Chapter 30 Abbie #2
"I'm not having contractions yet, I just—" And then I am, a wave of pressure that steals my breath and makes me grab Grayson's arm hard enough to leave marks. "Okay. Okay, never mind, that's a contraction."
"Noted. Timer started."
Wren appears on my other side, my clutch in one hand and, impossibly, a small overnight bag in the other.
"Where did you get that?" I manage.
"I've had it in my car for two weeks. I'm not an amateur, Abbie. I'll collect your old trophy from the office after we get you settled. You'll have both of them at the hospital."
"Wren—"
"Don't argue with me right now, you're in labor."
I walk toward the exit. Elliot's manager holds the door. A car is waiting, Grayson's, somehow already pulled up to the entrance. Richard's sedan idles behind it, and he's out of the driver's seat before we reach the curb.
"How far apart?" Richard asks, businesslike.
"Just started timing," Grayson says. "First one was thirty seconds ago."
"I'll follow you to the hospital. Marguerite is already on standby at the house if you need anything."
"Thank you, Richard. For—" I break off as another contraction hits, earlier than I expected, and Grayson's arm tightens around me.
"Save your breath," Richard says, but his eyes are kind. "I'll say a prayer. Well, several prayers. I'm not particularly good at them, so don't get your hopes up."
"Your prayers are terrible," I tell him through gritted teeth. "Your Latin pronunciation is offensive."
"I'll work on it."
Grayson helps me into the car, and Wren slides in on my other side while Elliot's manager takes the front passenger seat. The driver, one of VTG's regular guys, I recognize him, pulls away from the curb as soon as our doors are closed.
"Cedars-Sinai," Grayson says. "As fast as you can without killing us."
"Traffic on Wilshire is backed up," the driver reports. "Taking Beverly."
"Fine. Whatever's fastest."
I grip Grayson's hand, breathing through another contraction, and find myself laughing again.
"What's funny?" he asks, slightly wild-eyed.
"You started a stopwatch."
"That's what you're supposed to do."
"I know. It's just... you. With a stopwatch. In your fancy suit. Timing my contractions."
"Would you prefer I panic?"
"I'd prefer you keep doing exactly what you're doing."
Wren squeezes my other hand. "You're doing great, boss."
"I'm sitting in a car leaking amniotic fluid onto leather seats. That's not 'doing' anything."
"You won an award and went into labor in the same hour. That's multitasking at its finest."
At the hospital, someone brings a wheelchair.
Then a room, a gown, and nurses checking me between contractions.
Hours blur together. Pain, pressure, Grayson's hand never leaving mine.
Wren appears and disappears, bringing ice chips and updates: Richard is in the waiting room, Elliot's manager handled something with the valet, both trophies are safely stowed in my overnight bag. And then, just after midnight:
"One more push, Abbie. She's almost here."
I push. Everything in me, every ounce of strength I didn't know I had, and there's a moment of impossible pressure and then... Release. A cry, thin and furious, splitting the air.
"There she is," the doctor announces. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
They place her on my chest, this tiny, screaming, red-faced creature who just upended my entire evening and my entire life, and I'm sobbing before I register the tears.
"Hey," I whisper. "Hey, baby girl. You have incredibly dramatic timing, you know that?"
She screams louder. She's not interested in my commentary.
"Eleanor," I say suddenly.
He looks up. "What?"
"Her name. Eleanor. After my grandmother."
His eyes search my face. "Eleanor Valentine."
"Too much?"
"No." He shakes his head, fresh tears spilling. "No, it's perfect."
Gray's hand hovers over Eleanor's back like he's afraid she'll shatter, and I watch his fingers tremble before they finally settle against her skin.
"She's so small," he whispers. "Abbie, she's—"
"I know." My voice comes out wrecked, raw from the last hour, but I don't care.
I'm staring at the dark wisps of hair plastered to her head, the furious little fists she's got balled up near her chin.
She's still crying, these sharp indignant wails that sound exactly like she's got opinions already. "She's perfect."
"She's mad." Gray laughs, this wet, startled sound. "She's been alive for four minutes and she's already mad about something."
"That's your DNA showing up early."
"Excuse me?" He looks at me, mock-offended, but his eyes are red-rimmed and shining. "I'm extremely calm. I'm known for my calm."
"She's plotting. Give her a second," I say.
Eleanor lets out another wail, proving my point, and I shift her higher on my chest, pressing my lips to the top of her head. She smells like something I can't describe, new, clean, mine. Ours.
"Her nose," Gray says quietly, leaning closer. "That's your nose."
"You think?" I study her scrunched-up face, the way her nostrils flare with each tiny outraged breath. "I was going to say she's got your stubborn chin."
"I don't have a stubborn chin."
"Gray. You have the most stubborn chin I've ever seen in my life. It enters rooms before you do."
He grins, but it wobbles at the edges, and when he looks back at Eleanor, his expression cracks wide open. "Hi," he says to her, voice barely above a whisper. "Hi, Eleanor. I'm—" He stops. Swallows. "I'm your dad. Which is terrifying for both of us, probably."
"You can hold her."
His head snaps up. "What?"
"She's not going to break." I shift carefully, angling my arms toward him. "Come on. Take your daughter."
"I don't... my hands are too big. What if I—"
"Gray." I wait until he meets my eyes. "You've got her. I promise."
He takes a breath, then another, and then his hands are sliding beneath her, impossibly gentle, lifting her away from my chest. He cradles her against his chest.
"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, God."
"Yeah."
"She's looking at me." His voice cracks. "Abbie, she's looking right at me."
"She can't really see you yet. It's all blurry shapes."
"Don't ruin this." But he's smiling, this huge helpless smile I've never seen on his face before. "She's looking at me and she's perfect and you're going to let me have this."
Eleanor makes a small sound, not quite a cry, more like a complaint, and Gray immediately tenses. "What does that mean? Is she okay? Did I do something?"
"She's fine. She's just opinionated."
"That's definitely your side."
"I'm going to remember that when you're begging me for help at three a.m."
He laughs, soft and wondering, still staring down at our daughter like she hung the moon. His thumb traces her cheek, and she turns her head toward it, searching. "Three a.m.," he repeats. "Every night. For how long?"
"Forever, probably. Say goodbye to sleep. We'll tell her about it someday like a myth. Remember sleep? That thing we used to do?"
"Worth it." He says it without hesitation, without even looking up. "She's worth it."
My throat tightens. "Give her back."
"What? No. You just gave her to me."
"I know, but I want her again." I reach out, making grabbing motions with my fingers. "Hand her over."
Gray lowers Eleanor back into my arms. The nurse appears at my elbow. "I'm going to steal her for just a minute," she says, gentle and practiced. "Weight, length, all the boring stuff. You'll have her right back."
Gray's hand finds my shoulder as the nurse takes her.
And then she's back, swaddled now in a white blanket with tiny pink stripes, a small cap on her head, and the nurse is settling her into my arms like the most precious thing in the world.
Eleanor blinks up at me, her eyes that hazy newborn blue that might turn green like mine or stay light like Gray's, and then she yawns, this huge, full-body yawn that scrunches her whole face, and settles into sleep.
Gray's forehead drops to my temple. "We made that," he whispers.
"We did."
Later, after the nurses have come and gone, after Eleanor has been fed and changed and settled into the bassinet beside my bed, Wren appears in the doorway with both trophies.
"Where do you want them?"
"Windowsill. So she can see them when she wakes up."
Wren arranges them carefully, the old one from the night I left and the new one from tonight, side by side against the glass where the city lights glow soft and distant. Wren squeezes my shoulder and leaves us together. Gray settles beside me on the narrow bed, Eleanor between us.
"You took the stage," I whisper.
"I took the stairs," he says.
"Same thing," I tell him.
He smiles, and the three of us settle against each other, both trophies catching the light on the windowsill.