Page 75 of Honest Boys Don’t Play

“Terrified.” He gives a soft chuckle. “But I think there might be something wrong with us if we weren’t afraid.”

“You think?” I squeeze his hand tight when a new contraction hits. A small cry rips out of me.

He talks through my pain which I’m grateful for. “I think if you’re not scared then maybe you’re too cocky about being a parent. I think fear allows you to be open to growth and learning. Babies are different and what works for one doesn’t for another, so you have to be adaptable. If you’re too set in your beliefs, you can’t adjust.”

When the contraction is over my head slams against the headrest. “I’m never doing this again. One and done, Luke. Do you hear me?”

He grins over at me, and I wonder why he’s so pleased by my statement when he says, “Had you been planning to have more of my babies?”

“Uh…”

He laughs. “It’s okay, B. You don’t need to answer that.”

I open my mouth to reply, but I’m cut off by yet another contraction. When it’s over, I ask, “How close are we to the hospital?”

“About twenty-five minutes,” he answers with surprising calm, but I know that I’m about to send that calm flying out the window.

“We’re not going to make it.”

He’s silent for a second. Two. Three. “What do you mean?” He glances at me. “Why aren’t we going to make it, Bertie?”

“I need to push.”

“Fuck,” he curses. He grabs his phone and rings 911. He explains what’s happening as he navigates to the nearest exist and to the parking lot of a Burger King.

“Luke!” I swat at his arm. “I cannot have our baby in the parking lot of a Burger King. I refuse!”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which is probably true. “B⁠—”

“No,” I say, steadfast. I point through the windshield. “There’s a bookstore and it looks like it’s closed already.” Without a word, he puts the SUV back into drive and moves the car. “Thank you.” My thanks is cut off with a painful cry. “I need to push. Like now.”

Luke is out of the car in an instant. I hear the 911 operator saying something to him and he replies but I’m in so much pain that I can’t make out what words are being exchanged.

Luke opens the door to the back seat and then mine.

“I want my epidural,” I cry.

“Baby, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t magically have an epidural.” I whimper as he leans across my body and undoes the seatbelt. “I’m going to help you out,” he says, grabbing my hand and guiding me out of the front seat.

He helps me to the back, and I lay down on the seat, pulling my dress up and out of the way. Luke says something in response to the operator and reaches between my legs to yank off my underwear. He tosses the pair into the trunk.

“I see the head,” he blurts.

“Can I push?” I beg as sirens sound in the distance. “Please,” I cry.

“Yeah, baby. Just listen to your body.”

I feel as if I go into a trance as I push.

“Good job,” he says as I pause to catch my breath. He sets the phone down on the floor and rips off his tux jacket and undoes the buttons on his sleeves so he can shove them up to his elbows. He disappears for a moment back to the front seat and grabs the bottle of Germ-X I always keep there, drenching his hands.

“The paramedics are close,” the operator says.

“I need to push again,” I tell Luke.

He grabs one of my legs and holds it up for me. It’s a tight squeeze in my backseat, but we’re making it work. It’s not like the vehicle was designed to have a baby in.

“He’s right there,” Luke tells me. “Another push, maybe two, and he’s here. Can you do that?”