Chapter 31
TWO YEARS LATER
Deep breath in.
And out.
It’s time.
I gently shake the love of my life, my husband, the father of my about-to-exit baby. He grunts, rolls away, and gives me a noncommittal hum in response.
So, I slap his bare shoulder.
He jackknifes up in bed like someone lit his ass on fire. “What? What happened?”
“It’s time,” I say, calm as a cucumber in hell. “We need to go to the hospital. I started having contractions last night, but they’re closer together now.”
His face does this thing, somewhere between panic, awe, and oh-my-God-I'm-not-ready , and he blurts, “You’ve been having contractions and you didn’t tell me?!”
I shrug. “Didn’t want you to freak out. No reason for both of us to be sleep-deprived. ”
He blinks. “Why would I freak out?!”
This, he says, while trying to put on my maternity pyjamas. My. Pyjamas. And the worst part? They're loose on him.
“Honey,” I say, gesturing with both hands like Vanna White to his pink cotton clown show.
He looks down, horror dawning. “Oh, hell no-” he rips them off and starts doing frantic laps around the room like a headless chicken. It’s all keys, phone, charger, where’s the bag , did we pack snacks , do you need a sweater , I need a sweater—
Meanwhile, I hop into the shower because I have a feeling it going to be a while. The second the hot water hits my back, I feel it.
Pop.
Oh no.
Yep. There goes the water. Maybe I was wrong.
“Babe!” I yell, sticking my head out of the steam. “Update: we’ve got a waterfall!”
He crashes into the bathroom door. “WATER brOKE?! I THOUGHT WE HAD TIME.”
I rinse off in record speed, grateful to every higher power that I shaved yesterday, because listen, I don’t care how “natural” labour is, I am not having a team of medical professionals staring down there if it looks like I’ve been raised by wolves.
By the time I step out, towel-wrapped and ready-ish, Caden’s finally found his pants, remembered the hospital bag, and looks like he aged ten years in five minutes.
I smirk. “Told you, you’d freak out.”
He glares at me. “Get in the car.”
Five hours.
Five. Agonizing. Hours.
No one warned me about the ribs. Seriously, why does no one talk about the ribs? I was prepared for contractions, for screaming, for possibly shitting on the table, but no one told me it would feel like my ribcage was being pried apart with crowbars by a vengeful goddess.
But it’s over now.
And somehow, I’m still not sure how , we’re holding him. Our son. A little wrinkled, a little sticky, a lot perfect. We wanted this to be just us, just for a moment.
We didn’t tell anyone. Not Lorna. Not Keira. Not Hannah. Not even Eli, who would’ve shown up in a nurse outfit and tried to talk his way into the OR. Though, I’m pretty sure I saw one Caden’s brothers flirting with a nurse outside my room.
Caden’s parents are somewhere in Italy or Greece or possibly on a yacht off the Amalfi coast. We told them we’d call once the baby was out and the gunk was off. Priorities.
Caden might be their youngest, but this kid, our kid, is the first grandchild .
Caden’s staring at him like he can’t quite believe he exists, like his heart is expanding just looking at him. He brushes a thumb down our son’s soft cheek and says, “So… what about Charles?”
I side-eye him, head too heavy to lift, boobs way too sore to feel polite.
“Absolutely not,” I croak.
He laughs quietly, then kisses my temple, taking a seat by my side.
I shift a little, wincing as I do. “The names we picked,” I say, eyes drifting to our son’s face. “None of them feel like him .”
“James?” Caden offers gently.
I shake my head. “Too safe.”
“Lucian?”
I make a face. “Too vampire.”
“Leonard?”
I shoot him a glare. “Did I not just give birth to your child? Try again.”
He grins. “Okay, okay.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both staring down at this tiny, impossibly loud human who somehow looks like both of us and neither of us.
Then, like it’s always been there, the name just slips out.
“Rhett. ”
Caden blinks. Looks at me. Then down at him. Then back up. “Rhett?”
I nod. “Strong. A little dramatic. Probably going to break hearts and get detention for arguing with teachers. But fair. And brave.”
He breathes out, and it sounds like yes .
“Rhett it is.”
And just like that, our son has a name.
Rhett Marx.
First of his name. Professional crier. Wielder of terrifyingly strong grip. And my whole damn heart .