Chapter 37
thirty-seven
. . .
Jake
She takes my good hand and leads me toward the house. That’s when I notice all the cars in the driveway. Blair’s SUV. Sophia’s Range Rover. Two others I don’t immediately recognize.
“Are we having a party?” I ask.
“Not exactly.”
We walk through the front door, and I stop dead.
My living room is full of boxes. Natalie’s boxes. Her books are stacked on my coffee table. Dishes are stacked on my counters waiting to be put in their place inside my cabinets.
“Surprise,” she says quietly beside me.
I turn to look at her. “You already moved in?”
“I hope that’s ok? I called everyone and—”
I kiss her, cutting off the words. Deeper this time, my hand sliding into her hair, trying to pour everything I feel into it.
When we break apart, she’s breathless.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” she says.
“That’s a hell yes.”
Blair appears from the kitchen, Ruby still strapped to her chest. “Welcome home, Jake. Sorry for the mess.”
“Mess is good. Mess means she’s staying.”
Stella, Sophia, and Jess emerge from various rooms, all of them grinning.
“We tried to organize everything,” Jess says. “But Natalie has a lot of books.”
“And opinions about where things should go,” Sophia adds.
“I heard that,” Natalie calls.
I’m still holding her hand, still processing that she’s here, that all her stuff is here, that we’re really doing this. My chest feels too full, like my heart might actually burst.
“Thank you,” I say to all of them. “For helping her. For being here.”
“Of course,” Blair says. “That’s what—”
Natalie gasps.
It’s a sharp, sudden sound that cuts through the room. Her hand tightens on mine, her other hand going to her belly.
“Nat? You okay?”
She looks down. I follow her gaze.
There’s water pooling at her feet, and for a second, nobody moves. We all just stare.
Then chaos erupts.
“Oh my God!” Stella shrieks.
“Her water broke!” Blair’s already moving, shifting into crisis mode.
“We need to get her to the hospital!” Jess is looking around wildly, as if an ambulance might materialize spontaneously.
“I can’t carry her,” I say, panic rising. “My arm—”
“I’ve got her.” Wyatt’s already there, his hand on Natalie’s elbow. “Come on, Nat. Let’s get you into the car.”
“My go bag,” Natalie says, her voice tight. “I need my go bag. Stella, can you grab it? I think it’s in the bedroom. Or maybe it’s still at my old place? I don’t remember if I brought it over—”
“I’ll find it!” Stella’s already running toward the bedroom.
Wyatt and I help Natalie toward the door. She’s walking carefully, one hand pressed to her belly, breathing through what I’m realizing is a contraction.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “We’re going to get you there. You’re okay.”
“I know. I just—oh God, Jake, we just got you home and now—”
“And now we’re going to meet our daughter.” I squeeze her hand with my good one. “It’s perfect timing.”
“It’s terrible timing,” she gasps, but she’s smiling.
Wyatt gets the car door open and helps ease Natalie into the back seat. I climb in beside her, my cast making everything awkward, but I manage to get my good arm around her.
Stella comes sprinting out of the house with a duffel bag. “Got it! It was in the closet!”
She tosses it to Wyatt, who puts it in the trunk.
“We’ll meet you there!” Blair calls, already heading for her own car.
Wyatt slides into the driver’s seat. “Everybody buckled?”
“Yes,” I say. “Go.”
He pulls out of the driveway, and I realize we literally just got home. I was in this car five minutes ago. And now we’re racing to the hospital.
Natalie leans into me, her breathing controlled but tense. “This isn’t how I imagined today going.”
“No?”
“I thought we’d have time. To talk. To settle in. Maybe eat dinner.”
“We can still do all that. After.”
She laughs, then winces. “Another contraction.”
“Time them.” Wyatt says. “How far apart?”
I check my watch. “I don’t know. Five minutes? Six?”
“We’ve got time,” Wyatt calls from the front. “Hospital’s ten minutes away.”
Those ten minutes feel like an hour. Natalie has one more contraction, and she grips my hand tighter.
I talk her through it, keeping my voice steady even though inside I’m terrified and excited and completely overwhelmed.
By the time we pull up to the emergency entrance, Blair and the others are right behind us.
A nurse appears with a wheelchair, and we get Natalie settled. I’m right beside her as they wheel her in, my good hand holding hers.
“Name?” the nurse asks.
“Natalie Cruz.”
“Due date?”
“March 28th. I’m only thirty-six weeks.”
The nurse’s expression sharpens. “Okay, let’s get you upstairs. Dad, you coming?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “I’m coming.”
The labor and delivery room is all white walls and medical equipment and excessively bright lights. Natalie slips into a hospital gown, and as she slides into the bed, nurses get her hooked up to monitors. After a few minutes, the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, steady and strong.
“You’re at four centimeters. Still got a ways to go, but you’re doing great,” the on-call attending physician tells us after a quick examination.
“How long?” Natalie asks. “And can you call Dr. Nelson?”
“Hard to say. Could be a few hours. Could be longer. First babies like to take their time. And Dr. Nelson is on her way.”
When the doctor leaves, the silence only amplifies the beeping monitors and the soundtrack of the baby’s heartbeat. Natalie’s quiet in the bed looking simultaneously terrified and determined, so I pull a chair close and take her hand.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey.”
“Our daughter really wanted to meet me, huh?”
She laughs, a little breathless. “She probably feels how I’m feeling. Like she couldn’t wait another second.”
“I couldn’t either.” I lean forward, careful of my cast, and kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry I wasted so much time being scared when I should have just been with you.”
“We’re together now. That’s all that matters.”
“I love you.” She says it clearly, firmly, like she needs me to hear every syllable. “I love you and I want this life with you. All of it. The house and the baby. I want everything.”
“I want everything too.” I kiss her properly this time, soft and slow, trying to show her what words can’t quite capture. When we pull apart, her eyes are shining. “I’m all in, Nat. Whatever comes next, we’re doing it together.”
“Together,” she agrees.
Then her face twists, her hand gripping mine so tight I think she might break my good wrist too.
“Contraction,” she gasps.
I check the monitor, watch the number climb. “Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’ve got this.”
She breathes through it, her eyes locked on mine, and when it passes, she slumps back against the pillows.
“That one was worse.”
“You’re doing amazing.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You grew a human and are about to push her out. That’s something.”
The hours blur together. Contractions getting closer, stronger. Natalie squeezing my hand until I lose feeling in my fingers. Me talking her through each one, getting her ice chips, adjusting pillows, doing everything I can with one working arm.
Blair and the others come in and out to encourage and distract her. Wyatt gives me a fist bump and tells me I’ve got this. Stella takes approximately eight thousand photos that I’m sure Natalie will hate later.
And then, finally, Dr. Nelson comes in.
“All right, Natalie. Sounds like you’re ready. So unless you’d like an audience, I’d say everyone out except dad, and let’s get this baby out.”
Everything shifts into high gear. Nurses repositioning her, setting up equipment, giving instructions. I watch as Natalie gives everything she has and then…a cry. Sharp and indignant and perfect.
“She’s here!” the doctor announces.
I’m crying. I don’t remember when I started, but tears are streaming down my face as they lift this tiny, screaming creature and place her on Natalie’s chest.
Our daughter. She’s perfect.
Natalie’s sobbing, her hands cradling the baby, and I’m leaning over both of them, my forehead pressed to Natalie’s temple, staring at the miracle we made.
“Hi,” Natalie whispers to her. “Hi, baby girl. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The baby’s cry softens to a whimper, then settles as she feels her mother’s skin, her heartbeat. Her hair is dark and wet, her eyes squeezed shut.
“She’s beautiful,” I manage. “She’s so beautiful.”
A nurse lifts her back up before we get too comfortable and she’s calling me over to cut the cord.
“Do you want to hold her, Dad?” a nurse asks.
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “Yes, please.”
They help me, showing me how to support her head with my good hand, how to cradle her against my chest despite the cast. She’s so small, so light, and yet she feels like the weight of the entire world.
“Hi,” I whisper to her. “I’m your dad. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
She opens her eyes—just a little, just enough for me to see they are a dark blue—and my heart explodes.
“Say hello to your little girl,” the nurse says, smiling.
I look up at Natalie. She’s watching us with tears streaming down her face, her hand reaching out to touch the baby’s tiny foot.
“Hello,” I say to our daughter. “Welcome to the world.”