“Ava.”
“Not really in the mood to talk; I’m trying to get these tables finished.”
“Okay.” I stride across the room. “What’s up? You’re being weird. And I mean that in the best way.” I take her arm and tug her against me. Only then do I notice the wince that crinkles her face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Don’t say ‘nothing’. Are you hurt?”
“No.” Her voice cracks.
All the alarm bells are going off in my head. “Hey, look at me. What’s hurting?”
“Labor!” She closes her eyes and presses her forehead against my chest. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been in labor all day and—”
“What! Ava . . .what?”
“Focus, baby,” she whispers, holding my face in her hands.
I blow out a breath. Focus on her. Don’t panic. Focus here. I rest my hands on her belly and fight to keep my words coming. I need to communicate through this. She needs me tonight.
Ava shakes her head, clearly uneasy. “I didn’t think it was anything at first, so I tried to stay busy, then the aches kept coming, and coming, and I started freaking out. Is everything ready? Have I cleaned enough? Do I even have Chapstick in the hospital bag? How am I supposed to be a mom, Ryder!”
There it is. The real reason we’re having a mini meltdown in our living room.
I wrap my arms around her and press a kiss to the hinge of her jaw. “You are going to be the best mom.”
Her chin quivers. “You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t. But I believe it.” I kiss her forehead and gently ease us toward the door where the small suitcase has been ready and packed (with three sticks of lip balm) for a week. My checklist was incredibly thorough. “You know things about what a family means more than most people, Tweets. That’s how I know there are not going to be conditions for our kid. You’re going to love them without question, and they’re going to know it.”
“Ryder.” She lets out a sob and waves a hand over her eyes. “I think . . . I think you’re going to be the best dad too.”
“Good.” I open our front door. “Now that we’ve established we are basically parents of the year, can we please go?”
“What if we’re too late?”
I help her into the passenger seat of the Range Rover. “How close are the contractions?”
She hesitates.
“Ava?”
“Um, maybe three minutes.”
“Okay, that’s . . .” My brain short circuits when it actually sinks in. “Three min—” I curse and sprint to the driver’s side, peeling down the driveway. “Baby, the doctor said we needed to go in at seven to five minutes.”
“I’m going to have a baby in the car.” She clutches her face. “Ryder!”
“No.” I grab her hand. “No, you’re not having a baby in the car because let me tell you why: Drake is on duty tonight. You know he’ll answer the call because that’s our luck, and that means your brother will need to deliver the baby. I think that’s a boundary you don’t want to cross.”
She manages to laugh, sort of. “Good visual. That’s not happening. Not today.”
We don’t have the baby in the car, but by the time we’re loaded into a room, the nurses are readying to catch a baby since the doctor is still on the way.
“You’ve done this, right?” I ask.
The nurse on the stool looks like she’s fifteen.
“Loads of times,” she says. “Ready, Dad?”
No. I mean, if she’s sincerely asking, no I’m not. But now would be the worst time to lose my head. I swallow and stand next to Ava’s head, her hand in mine. I kiss her brow, whisper I love her, and my life changes.
