Chapter 15
Trace
The phone rips me out of a nightmare where Patrice is getting on a plane and I'm stuck in quicksand, unable to move.
"Hello?" My voice comes out rough.
"Trace? It's Tessa." She sounds breathless, urgent. "Patrice is in labor. Her water broke. We're heading to the hospital now."
My brain stutters, trying to process. Labor. Water broke. Hospital.
"No, I'm serious," Tessa continues, responding to something I didn't say. "Trace, you need to come. Now."
"I'm—" I'm already moving, throwing off the covers, searching for pants in the dark. "I'm on my way. Is she—"
"She needs you," Tessa says, her voice softer. "We'll be there in ten minutes. Drive safe."
The line goes dead.
Drive safe. Right. Because I'm definitely going to be thinking about speed limits right now.
I'm not technically out the door yet, but I'm close. Pants on—hopefully right-side out. Shirt grabbed from the floor. Truck keys. Wallet. Phone.
Good enough.
The truck is freezing, and my breath comes out in clouds as I turn the ignition. Come on, come on, start. The engine turns over on the third try, and I'm already backing out before the cab has time to warm up.
The roads are empty at this hour, covered in a light dusting of snow that sparkles in my headlights. Normally, I'd take it slow. Be cautious. Not tonight.
Tonight, I push the truck faster than I should, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
She's in labor. Seven weeks early. Because we had a fight. Because I pushed her. Because I couldn't just let her go and instead I had to—
No. Stop. The doctor will say it's not my fault. The pregnancy book says these things happen. But the guilt sits heavy in my chest anyway, mixing with terror in a nauseating cocktail.
What if something's wrong with the baby? What if Patrice—
I can't finish the thought. Can't let myself go there.
Instead, I focus on the road, on getting to her. On being there like I should have been all along. Like I would have been if I'd known. If she'd told me. If I hadn't been an idiot and made her feel like she couldn't tell me.
The hospital appears ahead, lit up like a beacon. I pull into the ER entrance—probably not legal parking, but I don't care—and I'm out of the truck before I've fully put it in park.
The automatic doors slide open, and I nearly collide with an orderly pushing an empty wheelchair.
"Sorry," I mutter, looking around wildly. "I'm looking for—someone just came in—labor—"
"Name?" A nurse behind the desk looks up, unimpressed by my panic.
"Patrice. Patrice Henley. Her water broke. She's—they just brought her in."
The nurse taps something on her computer with maddening slowness. "She's being admitted to Labor and Delivery. Third floor. But you'll need to—"
I'm already moving toward the elevators.
"Sir! You need to check in first!"
"I'll check in later!"
The elevator takes a thousand years. I pace the small space, watching the numbers climb with agonizing slowness. Second floor. Come on. Third floor.
The doors open onto a quieter hallway, all hushed voices and soft lighting. A sign points toward Labor and Delivery, and I follow it, half-running.
A nurse steps out of a room ahead, and I nearly crash into her.
"I'm looking for Patrice Henley," I say, breathless. "She just came in. I'm the father. The baby's father. Her—we're having a baby. She's in labor. Is she—"
"Room three," the nurse says, her expression softening at my obvious panic. "But she's being examined right now, so if you could just—"
I'm already moving past her.
"Sir, you really should wash your hands first and—"
I pause, look down at my hands. Right. Hospitals have rules about that sort of thing. There's a sanitizer dispenser on the wall, and I pump it probably six times, coating my hands in so much antiseptic they could perform surgery.
The nurse watches with poorly concealed amusement. "That should do it."
Room three. The door is partially open, and I can hear voices inside. Dr. Martinez's calm, professional tone. Tessa's softer one. And then—
A cry of pain that makes my blood run cold.
Patrice.
I push through the door, and the scene hits me all at once.
Patrice on the bed, face pale and streaked with tears, one hand gripping Tessa's while the other clutches the bed rail.
Dr. Martinez is between her legs, gloved hands moving with practiced efficiency.
Gage hovers near the window, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
And then Patrice sees me.
Her eyes go wide, filling with fresh tears. "Trace."
I'm at her side in two strides, taking her free hand. "I'm here. I'm right here."
"I'm sorry," she sobs. "I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me."
"Never." I bring her hand to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Another contraction hits, and her grip on my hand turns crushing. I don't care. I'd let her break every bone if it helped.
Dr. Martinez looks up, giving me a brief nod of acknowledgment. "Good timing. We're just getting her settled." She finishes her examination and straightens. "Patrice, you're at three centimeters. Baby's coming today."
"But it's too early!" Patrice's voice breaks. "It's too early! The baby's only 33 weeks!"
My stomach drops. Thirty-three weeks. That's—that's not good. That's premature. That's—
"Babies born at 33 weeks do very well," Dr. Martinez says calmly, as if she's commented on the weather. "We have an excellent NICU team standing by. Your baby is going to be well taken care of."
"But what if—" Patrice can't finish, another contraction stealing her words.
I squeeze her hand, trying to be an anchor when I feel like I'm drowning. "The baby's going to be okay. You both are."
Dr. Martinez pulls off her gloves. "I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to rest between contractions if you can. This might take a while."
My stomach drops.
Tessa catches my eye from the other side of the bed. "Gage and I are going to give you two some privacy. We'll be right outside if you need us."
"Thank you," I manage.
They slip out quietly, and suddenly it's just us. Me and Patrice and the steady beep of monitors. I try not to obsess over them.
"I'm sorry," Patrice says again, her voice small. "About the fight. About everything. I shouldn't have—"
"Stop." I brush hair back from her sweaty forehead. "None of that matters right now. The only thing that matters is you and the baby. Okay?"
"But it's my fault. The stress. The fighting. I did this—"
"No." I make her look at me. "You didn't. Dr. Martinez said these things happen. And even if—even if the fight was a factor, I'm just as much to blame. I pushed you. I said things I shouldn't have. But we're not doing this now. We're not playing the blame game. Deal?"
She nods, another tear slipping down her cheek. "Deal."
A contraction builds, and I watch helplessly as pain tightens her features. I count in my head—thirty seconds, forty-five, a full minute—before it finally releases and she sags back against the pillows.
"That sucked," she mutters.
Despite everything, I almost laugh. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She takes a shaky breath. "Trace, I'm scared."
"Me too."
"You're supposed to say something reassuring."
"Want me to lie?"
She almost smiles. "Yeah. Lie to me."
I lean down, press my forehead to hers. "Okay.
Here's the truth with some optimism thrown in: Yeah, it's early.
Yeah, it's scary. But Dr. Martinez is the best. This hospital has a great NICU.
And our baby—our baby is going to be a fighter.
Because our baby has you for a mom, and you're the strongest, most stubborn, most incredible person I know. "
"You left out 'most difficult,'" she says, but she's almost smiling.
"That too." I kiss her forehead. "But I wouldn't have you any other way."
The next few hours blur together in a haze of contractions, breathing exercises, and me feeling profoundly useless.
Dr. Martinez comes and goes, checking Patrice's progress with maddening calmness. Four centimeters. Five. The numbers climb with agonizing slowness while Patrice grips my hand hard enough to cut off circulation and makes sounds I never want to hear again.
"You're doing great," I tell her, because what else can I say?
"I'm not doing great," she pants. "I'm dying. I'm definitely dying."
"You're not dying."
"How would you know? Are you dying?"
"No, but—"
"Then shut up about what great shape I'm in."
I make a mental note: during labor, all reassurances are apparently the enemy.
A nurse comes in—Brenda, according to her name tag—and checks the monitors. "Everything's looking good. Baby's heart rate is strong."
"How much longer?" Patrice asks, and there's a note of desperation in her voice that breaks my heart.
"Hard to say. First babies can take their time."
"That's not helpful."
Brenda smiles sympathetically. "I know. But you're doing great."
Patrice shoots me a look that clearly says See?
"I didn't say anything," I protest.
"You were thinking it."
She's not wrong.
After Brenda leaves, another contraction hits, and Patrice's grip on my hand becomes actively painful. I count through it—ninety seconds this time—and when it passes, she looks at me with tears streaming down her face.
"I can't do this for hours more," she whispers. "I just can't."
"Yes, you can." I wipe her tears with my free hand. "You're the strongest person I know."
"I'm really not."
"You flew across the country pregnant. You told me off in front of our friends. You're about to have a baby seven weeks early and you're still fighting. You're a warrior, Patrice."
"I'm a sweaty mess who hasn't showered in twelve hours."
"You're beautiful."
"You're delusional."
"Maybe. But I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."
She squeezes my hand—gently this time. "Promise?"
"Promise."
Around hour three, Gage pokes his head in with coffee and what looks like a sandwich wrapped in plastic.