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I’m two hours from home. From my doctor. From Kit.
I’m two hours from Kit.
My chest feels too tight, like it’s shrinking while my lungs are expanding. If I’m not in labor, I’m certainly having a panic attack.
The door swings open, and a girl texting walks into the restroom. She looks young, probably a freshman or a sophomore, and blanches when she sees me panting next to the sink.
“Professor Tate,” I gasp. “Can you get Professor Gerald Tate? His office is just …” A groan interrupts me. “Down the hall.”
The girl nods and flees.
Another contraction hits, and I double over. I shouldn’t be this in labor, this fast, right? It takes some women hours—days—to give birth. Ireallydon’t want to be one of those human-interest pieces—woman gives birth in an elevator or a restaurant or a parking lot. I want a normal birth that makes a boring story. In a hospital bed, surrounded by sterile equipment and trained medical professionals. And Kit. I really,reallywant Kit.
The bathroom door opens again.
“Collins?” My dad appears.
There’s no sign of the girl. I don’t blame her for fleeing. I wishIcould flee.
“I think I’m in labor,” I blurt.
I wait for my dad to tell me that’s not the case. That it’s too early and too soon and nothing’s happening today.
He doesn’t.
He says, “I’ll drive you to the hospital,” instead.
47
“She’s in labor.” I say it as soon as my dad picks up. Before he has a chance to sayhiorhow are youorhappy Saturday.
This is aterrifyingSaturday.
“What?”
“She’s. In. Labor.” I switch lanes, ignoring the obnoxious honk as the person behind me protests.
“Now? At Manhattan General? Is the doctor there? What are they saying?” My dad fires the questions off rapidly.
“She’s in Connecticut. She went to visit her dad, and I’m—” More honking. “I’m getting there as fast as I can.”
I don’t think there’s a single traffic law I haven’t broken in the ten minutes since I left Flynn’s in a panic. Thank fuck I rarely have Camden drive me on the weekends because there’s no way I could handle his version ofgetting there fast. And the town car’s a lot slower than my Ferrari.
“Are you—fuck. Scarlett! What’s the hospital in Connecticut? Do you need us to bring anything? Should we drive? Is there?—”
“I don’t need you to bring anything, Dad. I need you to tell me what the fuck todoonce I’m there.”
Silence follows. I think the call’s dropped for a second.
“You called me for advice?”
“Yes! I’m freaking the fuck out, and I need to not be freaking out when I get there, so tell me it’s going to be fine.”
“It’s going to be fine, son.” There’s a wobble to my dad’s voice, but it grows steadier as he continues talking. “Just be there for Collins. You’ll be able to tell what she needs. If you can’t, ask. Focus on her. Focus on the moment, on what’s about to happen. You won’t want to forget what it’s like, meeting your child for the first time.”
“What if something goes wrong?”
“It won’t,” my dad says confidently. “Kid’s a Kensington. It’ll come out sturdy. And Collins is tough too.”