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“You can come up to the hospital and get my statement, but my girlfriend went into labor, and I had to deliver the baby, so I am going to the hospital right now, and I suggest you don’t try to stop me,” I tell him.
“Let him go, Booker,” one of the other officers calls out, and he reluctantly moves away. He was acting like he wanted it to be a problem, and honestly, I have no problem obliging him, but my girls are my concern right now, not some punk-ass cop high off his imaginary power. I grab the keys for the first available car and head towards Brooklyn’s house. I make it there and to the hospital in record time. But I am woefully unprepared for the sight that greets me when I walk into the room. Brooklyn is sitting next to our daughter’s bassinet, looking so beautiful and happy.
“Oh my god, Aryan! I was so worried. Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone is good. A few cuts, scrapes, and bruises but they are fine. But baby, you look amazing. I brought your hospital bag. Where did you get the matching nightgowns from?” I ask, referring to her and McKinley’s gown.
“Lennox bought them from the gift shop,”
“Why is she under a heating lamp?” I ask.
“She is having a little difficulty regulating her body temperature. It keeps dropping, so they are letting her have a little time being a rotisserie chicken,” Brook explains making me laugh.
“But she’s okay?”
“Yes, she needed a little oxygen, and the body temperature was the only issue she had. Your daughter was already a whooping eight pounds and was almost twenty-two inches long at thirty-five weeks! If she had stayed in there, I would have given birth to a high school graduate!” she exclaims. “At this rate, I am probably going to have to bottle and breastfeed. I don’t know if I can keep up with her appetite.”
“We’ll do whatever needs to be done, baby,” I tell her, looking down at my daughter sleeping under the heater.
“She’s so beautiful,” I say in aww. “She’s perfect,” I gently rub my finger over her tiny head.
“She really is.”
Can we have another one?” I ask, looking Brooklyn right in her eyes, letting her know I mean what I am asking for.
“Can I get a little time with her first?”
“You can have whatever you want,” I tell her, and I mean it, anything at all. “There is something I want to ask,”
“Okay?”
“Come here,” I hold my hand out to her to help her sit on my lap. “I was scared for so long that it made me an idiot, but luckily, you didn’t give up on me, and I had time to get myself together. But seeing you and my daughter here, it couldn’t be any clearer what I want, and that is forever with you. Brooklyn Dior Maxwell, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Aryan, stop!” she says, crying into my neck.
“Is that a no, mo shlánú?”
“No, it’s definitely not a no. It is yes, a thousand times yes,” she says with her face still buried in my neck.
“Look at me, love,” I urge. And when she does, I wrap my hand around the back of her head and bring her to me for a soft kiss. I release her and reach in my pants pocket to dig out the ring box I grabbed out of my workshop when I changed. “I made this ring for you long before I was even willing to admit that I loved you. My subconscious knew what my conscious wouldn’t admit, that you are mine, and you have been ever since you showed up to take care of Joseph. I open the box showing her the platinum band in the shape of a stethoscope with a peach diamond sitting in the middle.
“Oh my god, this is gorgeous, Aryan,” she says as I slip the ring on her finger.
“Now listen, we have had more than five plus years together. I refuse to wait years or even months to get married. So get with Savvy and the other ladies and get it planned, or we can just go elope. As a matter of fact, we can go to New Zealand and get married where my parents are,” I suggest.
“And have the family kill us when we got back? I think not, besides Pastor Errington has to marry us,”
“Okay, fine. You got six weeks and no more,”
“Six weeks?”
“You have the venue, all the people you need, and I am sure Mercy can make your dress. I’ll pay her triple if need be.”
“Wow, you’ve gone from, “Nah, we’re just friends,” to, “Hurry up and be my damn wife!” And it only took five years,” she says, laughing.
“Hush, woman,” I say as the nurse comes in, and Brooklyn gets up off of my lap.
“Okay, it’s time to take her from under the lamp. If she can maintain her body temperature, you both can go home tomorrow. Did you fill out the birth certificate yet?” she asks.
