Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
He throws up a hand. “I’m joking. It’s beautiful. Mischief, you just slid on out. It wasn’t so bad.”
Mom gasps. “Slid out? Really, Caden. Slid?”
“Well, not slid exactly... more like pushed with the force of a cannonball.” Chief chuckles.
I shoot him a look. “Less detail, please.”
Chief roars with laughter. I thump him lightly on the chest. “You’re an ass.”
He doesn’t get to respond, because the next contraction hits. My back arches, breath whooshes out. I clutch at the couch cushion.
“Oh, that’s another one,” Mom says, hitting a stopwatch app on her phone.
She gently squeezes my shoulder. “That was six minutes, honey. I think this might be quicker than you think.”
Oh. Wonderful.
Turns out, she isn’t wrong. Within an hour, my contractions are intense and far closer together than I would have imagined in such a short time. By the time we tumble into the car, I’m crying out in pain. Every bump in the road feels like the baby might just come flying out. Chief grips the steering wheel, muttering curses at every red light. Mom strokes my leg, murmuring something I actually can’t make out.
Travis, though, is my anchor, murmuring, “You can do this. I got you, baby,” over and over.
When we arrive at the hospital, they take me straight through to a room. Two nurses guide me onto a bed as I try not to buckle from contractions. Mom and Chief wait outside, and Travis comes in as they check me out. I don’t even feel the invasion of the midwife’s hand, I am in too much pain to care.
“Well, honey. The good news is, this is going to be quick. You’re nine centimeters and the baby is sitting wonderfully.”
Shit.
Another contraction hits, so hard I can’t answer.
“Breathe, baby,” Travis squeezes my hand, his voice calm and steady.
Thank God he stopped freaking out.
“Gas when you need it.”
The midwife presses something into my hand, and I bring it to my mouth and suck with everything I’ve got. Moments later, the burn of the blissful gas pulses in my blood. Colors blur. And for a brief second, I go on a wonderful little trip. It doesn’t last long, and soon I am back, crying out in pain. I beg Travis to get my mom, and he runs out and brings her in.
She doesn’t leave my side.
“It’s time to push.”
It seems like those words are fake, maybe not aimed at me, because there is no way I can push. I am exhausted, the pain crippling, and they want me to push? Turns out, your body doesn’t give you a choice and with the next contraction, I am lurching forward, curling over, screaming as I bear down without control. An eternity passes in contractions coming one after another.
Push. Push.
The final stretch feels like the end of me. Someone announces they have the head, and for me to push one more time. The burn shooting up my groin is enough to knock me way the fuck out, but I keep going. I just keep going. On the next contraction, I scream and push, and just like that... the baby is here. A moment of silence follows, before the sharp crackle of a newborn cry fills the room.
“It’s a girl!” The midwife’s voice rings like a bell.
My mom wails, and Travis stands, tears running down his face as they wipe our baby off and place her on my chest. Dark hair crowns her skull. Her tiny fists clench and flex, her lips puckered. I bring a shaking hand to her back and stroke it. She is perfect. The most perfect thing I have ever seen.
“Hi,” I croak, between tears.
“Oh my God,” Mom whispers, tears streaming. “She’s beautiful.”
Travis presses himself close to my side, his hands trembling as he reaches out and strokes a finger over her cheek. His voice cracks. “Oh Jesus, she’s perfect.”
Something inside me—that jagged, broken piece—melds back together in that moment.
My heart fills and spills over.
Sunlight dances through the blinds as I lie in the soft afterglow of birth. My vision is still hazy, but I see Travis in the corner, humming a gentle tune to our daughter. The melody weaves through my bones, reminders of every fragile hope we carried. He cradles her with such protection, broad arms shielding her tiny form. His tattoos ripple beneath his T-shirt. My chest tightens with unspeakable joy.
“We did so good,” he whispers, voice thick. “Fuck, baby, she’s perfect. I know what I want to call her.”
My eyes widen. “You do?”
“Yeah. I want to call her Grace. She looks like a Grace.”
My heart swells. “Oh, Travis. Yes. That’s perfect.” The name feels like sunrise. “Grace Phoenix.”
He nods, brushing her tiny hand, already long-fingered like mine. “A little rocker,” he murmurs with a smile.
The door opens. My mother enters, face softened by maternal pride. Chief follows, hand pressed to his heart as if protecting something sacred. They pause, seeing their granddaughter in Travis’s arms.