Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
The hostess materializes, eyes wide. “Do you need water?”
“Water, yes,” Lucas says calmly. He looks at me, attentive, the rest of the restaurant falling away. “Breathe with me. In…” He inhales. “Out.” He exhales. His voice is low, steady, please-listen-to-me-I-know-things voice. I follow because my body has decided it only trusts competent men and noodle dishes.
“It’s too early,” I whisper when the wave recedes, panic prickling the back of my eyes. “It’s too early.”
“Could be Braxton Hicks,” he says. “Could be dehydration. Could be your body rehearsing. Or it could be your body asking to be checked.”
“Checked,” I repeat, already nodding. The baby wiggles, a reassuring nudge against my palm. Please be fine, little star.
Lucas turns to the hostess. “Sorry—can you box hers when it’s ready? We’ll be back for it.”
“We’ll deliver it!” she says, thrusting a pen at me. “Write your address.”
My hands shake as I scribble. Lucas looks at the address like he’s memorizing it for later.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“I can drive,” I insist, because the part of my brain that hates inconvenience is stronger than the part that likes survival. “But my car is two blocks away at my apartment.”
“You’re not driving,” he says, already guiding me toward the door. “I’ve got you.” He tucks an arm around my shoulders, the other guiding, and we’re out into the cold, snow stinging my cheeks, the night brisk and clean. He opens the passenger door of a black SUV at the curb and helps me in like I’m glass and storm-proof at once.
“Seatbelt?” he prompts gently. I click it with shaking hands. Another tightening rolls through, and I breathe with it, counting, Lucas counting too under his breath like he’s training with me for a sport we didn’t sign up for.
He jogs around, slides behind the wheel, and pulls smoothly into traffic. One hand on the steering wheel, the other on the console where my fingers find his without asking. He turns his palm up, our fingers interlacing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hospital?” he asks.
“Saint Pierce General,” I say, and he nods once, like of course, and heads that way like he’s been doing this route in his head all day.
He calls Amelia on speaker. “Hey, it’s Lucas. I’m with Melanie.”
Silence, then Amelia: “What’s wrong?”
“Possible early contractions. We’re heading to Saint Pierce General now.”
“I’m on my way,” she says. “I’ll call Mom. Tell Mel I’m bringing the hospital bag because I know she left it behind the couch.”
“I did,” I admit, half laughing, half crying. “I was saving it for dramatic effect.”
Lucas squeezes my fingers. “You’re doing great.”
We pull up to the ER drop-off. He parks in a spot I’m pretty sure says “no,” flashes someone a look that says “yes,” and is at my door in a heartbeat. Inside, he steers me to triage with efficient calm, relays to the nurse exactly what happened, and the time between cramps—he was counting. Of course he was counting.
The nurse guides me into a wheelchair. “We’ll monitor,” she says in the soothing tone of someone who has seen everything and can handle it all. “We’ll make sure baby is happy.”
“Okay,” I breathe, gripping the sides. “Okay.”
Lucas bends to eye level. The busy waiting room blurs, and it’s just his face and the ridiculous steadiness I told myself I didn’t need.
“I’ll be here,” he says softly. “If they let me, I’ll stay.”
I want to tell him about Freddy, about the truth, about the way his hand on mine makes me feel like I’m tethered to the ground instead of floating away. I want to confess the panic and the Chinese food and the stolen breath in the baby store, and ask him if he meant complicated like impossible or just… messy.
Another wave builds, and I just nod, tears spilling hot and fast. “Okay.”
The nurse pushes me toward double doors. Lucas straightens, ready to track.
“I’ve got you,” Lucas says toward the nurse, but more toward me.
And even though I’m rolling into a room full of beeping machines and bright lights, my heart unclenches an inch.
Because maybe I can do this on my own. I’ve been saying it all day.
But right now, with Lucas keeping pace at my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, I don’t have to.
7
Lucas
Hospitals are designed to make civilians feel safe. Bright lights. Calming paint. Posters about handwashing with cartoon bubbles. For me, they flip a switch: too many variables I don’t control. Doors I can’t clear. Machines I can’t fight.
Melanie winces on the triage bed while the nurse straps two disks to her belly with a stretchy band—one to catch the baby’s heartbeat, one to track tightening. I focus on the readout because numbers make sense when nothing else does. The paper spits a steady line of little mountains. Good variability. Spikes when the baby wriggles. The “contraction” line is less regular—small humps, inconsistent spacing.