Chapter Thirty-Three
THREE YEARS LATER
Rhys
Kinley squeezes my hand so hard I think she might crush the bones in my fingers. Her face is red and puffy from the pushing, and her hazel eyes are locked on me like she would be happy to torture me slowly - preferably my private parts.
“You’re doing great, baby, you’re almost there.” I push the hair sticking in the sweat off her forehead.
Her teeth are clenched in another push, and her breaths are coming fast and hard through her nose. “Fuck you. I hate you.” She seethes as she growls through the pain, squeezing her eyes closed.
With a smile, I set my cheek against her head and breathe with her before I say, “I know you do, baby.”
When I got up for work this morning, I tried to be quiet to let her sleep as long as possible. She hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in over a month because she’s uncomfortable. It was while I was in the kitchen that I heard her cry my name, panic laced in her tone, and I ran to the bedroom.
She was standing next to the bed, a puddle of water on the floor around her feet.
Oh shit.
Her fears about giving birth and the possibility of getting sick like her mother have been swirling faster in her mind the closer we’ve got to the due date. When she looked up at me, terror was shining in her eyes.
Closing the distance between us in three long strides, I stepped to her side and grabbed her hand. “It’s okay, baby, everything’s going to be fine.”
Her chin wobbled. “You don’t know that.” The statement came out in a cross between a whine and a wail.
Cupping her face between my hands, I kissed her forehead. “Yes, I do. We’ve gone over every possible scenario with your doctor, and we are prepared for everything.”
I know, and she knows, that’s not possible, but I’ll say whatever it takes to help her relax.
“I’m going to be with you every fucking second, I’ll never leave your side. I promise. We’ll get through this together, okay?”
Even though her eyes were filled with tears, she swallowed and nodded her head.
Now, her eyes are filled with pain and anger. Anger directed at me because she’s told me a hundred times in the past month that her discomfort is my fault.
The doctor lifts her head over Kinley’s stomach, from between her legs, only her eyes and ears visible between her beanie and face mask. “Just one more push, Kinley, he’s almost out.”
My heart is beating against my ribs like an inmate trying to escape his bars, but I have to stay calm and make sure my wife is as comfortable as possible.
Turning back to Kinley, I smile and take a deep breath as she mirrors me, her eyes locked on mine for guidance and support even though she’s told me ten times that she hates me. “Push, baby. Our little boy’s almost here.”
Her head bobs as her face contorts in pain, and she growls a long, pitiful moan. In the next moment, relief washes over her face, and she slumps back against the pillow as an angry wail fills the room.
“It’s a boy.” The doctor says, her head is down as she takes clamps from the nurse standing next to her. The hospital room is supposed to be cozy like a bedroom, but the silver table with tools and gauze, and whatever else spread across the top, makes it less cozy.
“Dad, do you want to cut the cord?”
“Yes,” I say as I look at my wife. The hair on my neck is standing up from the pride filling my chest for my wife and for the little life loudly making himself known.
“Go ahead.” She whispers with a nod and lets go of my hand.
A little red, screaming bundle is lifted between Kinley’s legs and they set him on her chest on his side. His head is covered with black hair, and his eyes are squeezed closed. The part of the cord I’m supposed to cut is between two clamps, and I quickly cut the thick white rope.
The nurse throws a blanket over his body, and Kinley quickly wraps her arms across him. With his cheek set against her chest, and the blanket warming him, he stops crying and opens his almost black eyes.
Emotions I’ve never felt before grip my chest as I watch my wife kiss the top of my son’s head. Leaning over her, I press my lips to her forehead before I whisper in her ear. “Good job, baby. He’s beautiful.”
Tears are running down her cheeks as she inspects his face. “I can see both of us in him. He’s got your nose and my lips.”
His little hands are squeezed closed on her chest, and I pick up a little fist, amazed at how small he is.
When I slide my thumb over the back of his tiny knuckles, he opens his hand and closes his fingers around the tip of my index finger.
A rush of love, protectiveness, and pride washes over me, and I have to swallow around the lump in my throat.
I’m a dad.
In my head, my mom’s familiar voice echoes, he’s beautiful, mijo, it’s a voice I haven’t heard in a long time, and I have to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye.
“Sawyer.” Kinley whispers over his head and kisses him again. “Our little Sawyer Abbot.”
I chose the name because Tom Sawyer was one of my favorite books Dad used to read to me when I was a kid. When we found out we were having a boy, Kinley’s only request was that he have a strong, traditional name.
Her eyes flick up to mine, wet with tears. “I love you.”
Leaning into her, with my hand resting on her hand that is covering our son, I press my lips to hers. “I love you, too, baby.”
***
Thank you for reading Kinley & Rhys’s Story!