Chapter 21 Mia
TWENTY-ONE
MIA
I stare at the tiny onesie on the floor like it’s mocking me. It’s right there, two feet from me, but the chance of me bending down and getting back up is slim to none. I’m forty weeks and two days, the size of a blimp, and fucking miserable.
My bump is so big it probably could have its own ZIP Code. I look like I’m carrying twins, but there’s only one baby in there. I know, because I asked the technician three times to double check we didn’t have a stowaway hiding in my uterus.
Sleep is impossible. I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep without waking to pee, or because of pain. My daughter seems to find the worst places to lodge herself in.
I can hear Jensen somewhere in the penthouse. He’s not exactly quiet, which usually doesn’t bother me, but right now I could smother him with a pillow. How dare he be able to walk without huffing?
Don’t get me started on the fact he can bend over.
I ignore the onesie, instead focusing on the nursery.
I love this room. It’s soft and delicate.
Feminine without being obvious. The designer incorporated everything I wanted, right down to the nursing chair in the window that overlooks the city.
It’s a beautiful, calming space, and although our daughter won’t use it properly for the first year, I like knowing it’s ready for her.
We pretty much have everything we need now, except for our daughter. I thought she would’ve made an appearance already, but apparently she’s cozy in there.
I turn to grab some more clothes and the moment I move, my belly tightens. It ripples through me, leaving me gasping for air.
Oh, shit. Ow. Fuck.
I grip the edge of the dresser as my legs go weak for a second.
Breathe. In and out.
Don’t panic. It passes as fast as it hit and leaves me aching.
Damn Braxton Hicks.
I’ve been having them all week, and this morning they’ve been persistent.
The first time one hit, I thought Jensen was going to have a heart attack. He was ready to call Dr. Patel or drag me to the ER.
My muscles relax after a moment, and eventually I peel my fingers off the edge of the dresser.
“Okay, sweetheart,” I say, rubbing my bump, “can you cut Mommy a break today, please?”
I open the drawer and add the new stash of onesies Jensen came home with yesterday to the over-the-top pile already inside.
Everything is so small and so cute. I can’t wait to see our baby wearing these things.
I’m humming to myself when it happens again. This time, it’s a sharp pain that radiates across the top of my bump and through my back. The previous cramp had hurt but this one steals my breath.
I bend over, trying to loosen the clamp inside my gut. It doesn’t help.
I try to shout for Jensen, but my throat is so tight I can’t make a sound.
It takes longer to pass and when it does, I find my voice. “Jensen.” His name comes out strangled, wrong. But I hear him coming.
Relief floods me as he steps inside. He’s here. And I need him.
“Mia? Is it time?”
“I don’t know.” My voice comes out in a harsh rasp. “I’ve been cramping all morning, but it wasn’t bad. I thought it was just Braxton Hicks. But now it really hurts.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as the aftershocks cut through me. His fingers wrap around my bicep, the other around my back, holding me up. “How far apart? Are they regular?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not like I’m timing them, Jensen,” I snap and then instantly regret it. “Sorry.”
He swallows my anger without a word, just kissing my head. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. You’re in pain. You’re allowed to be pissed.”
A cramp—no, a contraction—rips through my back, stealing the air from my lungs. I grip Jensen so hard I don’t know how I’m not bruising him. I breathe through my nose, but it doesn’t help.
My lungs don’t feel like they’re working.
Panic morphs into ugly fear.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
I lean on him, weak and shaky. Of course I knew this day was coming. I wanted it to. The last few weeks of my pregnancy have been tough, and I just want to hold our baby, but now the reality that I have to push our daughter out of my body is staring me in the face.
And I’m scared.
“I don’t think I can do this.” I sound ridiculous. It’s not like there’s a choice. The baby has to come out somehow, but every birthing class, every video I’ve watched on labor means nothing as my stomach tightens like a screw being turned.
“You can. You’re the strongest person I know, Mia.”
I glare at him through my tears. “I will smother you if you try to give me that self-help crap.”
He smiles. Smiles. “Let’s go have our baby.”
Jensen doesn’t leave my side. For eight hours my body readies to birth our daughter. The contractions are like a runaway train, slow at first and then they pick up speed. Eventually they’re coming so close to each other there’s no time between one ending and the next starting.
I’m sweaty, breathless, shaking, and in agony.
Jensen murmurs support and affirmations. Things that give me the strength to keep going, even though I’m exhausted. I’m just one ball of pain, unable to think or feel beyond the endless stabbing slicing through my belly.
The only thing I’m aware of outside of it is Jensen’s hand in mine.
I’m pretty sure I beg him to fix this, to make it stop. I try to bargain with the OB for a C-section, and I float outside my body until I feel my daughter’s head tearing out of me.
Someone keeps telling me to breathe, to push—I ignore that voice. I’m too busy trying not to pass out when the pressure feels like I’m being split in half.
My body takes over, knowing what to do even if I don’t. I’m half naked, my bump touching my chest as my knees almost reach my ears. I push with everything I have, the pain blinding, so bad I feel like I’m going to die, and then she slides out of me in a rush of hot agony.
Then, there’s only blessed relief.
I collapse back against the pillows, every inch of me shaking. I can’t see, can’t think about anything but the burn between my legs and the baby that I’m waiting to hear cry.
Jensen’s eyes are wet. He looks wrecked. I squeeze his hand, and he peers down at me. “She’s here.”
“She’s not crying.”
The OB is doing something, but I can’t see past my stomach. And then, the most beautiful sound. A newborn wail. She sounds pissed, like she already came out furious at the world.
My throat clogs and I choke out a cry of my own.
Jensen ducks to kiss me. “You did it. I’m so fucking proud of you. She’s perfect.”
She might be perfect, but she’s not in my arms. I come up on my elbows, ignoring the tear through my suddenly empty belly as my OB lifts my daughter onto my chest.
And it’s like everything stops.
She’s pink, covered in afterbirth and gunk, but Jensen’s right. She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Her little brow is furrowed, her hands curled into fists like she wants to fight everyone in the room, and her eyes find mine.
Instinctively, I wrap a hand over her back to keep her in place. All the pain, all the fear, disappears. I can’t stop looking at her. Can’t stop touching her. Jensen runs his fingers over her head, like he’s scared to touch her.
“Hey, little one,” he rasps. “Welcome to the world. Me and your mama are going to love you so much.”
I sob. Of course I do. My gruff, overbearing husband is being adorable, and I’m flooded with hormones right now.
“You did really well, Mia.” We both glance at my OB, still between my legs, still doing things as the rest of my birth comes to an end. “Does the baby have a name?”
I glance up at Jensen, who hasn’t stopped stroking my head, like he can’t bear to stop touching me.
“Yeah,” I choke out the words. “Her name’s Amelia.”
And she’s ours.