely than future pregnancies and at my recent OBGYN appointment I hadn’t made any progress, so I thought it was just my body preparing myself ahead of time for actual labor. It’s not like I’ve ever had a baby to actually compare any of this to.

“Bertie,” he says my name again, sterner this time. “I need you to be honest with me as we’re driving, okay?”

“Okay,” I echo.

“That means if your contractions get closer together or worse you have to tell me.”

“I will. I’m so sorry. I should’ve known it was actual labor. I swear I wasn’t lying to you.” I wipe a tear off my cheek, ashamed of myself.

Luke softens. He reaches over, fingers grazing my knee in a gentle caress. “You don’t need to apologize, baby.”

“I feel so stupid.” More wetness seeps between my thighs. “My water is leaking again.”

“It’s normal,” he says. “Call your doctor.”

“Oh. Right.”

I ring my doctor’s office and tell them what’s going on and that we’re in route to the hospital. They’re calm and not at all worried, so it eases some of my anxiety.

After I hang up, another contraction seizes me and I lean over clutching my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke’s head whip worryingly in my direction before he focuses back on the road. “Talk to me, B.”

I grit my teeth. It’s on the tip of my tongue to yell at him that I don’t exactly feel like talking, but I wait to reply until the contraction has faded. Sweat dots my brow after that one.

“That’s been the worst one so far. As soon as we get to the hospital, they better give me an epidural.”

A sound that’s a cross between a groan and a laugh leaves him.

Silence fills the SUV except for my occasional panting breaths. After another contraction, I grab his hand and lace our fingers together. He gives my hand a small squeeze and I’m thankful he doesn’t comment on my clammy palm.

“I’m scared, Luke.”

“I know, baby,” he replies. “I’m scared too.”

“You are?” I ask, sniffling. Great, I’m crying again.