Page 38

Chapter Twenty-Eight

January, the last game of the season

I never thought a speech in front of my hometown school board would turn into an Etsy business, but here we are. It’s more Ellie’s business, but since she’s still in junior high, I offered to help with the logistics. I should have anticipated the volume before I said yes.

“I think that’s the last one,” I holler from my mom’s pantry-turned-shirt-storage room. I slide the small box I finished slapping a label on out the doorway and lean my back against the wall, blowing up at the small hairs sticking to my forehead.

“I’m printing out a new list!” My sister’s voice reverberates down the stairs and into the kitchen.

I drop my head and huff out a hard laugh.

A new list. Awesome.

My sister has shipped four-hundred and sixty DO BETTER shirts in the last month. The volume is up for the holidays, which is understandable, but the orders are still going strong now, after New Year’s, and there’s no sign of things letting up anytime soon.

“How are you holding up?”

My mom pops her head into the pantry, twisting the fan I fashioned to the door jamb to keep things cool in here. It might be winter, but I’m the size of a theme park character, so hot is my baseline.

“She’s going to outgrow the pantry at this rate,” I laugh out.

My mom picks up one of the yellow long-sleeved shirts my sister made and holds it up to view.

“I like this one,” she says, turning it around and laying it over her chest. It’s the same slogan with flowers.

“You should keep it. I know the owner,” I joke.

My mom’s eyes crinkle with her smile, and she slings the shirt over her shoulder.

“I think I will.”

My sister’s act of protest turned into a movement among her peers, and the message spread to more youth and then their parents, and now basically everyone who has a phone or TV in their home and has seen the stories.

While I don’t love that the photo of me and Wyatt keeps coming up when people talk about how my sister’s business started, I do admire what Ellie decided to do with the attention.

She’s donating half of everything she makes to a shelter in Southern Arizona that helps women leaving domestic violence circumstances to find work, housing, and healthcare.

My mom is making her put the rest in a savings account.

Ellie protested a little, but I reminded her that I was a pancake waitress for two summers to “build character.”

“Dad’s got the game on. Kick-off is in a few minutes if you want to take a break. I can help her finish this up,” my mom says, holding out a hand to help me up from the ottoman I pushed into the small room to avoid sitting on the floor.

“Thanks,” I say, gripping my mom’s hand tightly as I work my way to a stand. Before I take a single step, though, my abdomen spasms and a lightning rod of pain shoots down the backs of my legs and up into my spine.

“Oh, shit,” I groan, doubling over.

My mom scrambles to brace me as I find my way back to the ottoman, sitting down but keeping my legs out in front of me to stretch out my body.

“Mom,” I gasp, a new wave shooting through me. I cringe and crumple at the same time.

“Reed! Call nine-one-one!” my mom shouts, her hand clutching mine as I hold on to her so I don’t pass out. My dad rushes in then starts dialing the moment he sees me doubled over in pain.

“It’s okay. You might be in labor, Peyt. But it’s okay. You’re okay.”

My mom’s calm voice is normally helpful, but I’m barely thirty-two weeks along. This isn’t the right time. Wyatt is supposed to be home for this. Instead, he’s on a sideline, in Portland. My face burns, and tears blur my vision.

“It hurts, Mom. It hur— ahhhh!” I tuck my chin and squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath as every beat of my heart throbs inside of me.

“Honey, we need to get you out of this room. Not far. But let’s get you out of this room.”

“I can’t,” I plead, shaking my head violently.

“Peyt? What’s wrong?” My sister slips past my mom to my side.

“She’s in labor, El. Help me move the ottoman. The fire department is coming,” my mom says.

“Don’t move me. I can’t move. Don’t . . .” I run out of breath and wince with a new sharp pain. My mom and sister take advantage of this small window and slide the stool, me along with it, out into the kitchen.

“El, get a cool washcloth. Pull one out of the bottom drawer and run it under cold water for a few seconds,” my mom orders.

My sister dashes the long way around the island twice, and the whole scene makes me laugh.

“It’s not funny. I’m scared,” my sister wails, tears running down her cheeks.

I laugh harder, then abruptly stop when fresh pain hits, turning my chuckle into a deep moan.

“Me, too, El. I’m scared too,” I pant out.

“Here,” Ellie says, slapping the wet cloth on my head.

My mom purses her lips and glares at my sister, who holds up her palms.

“What? I got the rag!”

I laugh again, and my mom’s mouth ticks up on one side.

“You guys, this isn’t funny,” Ellie cries. She stomps away but doesn’t go far.

“You promise this is going to be okay?” I say, looking my mom in the eyes, blinking away tears as I gulp breaths of air.

She blots my forehead and cheeks with the cool cloth, and it does feel amazing.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says.

And I believe her, because any other option is madness.

Within minutes, our kitchen is filled with firemen.

I would enjoy this more if I weren’t turning inside out with every contraction that hits me.

One of the paramedics wraps my arm to take my blood pressure while another begins to prep me for an IV.

My dad’s voice comes from the background, and I do my best to call out for him, but it’s getting harder to yell.

“Reed!” I finally bellow out, and he steps into view, his cell phone plastered to the side of his head.

“I’m calling the team now. They’ll get him. He’ll get here. It’s going to be?—”

“Do not say okay!” I shout before roaring with another contraction.

I don’t even remember being moved to the stretcher, but I suddenly find myself being rolled through the house, through the double patio doors in the dining room that are never fully opened, and through the back gate where my dad stores the garbage cans.

Could I seriously not fit through the door?

My mom climbs into the ambulance with me, waving off protests from the medics. My dad has a lot of friends, and when he drops their chief’s name, they relent. I’m glad, because I’m freaking out. I need someone with me who has done this before, and the two male firefighters don’t count.

“Did he get Wyatt?” I ask my mom as they pull the doors shut.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure he will. Your dad is relentless for his little girl.” Her eyes glisten as she runs her hand through my hair.

I glance up as far as I can and realize how awful I must look. I haven’t worn makeup for three days because I haven’t left the house, and this sweatshirt has a spaghetti stain on the front. Plus, the washcloth hair is not doing me any favors.

“I’m hideous,” I whine, and my mom chuckles at my expense.

“You’re beautiful. And you got this.”

I respond with a tiny nod, then focus on the whirl of blue sky and clouds, and the occasional street pole I can see out the back window. We get to the hospital in minutes, and I’m taken to a private room and hooked up to what feels like a thousand monitors the minute they roll me in.

Nothing feels the way the blogs and podcasts suggested it would, but that’s probably because I’m early. Dr. Mazel enters the room as a new cramp takes over my body, and she rests her palm on my swollen belly while I breathe my way through it.

“Looks like someone decided to get to the party early,” she says, and the ease in her tone makes me relax for a moment.

“He wasn’t invited today. Not yet,” I answer while she maneuvers a tray of tools into position and guides one of the nurses to bend a light as she settles on a rolling stool at the base of my bed.

“Lesson number one, Peyton. Your kids don’t care what your plans are,” she says, guiding my feet to the footrests at the end of the bed. The nurse helps me scoot down, and my mom holds my hand up top while my doctor looks at the business downstairs.

“Everything looks good. Peyton, let me know how this feels,” she says, putting pressure on one side of my insides. I grunt from the force, but it isn’t painful.

“Good, and this,” she says, repeating with the same result.

She stands from her seat and holds her gloved hands together.

“I’d like to slow this labor down. I don’t think it would be wise to stop it, but we can normalize things a little, give the baby more time to get fully into position, and maybe give you some time to mentally prepare. How does that sound?”

I glance to my right, where my mom is standing at my side.

She nods.

“Yeah, I would like to do that. Thank you,” I say.

“Okay,” she says, turning to her nurse and the medical assistant and rattling off a series of drug names that I assume are about to pickle me.

A few more waves pass, and my mom holds my hand through them. Things finally ease when one of the nurses pushes something through my IV, and when five whole minutes pass without excruciating pain, I release my death grip on my mom’s hand.

“I’ll find Dad and Ellie. Would you like them to come in?”

I glance down at my body, covered under a blue sheet and a very unflattering open-front gown. I waggle my head but decide I’m modest enough.

“Sure.”

My mom leans over to kiss my head, then heads out of the room, leaving me alone with the nurse who gave me my miracle drugs.

“It’s nice that your family is here,” she says.

“ Mmm , it is. My husband is in Portland. He’s a quarterback for the Cyclones, and it’s game day, so?—”

“Oh, my God, are you dating Chance Hickory?” she squeals.

My expression freezes in place, my brow pinched, and my mouth soured, but I am on the verge of incredulous laughter.

“No. The other guy.”

“Ah,” she says, placating me with a soft smile before moving on to write my stats on the whiteboard on the wall.

“You know, my husband was the one who taught Chance how to roll out of the pocket and throw side-armed,” I say, for some reason feeling a deep need to defend Wyatt’s pro experience.

“Cool,” she says, but in a flippant way.

“It is cool. Wyatt’s still better at it, but Chance is getting there.”

She nods over her shoulder and smiles. I should stop talking.

“He only has a one-year contract, so . . . you know. We’re not sure what next year holds. We have our hands full with this little guy, of course. Anyhow . . .” I sigh, realizing how crazy I sound.

The nurse leaves without another word, and frankly, I wouldn’t be shocked if she begs someone to trade patients.

My dad and sister are a welcome sight. I hold out my hand for Ellie, and she clambers up close, snuggling against my side so I can hug her.

“You were so helpful, Ellie. Thank you.”

She’s still freaked out. I can tell by the way her mouth is shut tight and her gaze darts around the room. The last time she was in a hospital with me was when I was recovering from my spinal surgery. That was a scary time, and she was young.

“Wyatt’s on his way to the airport right now. They got him on a four-thirty flight. Jason is going to pick him up in Tucson. We’ll get him here,” my dad reassures.

I nod, then breathe out nice and slow as a contraction takes hold. I’m grateful not to be feeling the rush of pain like before, but this shit still hurts.

Over the next six hours, in shrinking increments of minutes, I manage to breathe my way through labor and hold off long enough for Wyatt to arrive. I cry the second I see him, and he swoops right into position, running his hand through my hair and kissing my forehead.

“I’m sorry I’m late. You’re doing great,” he says. I grip his shirt in my fist as a new wave hits, and he glances across me to my mom.

“Is this normal?” he asks.

“Quite,” my mom responds.

Dr. Mazel comes, and I introduce her to Wyatt. The Chance Hickory fangirl keeps eyeing him, too, but I don’t introduce them. She might think my husband is hot, but she missed her chance of me letting her into our bubble. She can hope she gets to deliver Chance’s baby someday. Pfff!

The doctor walks Wyatt and me through everything that’s about to happen. Because I’m early, I need a C-section. And because of my condition and the risk of messing with my spine, I’m going under general anesthesia. I’m scared. It’s something I’ve been scared about, worried about.

“Are you ready to meet your baby?” Dr. Mazel asks.

My gaze flashes to Wyatt’s, and rather than reflecting the panic I know is contorting every angle of my face, he’s the epitome of calm. He’s ready.

“We can’t wait,” he says through his warm smile.

He leans over and presses a soft kiss to my lips, then wraps my left hand in both of his.

I hold on tightly for as long as I can, until he must leave and I’m taken down a long hallway for surgery.

I count the lights on the ceiling on the way.

Fourteen. That’s how far away I am from Wyatt. Fourteen lights.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Elev—

“ H i, Mommy,” Wyatt whispers.

His voice sounds miles away, and I cling to the peaceful dream I’m in. The ocean is lapping at my toes, foam tickling the tops of my feet. The water is cold, but the sun feels warm. I’d like to stay here.

“Want to meet our son?” Wyatt says.

He’s closer now, and I remember why I’m here. I blink a few more times, and Wyatt comes into view.

“Hi,” I say in a sleepy voice.

I’m becoming more aware by the minute, and the more my surroundings make sense, the faster the beeping sound is next to me.

“It’s the heart monitor,” a nurse explains. I hope that’s not the Hickory fan. I want a Wyatt fan. I may be a little fuzzy.

The beeping slows and eventually stops. A small bassinet, completely covered in clear hard plastic, is wheeled right to my bedside.

“Let me help you,” Wyatt says, guiding my hand through a sleeved opening so I can reach in and touch my son in his portable incubator.

My head rolls to the side, and my eyes finally focus, and there he is. My perfect little human. The most amazing creature to ever bless this earth. A piece of me and Wyatt, our families, our world.

“He’s perfect,” I say, my fingertips soft as I caress his tiny warm body.

“You can hold him soon. He’s very strong. He just needs to put on a little weight,” a new doctor explains. I don’t recognize her, but I’m guessing she’s our baby’s.

Our baby.

Our boy.

“He needs a name,” I say, turning back to Wyatt in a flash. “We can’t just keep calling him Baby, like Dirty Dancing .”

My husband chuckles.

“I like the one you picked. I think we should go with that,” I say.

Wyatt’s eyes soften, and his smile subdues.

“Are you sure?” he says.

“Positive.”

World, get ready to meet Warner Todd Stone. All four pounds and three ounces of him.