41. Eric
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ERIC
Amanda says I’m nesting. This obsession I have with cleaning and checking everything’s packed in the hospital bag.
And in the second hospital bag, because what if her water breaks at the grocery store?
She’s asleep next to me now, belly rising and falling with her breath, and I’m counting how many swaddles we have to quiet the buzz under my skin.
Are we ready? We’re ready. There’s no way we’re ready.
Rain lashes against the third-floor windows hard enough to blur the city lights.
Thunder rolls through the apartment a second later, low and heavy, followed by a flash of lightning.
She’s thirty-eight weeks and two days. Her doctor is confident there are no signs of preeclampsia, and Amanda swears she feels fine.
But my life’s never been this good, so I’m bracing for a hit.
She’s shifted onto her side, facing me, arm curled around the pregnancy pillow, hair a tangled halo with purple streaks. I reach out and touch the strands. The shape of her thighs and her red panties peek beneath this old T-shirt.
Amanda opens her eyes, sleepy and amused. “You’re thinking too loud,” she murmurs.
I smile. “Am I?”
She kicks the pillow out and molds herself to me. I place a hand on her belly, and the baby rolls beneath my palm.
“Come here,” she says.
I lean over and kiss her. Amanda parts her mouth and meets my tongue with hers, and she buries her hand in my hair.
“Oh, here, here?” I smirk, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, then lower. “You sure you’re not too—?”
“Eric.” She rolls onto her back and makes room between her legs. “I want you.”
I kiss down her jaw and take off her shirt. While I lap her breasts, she takes off my underwear, and I hook my thumbs into hers and slide them down her thighs, leaving her naked.
When she grips my cock and strokes it, thumb sweeping at the precum and rubbing it against my head, I moan into her kiss.
We touch each other with intention every time, even when we’re rushed and impatient.
We savor each other with the effort and dedication of years of wanting, finally manifesting every time we’re together.
On my knees, I slide my fingers down her slit. She braces on her elbows so she can watch my fingers disappear into her, thumb stroking her clit. After I put a pillow under her hips, she wraps her legs around me and pulls me forward, my cock pressing straight into her core.
It’s surreal. Amanda moaning my name, asking me to move faster, harder.
She raises her hips so my cock goes deeper inside her.
I dig my fingers into her hips, thighs slapping against her ass.
She shoots her hand out to touch the center of the tattoo I got for her.
When she rubs her thumbs against my nipple, my cock swells, and pressure builds on my spine.
“Come with me,” I whisper. “Open your eyes and come with me.”
We come looking into each other’s eyes. It’s a promise between us: no one touches me but her, and I touch no one. Same goes for her. I lick my thumb and rub her clit, applying pressure, right as my cock finds its deepest place inside her.
She screams my name, but doesn’t close her eyes. Her tipping over the edge brings me down with her, spilling inside her. My hips lose rhythm, her name on my lips.
Only after she comes down, do I close my eyes and kiss her lips.
Then her belly. I head to the bathroom for a cloth to clean her.
When I return, she’s smiling—a bit smug, and I imagine I’m the same.
I bring the damp cloth between her legs and clean our mess.
It thunders loudly, and just as I’m about to wipe her again, her belly goes tense for a few seconds—and then releases.
She goes still. “Wait.” She shoots out to keep my hand from her again
“What? Are you—” I swallow. “Everything okay?”
She blinks, then sits up. “I think… my water just broke.”
My brain stalls.
Her eyes go wide, while she feels the bed around her. “Eric…”
We don’t move for a few seconds, my mind processing what she said. It’s another thunder that brings me out of it. It’s happening.
Her hand goes to her belly. “Shit,” she says. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?!” My voice comes out high-pitched.
“I-I think that was a real contraction. No Braxton Hicks. Preparation for the real thing, my ass.”
I bolt upright, heart in my throat. “Okay. Okay, okay. We—okay.” I go to the closet and grab the hospital bag, wrap it around my shoulder. “Car seat is installed. I just need… towels. And then we go.”
Amanda laughs, but it’s breathless, a little panicked. “Eric, you’re still naked, and so am I. Let’s take a breather, yeah? We have time.”
“Right. Shit. You’re right.” I breathe, sit back on the bed next to her, hold her hands. “Okay. Okay. We’re having a baby.”
“Yeah.” She blinks fast, fingers wrapping tightly around mine. “We are.”
I run a hand through my hair, looking at her. Fear threatens to take hold of me through a thousand scenarios. My own voice tells a horror story about Beckett’s birth, the way Sandro tells it about Amanda’s. I lose myself in her green eyes and press a lid on it tightly.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I lean and roll my forehead against hers. Everything else quiets but the woman in front of me. Her hair is a mess, and she’s damp from her water breaking. She’s mine, and I’m hers. I pull her in for a kiss.
“I know.” I nod. “You can be scared. I’ve got this.”
At the hospital, things were slow for hours. They put a fetal monitor on Amanda’s belly right away and checked her dilation. Then, nothing. Amanda felt the contractions, in good spirits, insisting I didn’t tell anyone we were at the hospital until there was actually a baby.
By early morning, her breathing changed, and the humor was gone.
Every contraction, she left half-moons on my arms and screamed.
No amount of yoga ball bouncing or hip rubbing did anything to soothe her.
Then, she threw up all over me as another contraction hit.
She cried, apologized, and threw up again, breath hitching with pain.
We showered in the birthing suite, riding out another hour of contractions under the warm water. Once she’s in a fresh gown and I’m in scrubs, the nurse checks her again.
“She’s at six.” Her face lights up. “We’re solidly in active labor!”
Amanda reached for my hand without looking, cold sweat trickling down her forehead. What were those last three hours if not active fucking labor?
Now, she’s at ten centimeters, fully effaced. Amanda breathes slowly and raggedly. She’s been pushing for ninety minutes, after hours of labor.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” I tell her, wiping her forehead. “I’m so proud of you. You’re going to be such a great mom.”
The nurse adjusts something at the foot of the bed. Amanda cries out as another contraction tears through her.
“Fuck!” she pants out. “I can’t—”
“You can,” I say, grounding my voice. “You are. Look at me.”
She does. Her eyes are wild and exhausted, but they lock on mine.
“We’re doing this,” she whispers, giving me a weak smile before crying out again. “I need to push. Now.”
The nurse gives a tight smile when the doctor arrives, ready to save the day. I’m still pissed she missed the epidural window. They kept checking her dilation, saying she wasn’t progressing fast enough to call anesthesia, and then suddenly she was too far along. Too fast. Too late.
The doctor tells Amanda to push, and she tries so hard, but it’s not working.
She’s too exhausted. Her hair plastered to her forehead, eyes glassy with tears she can’t wipe away.
The team exchanges looks I don’t like. I hold Amanda’s face and kiss her forehead.
It kills me to see her like this, but it’s not my turn to crumble. Right this second, I’m all she has.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I say, as she struggles to keep her eyes open. “I need you with me a little longer.”
Amanda nods just as another contraction hits.
“She’s too tired. This isn’t working,” I tell the team. “We need to try something different.” The nurse looks at me with understanding. The doctor purses her lips. I’m overstepping, and I couldn’t care less. “Let her labor in a different position.”
The doctor checks the monitor, then Amanda, then me. For a moment, all I hear is the beep of her heart rate and the baby’s.
“Her vitals are stable,” the doctor says. “We can try for a few contractions. But we need to see progress soon, or a C-section is imperative.”
The drumming of my pulse dulls, I nod. We help Amanda onto her hands and knees, her hair falling like a dark curtain. She arches her back with the next contraction. I place my hands on her hips, pressing inward as her bones shift under my palms to make space for the baby.
She cries out, and panic flashes in my chest until she exhales in relief, her shoulders sagging.
“Don’t stop.” She gasps.
I squeeze harder. Her whole body shakes with effort as she pushes, arms trembling under her weight. I want to lean in close, but I hold steady so she can focus.
“You’ve got this. I’ve got you,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“Push again with the next contraction,” the doctor says.
She does, screaming and moaning, her body tilting toward me for contact. I soothe her back when it passes.
“This is good,” the doctor says. “The head is out. Side-lying will be easier now.”
We move her onto her side, her right knee drawn up, her body trembling. “Do that thing again,” she tells me.
“One more,” they say.
She roars through it.
And then—
The room fills with a sound I’ve never heard before. A furious, sputtering cry—outraged to be here and alive enough to announce it. It echoes off the hospital walls and lodges itself between my ribs enough to make my breathing stop.
Beckett.
He’s slippery and red and alive. Amanda sobs as they unsnap her gown and place him on her chest. I can’t breathe.
She murmurs sweet nothings to him in Italian, her hand reaching for mine to bring me to them.
I kiss her hair, her forehead, her lips, tasting her tears or maybe mine.
I’ve lived my whole life just to get to this moment with her.
He’s screaming, with a head full of dark hair and Freddy Krueger nails, like Amanda joked. Someone offers to take a picture. Shit. I forgot. Every woman gets that picture. I hand out my phone, and the three of us get photographed first. Then, I snap more shots of Amanda and Beckett alone.
The nurses and doctors are fussing. A tear and page OB for repair in the OR. Better safe than sorry, they say. The nurse catches my eye.
“Just to stitch her up,” she assures. “She’s okay. Standard.”
“Who’ll stay with the baby?” I ask.
The nurse smiles. “You will.”
They wheel Amanda away, her eyes asking me to take care of Beckett. She squeezes my hand until she’s too far to reach.
Someone pats my shoulder. Then I’m handed a swaddled Beckett. “That was good advocacy,” she says. “Asking the doctor. Good instincts, Dad.”
Now, I’m alone with my son in my arms. Pink splotches of blood and white vernix stick to his skin.
He pushes against the swaddle, so I open it and let his arms stretch out.
I reach behind my neck and take off the scrub top, then place him in the center of my chest, skin to skin.
His tiny hand wraps around my pinky, mouth moving like he’s hungry.
He doesn’t seem to like this world very much.
I can’t blame him. He just left Amanda’s side, and she’s—
It’s a precaution, routine. Just stitches. She’s stable. What if they missed something? Amanda’s mom almost died giving birth. What if something happens to her?
Beckett shrieks. I rock him gently. I want to run after Amanda, get updates in real time, but I stay in this chair, in this moment.
I stare at his impossibly small hand around my finger.
I never thought my heart could hold more love, but somehow it’s expanded for him.
I loved him before, yes, but now he’s here. All eight pounds, six ounces of him.
“Your mom will be fine,” I tell him.
His eyes open. Brown. Daray’s eyes.
My child. He doesn’t know I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. He doesn’t know how much of a mess I’ve been. He just knows me. And that’s enough for him. For Amanda. And finally, for me.