Chapter 15 #2
"Thought you might need sustenance," he says, keeping his voice low. "Vending Machine Special. Don't ask what's in it."
"You're a lifesaver." I take the coffee gratefully. "How's Tessa holding up?"
"Worried. Pacing. You know, the usual." He glances at Patrice, who's dozed off between contractions. "How's she doing?"
"Slow progress. Dr. Martinez says it's normal, but—" I run a hand through my hair. "It's hard watching her hurt and not being able to do anything."
"You're here. That's something."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
Gage gives me that look—the one that says he's about to drop some profound wisdom whether I want it or not.
"Man, I watched Tessa plan a wedding while worrying about her best friend who was pregnant.
You know what I learned? Sometimes being there is the only thing you can do.
And it's more important than you think."
After he leaves, I unwrap the sandwich. It's questionable at best—some kind of meat situation that I'm choosing not to examine too closely—but I'm starving and it's food, so I eat it while watching Patrice sleep.
She's exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. And still beautiful. Still the woman who makes me want to be better. Who makes everything make sense.
The thought settles deep: I love her. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving it.
If she'll let me.
"Trace?" Her eyes flutter open.
"Right here."
"Did you eat something that smells like sadness and regret?"
The sandwich wrapper. Right. "Vending machine special. Gage brought it."
"That explains so much." She shifts uncomfortably. "Can you help me sit up more?"
The bed adjusts, and she winces. "How's your hand?"
My fingers flex—a little numb but functional. "Still attached. Why?"
"Just checking. I think I might have broken a few bones earlier."
"You didn't."
"Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure I heard crunching."
"That was my masculinity shattering because I can't help with the pain."
She almost smiles. "Your masculinity is fine. Fragile, but fine."
Her expression changes. "Trace, I need to tell you something."
"Okay."
"I love you." The words come out rushed, almost desperate. "I should have said it before. Should have admitted it. But I was scared, and stupid, and I hurt you, and I'm sorry. But I need you to know—I love you. So much it terrifies me."
My throat goes tight. "Patrice—"
"I'm not done." She struggles to sit up more. "I know we can't just—I know there's stuff we need to figure out. But whatever happens with the baby, whatever happens next, I want to try. I want to be with you. If you still want that. If I didn't completely ruin it."
I cup her face in my hands. "You didn't ruin anything. And I want that more than I've ever wanted anything. I love you. I have since the beginning. And I'm not going anywhere. Ever."
She kisses me, and it tastes like tears and coffee and tomorrow.
A contraction interrupts us, and she breaks away with a gasp.
"Okay," she breathes. "We're tabling this conversation until after I'm no longer being torn apart from the inside."
"Fair enough."
Dr. Martinez returns around hour five, does another check, and her eyebrows rise. "Nine centimeters. We're almost there."
"Almost?" Patrice looks ready to cry. "Almost means not yet."
"Soon. I promise."
Twenty minutes later—twenty minutes that feel like twenty hours—Dr. Martinez is back, and this time she's setting up equipment.
"Ten centimeters," she announces. "Patrice, on the next contraction, I want you to push."
"What?" Patrice's eyes go wide. "Now? Already?"
"Now."
"But I'm not ready!"
"Nobody ever is," Dr. Martinez says calmly. "You've got this."
The next contraction builds, and Dr. Martinez coaches Patrice through it. "Big breath in, hold it, and push. Good. Keep going. Just like that."
Patrice pushes, her face going red with effort, and I hold her hand and tell her she's amazing, she's doing great, just a little more.
"I can't," she gasps between pushes.
"You can. You are."
"I hate you right now."
"I know."
"This is all your fault."
"I know that too."
"Good." She pushes again, and this time she screams.
Dr. Martinez looks up with a smile. "I can see the head! Patrice, one more big push!"
"I can't—"
"You can. Come on, one more."
Patrice gathers herself, and with a sound somewhere between a scream and a battle cry, she pushes.
And then—
A cry.
Tiny and angry and absolutely perfect.
"It's a girl!" Dr. Martinez lifts the baby up, and she's so small, so impossibly small, but she's here. She's alive. She's crying.
"Is she okay?" Patrice sobs. "Is she—"
"She's breathing on her own. Good color." Dr. Martinez hands the baby to a waiting nurse. "But because she's premature, we need to get her to the NICU for evaluation."
I catch a glimpse—just a glimpse—of our daughter. Red and wrinkled and furious at the world. Perfect in every way.
The NICU team works quickly, efficiently, and then she's gone, wheeled away in an incubator before I've had time to fully process that she exists.
Patrice is crying, and I'm crying, and I lean down and kiss her, tasting salt and exhaustion and something that might be hope.
"We have a daughter," she whispers.
"We have a daughter," I repeat, testing out the words. They feel surreal. Impossible.
Dr. Martinez is still working—afterbirth, stitches, all the medical aftermath. But all I can focus on is Patrice—exhausted, tear-streaked, beautiful Patrice—and the fact that somewhere down the hall, our daughter is being cared for by people who know what they're doing.
A nurse comes in after a few minutes. "She's in the NICU. She's doing well, all things considered. Breathing on her own, good heart rate. We'll keep her under observation, but so far, everything looks good."
"When can I see her?" Patrice asks.
"Once you're cleaned up and settled, we can take you down in a wheelchair."
It's another hour before that happens. An hour of cleanup and monitoring and me refusing to leave Patrice's side even when they tell me I should probably eat something or at least sit down somewhere that isn't the world's most uncomfortable chair.
Finally, a nurse named Sarah wheels Patrice down to the NICU, and I walk beside them, one hand on Patrice's shoulder.
The NICU is quiet, dimly lit, full of tiny babies in clear boxes hooked up to more wires than I can count. Our daughter is in the far corner, and as we approach, I get my first real look at her.
She's so small. Smaller than I imagined. Her eyes are closed, and she has a feeding tube and monitors, but she's breathing. Her tiny chest rises and falls with perfect rhythm.
"She's perfect," Patrice breathes.
I squeeze her hand. "She's going to be okay. She's a fighter. Like her mom."
Patrice leans her head against my arm, and we stand there—or rather, I stand and she sits in the wheelchair—watching our daughter breathe.
Tiny. Early. Ours.
Everything else, we'll figure out.