Epilogue
Gabriel
Approximately Twelve Months Later
Ibarrel down the corridor three floors below our penthouse. Annabel Farris stands sentry outside the door to Sydney's old apartment.
When she sees me coming her way at a dead sprint, she raises a hand in greeting. “You can cool your jets. She’s fine.”
“Open the door,” I pant.
She gives a slight shake of her head and moves out of the way. “They’re waiting for you, but you need to get some chill first. She needs you to be calm and in control.”
I straighten my spine and blow out a slow breath. Calm. In control. Zero issues here.
I mentally shake myself. That last thought was a stupid one. I did too much research. I know too many horrible things that can happen. And no matter what, my wife is about to be in a hell of a lot of pain. My slow breath turns into straight-up hyperventilation.
Annabel laughs and demonstrates with her hand in front of her chest. “Deep, slow breaths. One more. Last chance before you’re the one in there helping her stay cool.”
I take two more slow breaths. “I’m a rock.”
She visibly suppresses her smile. “You certainly are.”
I turn the unlocked doorknob and step inside the apartment.
Other than the walls and windows being in the same locations, everything else is different.
Sydney sold it to Janessa within a week of moving her things upstairs.
Six months ago, Josh moved in with Janessa.
They’ve been married now for six weeks. I was his best man.
The timeline was ridiculously fast.
But knowing we had a doctor three floors down for this pregnancy has been a relief.
Even with tracking Sydney’s ovulation, it took a few months for her to get pregnant, and I had anxiety over it.
Then I was nervous about the pregnancy itself.
Josh keeps reminding me he isn’t an ob-gyn and to “Ask her doctor.”
Which I do, also. Obviously. But it never hurts to have another professional’s opinion.
Sydney sits sprawled on their sofa, her huge baby belly hard as a rock with the cutest outie belly button showing through her white shirt. Josh has his phone out with the stopwatch running, and Janessa sits next to Sydney, holding her hand.
Crouching in front of my wife, I place a gentle hand on her tight belly and tease, “Exactly one day after filing your patents on the sealant. Suspicious timing, Dr. Walsh McRae.”
“Who would do that on purpose?” Her face scrunches, and she bares her teeth in pain. “The whole point of working those hours and not”—she grunts, then catches her breath—“starting a new project yet was so I could nest at home for two weeks before our baby arrived.”
“She appears to have a mind of her own. Just like someone else I know.” I brush her hair away from her face. “Whatever you want done, you tell me. I’ll make sure everything is perfect.”
She nods, panting.
“Slow breath. In. In. And blow it out,” I say.
We breathe together. Her shoulders relax as the tightness passes.
“How far apart are the contractions?” I ask.
Sydney glances at Josh, and he shows us both his phone screen. “Five minutes and lasting for a minute each.”
So much closer than I expected them to be. “Dave is bringing the car around. He has your hospital bag in the car. Let’s go,” I say.
Sydney gives me a look of utter disgust. “I’m trapped here. I tried to get up, but I’m like a turtle stuck on its back with my arms and legs flailing.”
Do not laugh. Do not.
She taps my bicep. “You think that’s funny.”
“Is there a correct answer to that question? I will answer it in any way that makes you happy,” I say.
She heaves a sigh. “It’s funny. Get me out of here.”
I lean forward. “Hold on to me. I’ll help you.”
Sydney puts her arms around my neck, and I heave her to stand.
“It’s just that their sofa is really low. I could get up on my own, otherwise. It’s an abnormally short sofa,” Sydney says.
“I know. I’ll kick that sofa’s ass for you later,” I soothe.
“Hey,” Janessa interjects, “it’s a lovely piece of mid-century modern furniture.”
“That couch is dead meat. My wife demands vengeance,” I say.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to be too busy to fight your couch,” Sydney assures her.
Josh opens the door, and I usher Sydney through with an arm around her back. Another contraction hits in the hallway, and I brace her against me as she rides it out with barely a sound. “You are incredible. You’re doing amazing.”
When it passes, I eye her with concern. “This came on really fast.”
She wets her lips. “Yeah. About that. Technically . . . in hindsight, I suppose I’ve been in labor since around six this morning.”
What?
Behind us, Josh mutters, “That explains a lot.”
“You’ve been in labor for eight hours? Eight. Hours. You let me go to work,” I accuse.
We continue, Janessa and Josh trailing behind us.
“You were just in the home office. I called you down as soon as I understood what was happening. But I expected textbook uterine contractions, with pain in the front, not horrendous back pain.”
She shakes her head. “This is so embarrassing. I should have figured out I was in labor, but I had a predisposed bias to misinterpret the data because my back has been hurting for weeks. I thought the pain got so awful because she’s getting big and was pressing a nerve or something or because she dropped.
Peanut is two weeks early when first babies are supposed to take longer.
But, apparently, back labor is a thing, and my data interpretation skills failed me horribly. ”
I swipe my keycard and assist her into the executive elevator. “Nobody is questioning your data collection technique. Your professional reputation is safe with me.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m telling all our friends that Dr. I-Plan-Everything-Down-To-The-Last-Detail couldn’t figure out she was about to push out a baby.” Janessa holds up her phone. “It’s already in our group chat.”
The undignified sound of liquid splattering on marble sends my pulse into overdrive. Her water broke, which means—what does it mean?
Sydney digs her fingers into my forearm. “Gabriel?”
“It’s amniotic fluid,” Josh says.
Sydney and I both turn our heads toward him. “You think?” The two words come out of both of us at the same time, equally sarcastic.
Josh huffs a laugh.
“Ew. These shoes are Italian leather,” Janessa says jiggling her damp foot and covering her obvious concern with snark.
Sydney gasps, then groans, leaning forward as I support her weight.
I inhale slowly through my nose and look back at Josh for guidance. “What do I do now?”
“You take her to the hospital, exactly as you already planned.”
By the time, we hit the lobby, she’s in the middle of a contraction, and I’m not slowing down to get us to the car. “Okay, I’m not panicking. I’m beyond calm. And you should also remain calm. But I’m carrying you the rest of the way.”
It’s a sign of how intense the pain is that she doesn’t offer a single hint of argument and merely wraps her arms around my neck as I lift her. Annabel jogs to meet us at the lobby doors and ushers us into the backseat of the SUV.
Wide-eyed, I look to the sidewalk for Josh, but he and Janessa have already filed into the SUV behind ours.
Annabel slams the door closed behind us, then climbs into the front passenger seat next to Dave. Arm gesturing wildly out the window, Dave pulls into traffic to the sound of blaring horns and angry shouts.
No more than three minutes of peace pass for Sydney before she cries out and bends her entire body forward in a move that, I swear to God looks like she’s bearing the fuck down. “What are you doing? What is that? Are you pushing?”
Her fingers claw into the sleeve of my suit jacket. “I’m trying not to.”
I drag off my jacket and toss it to the third-row seat, then walk on my knees in the limited space to get as close to her as possible.
It’s a luxury SUV. There’s plenty of legroom and a flat floor, so my knees and hips fit easily enough, but my shoulders are a squeeze.
“I’m putting this seat into recline for you. ”
She nods, her face red and straining, and I adjust the armrests out of the way and reach around to activate the lever to ease her into a semi-reclining position.
“I don’t want to have our baby in the car. There are germs,” she wails.
I nod. And nod. And nod. Then I shake my head. “I, too, would rather you did not give birth in this car. If you could just suck that baby in nice and tight. Just hold on to our little peanut until we’re in the hospital, that would be ideal.”
We have a reprieve of approximately three minutes where she goes quiet. Then she grunts as her body does that thing where she’s doing crunches, her knees drawn up and apart.
“Okay.” I waft a hand in the air. “Breathe. One. Two. Three—”
“I am breathing, Gabriel,” she snarls in a voice that sounds like a demonic possession.
Think. Think. I watched those videos. I took the classes and read the books. “The pushing phase is going to take at least an hour for a first-time mother. We have plenty of time to get to the hospital. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive total.”
Dave speaks up. “It’s fifteen minutes from midtown Manhattan to Mount Sinai in good traffic. In bad traffic, it can take thirty to forty minutes, and this traffic isn’t good.”
Nope. Nope. That’s not happening here. “Drive faster, Dave.”
He lays on the horn and attempts to inch the SUV around the vehicle in front of us.
Sydney relaxes as the wave passes.
Pushing stage means she’s fully dilated, right?
Germs. No babies on germs. No germs on my wife’s precious cootchie. What the fuck? What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?
Sydney toes off her shoes and socks. I dig through her hospital bag and produce a baby blanket.