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If the look on her face didn’t answer my question, the distinct sound of liquid splashing on tiles would.
“Oh my God.” Every thought, every brain cell, every ounce of research I’ve done in preparation for this moment suddenly dissipates. “You’re in labor.”
Face scrunched, Sunday bends at the waist as much as her belly will allow, one hand going to the small of her back while the other clamps down on my forearm. “Uh-huh.”
“Are you sure?”
She sucks in a breath, voice strained as her head drops. “Pretty sure.”
“Since when?”
Sunday glances at me, then at the wet floor. “Seriously? Did you take a baseball to the head or something?”
“But you don’t, like, suddenly go into labor.”
“Says the man who’s never been in labor before. You know who has?”
“Jesus, Sunday, I’m just trying to ask if you’ve been having contractions.”
She pauses. Thinks. Grimaces, then whispers, “I thought they were just cramps.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. A day?”
“Aday?”
“I’m eight-hundred years pregnant,” she hisses through gritted teeth, scowling through narrowed eyes. “I cramp a lot. Shut up.”
A day. A day of contractions. That means… I can’t remember exactly what that means but combined with the amniotic fluid on my shoes, it’s something along the lines of‘holy fuck, I’m about to be a dad.’
“Okay.” Easing my forearm from her bone-breaking grip, I guide her palms to my chest. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“Fuck me.” With a big, wheezy breath, Sunday slumps against me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I swear to God, it did not hurt this much last time.”
I’m a terrible person. A terrible, terrible person. Because here she is, in pain, and here I am, enjoying it. Enjoying how close it’s bringing her. Taking advantage because, as I’ve established, I’m a terrible person.
As Sunday huffs big, panting breaths, I hold mine. Run my hands along her shoulder blades, down her back, up again to gently scratch her scalp the way I know she likes. “You’re good, baby,” I murmur, one of my hands coaxing one of hers to release my shirt so I can knot our fingers together. “It’ll pass.”
Sunday grunts, her fingers tightening around mine.
I ask, “Should we be timing these?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Do you remember everything you did when you were sixteen?” she snips. “Course you don’t. Memory doesn’t last millennia.”
It’s a good thing her head is down; she doesn’t see my smile.That’s my girl.
“You’re the one who read all those books.”
Fat lot of good it’s doing me. “You didn’t read any?”
“No.” Sunday pauses. Her forehead digs into my sternum like she’s trying to crawl inside me and hide. All she accomplishes is whispering her next words all but to my heart. “Just assumed you’d be here.”
“I am. Was always gonna be.”
