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“Oh!” Holly moans as I enter her, hissing, “Yesss. Let’s make sure it’s a sure thing.”
“Slow Down!” I yell, reaching for theoh-shithandle.
My weight shifts as Cary corners the road. Given his lead foot, the seat belt is useless.
Stopping short to get in line behind another car, he grits his teeth and slams a palm to the steering column. Cary’s glare—meant for me—could crack the windshield. He won’t take his eyes off the other vehicles waiting for the traffic signal to change. If we were in the roadster, he’d have one foot on the brake and the other on the gas, revving the car to jump through the intersection as soon as the light turns green.
Happy for the standstill, I breathe out and rub my distended abdomen.
He’s mad… No, he’s anxious. I tell myself.
I toiled at the nursery yesterday, getting everything ready for my maternity leave. I waved away the college helpers when moving seedlings from one side of the greenhouse to the other. Nesting at its finest, I even went crazy with the pricing gun, tagging all the birdhouses in the roadside store, and made sure the refrigerator cases for bouquets were to the exact temperature.
My I-can-do-it-alone moment extended this morning when I got on my hands and knees to scrub the shower tile. My husband very nicely called me out, saying the fumes were enough to choke a man to death, and I wasn’t putting myself or the health of our child first.
Cary didn’t understand why I was tired and irritable and still running, uh waddling, a mile a minute. He chased me between rooms in the house. I may have instigated an argument, nudging it along by not having my bag packed.
I can do labor and delivery. I’m looking forward to it in a masochistic sense because I can’t wait to see Cary holding our baby. And Bhodi holding his little sister. And Davina tofinallyget her hands on her granddaughter.
What I don’t want is to not be pregnant.
And it’s apparent my lateness in life isn’t working in my favor. A touch beyond thirty-nine weeks, I wasn’t past due when my water broke all over the master bathroom floor. I guess my body had its reasons why I was more tired than usual, but I couldn’t quite seem to slow down.
My husband—a man who is so over the moon ecstatic about his role as a dad he’s had an infant carrier base installed in the backseat of every car we own for the past three months—was not amused that in all my preparations, I hadn’t prepared for the hospital.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it now that I can see what I was doing the past few days a little clearer.
Cary trusts in my protectiveness. He understood my reasoning for keeping him, and Cass-Stanton, out of anything having to do with him taking his rightful place in our son’s life. I didn’t want any fallback to tarnish his reputation or for the man I love to be indebted to Jake. But Cary also needs me to let him safeguard his family, and he’s quick to remind me I’m no longer alone. I have a partner I can trust too.
His tight features loosen a smidge at my apology.
It’s short-lived when the next contraction peaks.
I groan loudly, letting the air out of my lungs like a balloon deflating as it subsides.
“So help me, Doll, if you have the baby in the car I’m going to put you over my knee,” he threatens as he coaches me through my breathing exercises.
My mind, clear of pain, wanders to how our little darling wound up inside of me.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I quip.
“Did you proposition me? Now?” Cary does a double-take. “What has gotten into you?”
I point to where my lap used to be. “Hormones are unpredictable things.” I shrug. Then I twist my wrist, admiring the watch Davina got me at the holidays. “According to this, you have about four more minutes to talk dirty to me.” A horn beeps behind us. “Or you could drive us to the hospitaaaal.” My words stretch as his foot hits the floorboard again.
That’s the last flippant comment I’m allowed to make. It’s also the last one I want to make because the baby decides she’s the one not arriving casually late to her birthday party. We no sooner have a parking spot than I’m up in the room, my knees to my chest, and pushing.
Shelby—her middle name is not Cobra, much to the dismay of her big brother—Cass stops wailing as soon as she’s diapered and swaddled. My baby girl is staring wide-eyed up at her daddy. Cary is a mushy-mess. Tears fall over his cheeks that he doesn’t bother wiping away.
My mind is a hazy mix of lethargy and euphoria, yet all I can think of is when Bhodi called Cary “dad” for the first time at our wedding. If the way Cary embraced fatherhood for Bhodi is any indication, Shelby got herself a good one.
And I guess I did as well.
Tucking Shelby to his chest, Cary leans and places a congratulatory kiss on my lips. Outwardly it’s soft and sweet. I didn’t miss the sweep of his tongue. Something tells me we’ll be back in the hospital soon for the very same reason.
I just hope when we get here next time we have found a better name than “Chevelle”, which tops Bhodi’s list—along with “Gremlin” if he ever gets a little brother.
Lord, help me.
