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“You have a game.”
“Unless you’re okay giving birth in a dugout, I’m missing the game.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, sunshine. Nowhere I’d rather be.”
She whimpers, and I’m still trying to decide if it’s due to my words or the contractions when she mutters, “I’d rather not be in a supply closet.”
“You think you can walk?”
Slowly, cautiously straightening up, Sunday nods. She tries to let me go but I don’t let her. I keep a firm grip on her hand, another on her hip, as I guide her out of the closet. The minute we’re in the hallway, I’m yelling for help.
Nails dig into my forearm. “Jesus Christ, Cass.”
I ignore the warning, shouting again, “We’re in labor over here. She needs a wheelchair.”
The apologetic look on her face dies when her gaze flits from the nurse rushing to help us to me. “I do not need a wheelchair.”
“You’re in labor?”
Even before Sunday flashes her son—drawn out of Amelia’s room by my voice, no doubt, along with the rest of my family—a grimacing smile and a tight nod, he’s at her side, helping me help her into the wheelchair someone finally brings us. “Are you okay?”
Her second nod is as convincing as her first.
The picture of concern, August fusses over his mother, unperturbed by the bone-breaking grip she has on his hand. When she grits her teeth and tenses as another contraction hits, he doesn’t shy away—oh-so-calm, he pats her head while checking the watch on his wrist, counting the seconds until Sunday goes slack.
I’m so busy fuckinggazingat them, overwhelmed by the sight after so long without it, I almost miss August mutter, “Told you.”
I definitely don’t miss the warning look his mother slides him. “Not now.”
Rolling his eyes, he starts rolling her down the hall after the nurse leading us to a room. I trail a couple steps behind, quietly frowning as August stoops to mutter in Sunday’s ear. “I knew it.”
“August, light of my life, c’mon.”
“Just sayin’.”
I close the distance between us, a hand on the back of the wheelchair forcing them to stop. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sunday huffs at the same time her kid rats her out, “She was waiting for you.”
I look at Sunday who’s very pointedly not looking at me. “Not me,” she grumbles. “I’ve been tryna get her out for weeks.”
“The baby,” August clarifies. “She was waiting for you.”
It’s absurd. Childish. Highly improbable.
Sweet. A little heartbreaking. A little heartwarming, too.
Makes my eyes water and my nose itch and my hand trembles where it grips Sunday’s chair, the other faring no better as it smooths over her hair. “That’s nice of her.”
“Yeah.” Sunday huffs. “Real nice of her to like you better already.”
Figuring it’s safe to chuckle since August does, I push my luck by stooping, brushing my lips against Sunday’s temple. “C’mon, sunshine. You know I don’t stand a chance.”
When she doesn’t pull away, I take it as a good sign. Push it a little further by helping her into bed, keeping a hold of her hand as a nurse sticks an IV in her hand and straps something around her belly, filling the room with the loud, steady thump of a tiny heartbeat. Push it all the way when the pain gets too much for her, too hard for me to watch, so I climb into bed with her, settle behind her with her between my legs, her hands clutching my knees and her head tucked beneath my chin, turned to the side so her cheek is to my chest.
Her breath flutters across my collarbone as she whispers, “You’re not gonna leave?”
