Page 3 of One Little Mistake

Max

“You’re kidding me?” I choke on my food and start coughing hard.

That’s just what I needed to complete this perfect day.

“Nope.”

The girl shakes her head, completely lost, her face twisted in pain. One hand’s braced against the wall, the other—like always—is rubbing her belly.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” I shoot up from the chair, fumbling around for my phone.

“A cab. Not an ambulance.”

“What do you mean, a cab?”

“I need to get to the hospital.”

“You get to a hospital in an ambulance, not in a damn cab.”

“Should I go pack a bag?”

She looks at me like she’s asking for permission.

I nod like an idiot, trying not to freak out—but all my so-called composure and manly calm goes straight to hell the moment Erin walks back into the kitchen with a small duffel bag in hand and mumbles:

“My water broke.”

“Screw the ambulance. I’ll drive you myself. You’re not giving birth in my house.”

I grab her bag, push her gently toward the door, and rush out without even thinking about grabbing a coat. It’s freezing outside, but the adrenaline has me burning up.

She keeps stopping every few steps, groaning loudly, muttering under her breath, talking to the baby.

It feels like we’re walking to the car for hours.

“Back seat. Get in.”

I open the door for her—and we hit a new problem: Erin just physically can’t get into the damn SUV.

It’s too high off the ground, and I end up practically lifting her inside.

Any other time, I’d probably laugh at how ridiculous this looks. But not now. Not when some random girl’s about to give birth in my car.

Luckily, the roads are empty. I floor it, speeding straight toward the hospital.

I keep checking the rearview mirror, watching Erin.

The way she’s breathing—heavy, shallow—it’s making me feel sick.

God, just let us get there in time.

“Put the phone away already,” I snap, frustrated. “If he wanted to answer, he would’ve picked up by now.”

Because the whole damn ride, all she’s doing is calling someone. Over and over.

“I'm calling the doctor who's supposed to deliver my baby, “ she says in a strained voice. “And his phone is off. “

“It's past midnight. He's probably been asleep for hours.”

“No, he's my relative. Even if I called at two in the morning, he’d come. We had an agreement.” She turns to the window, nervously bites her lips, and lifts the phone to her ear again.

She hisses from the pain a few times, and tears run down her cheeks.

I start to feel anxious, gripping the steering wheel tighter as I follow the GPS.

“We’re here,” I exhale in relief, realizing no one’s giving birth in my car. At least not tonight.

“Help me.” The girl opens the door and looks at me with those piercing eyes.

“I’m coming.”

She struggles to get out of the car, even with my help. At one point, she squeezes my hand so hard I’d bet anything there’ll be bruises there tomorrow.

“Sorry,” she says, looking at me with guilt and pulling her hand back.

I feel sorry for her. She’s about to give birth right after finding out the guy she already thought of as her husband actually left her.

I close my eyes, telling myself that being kind never leads to anything good, but I still can’t bring myself to leave her here in front of the hospital. That wouldn’t be right. Wouldn’t be manly. I grab her bag from the car, take her by the elbow, and head toward the emergency entrance.

The five steps up are hard for her. She clings tightly to my arm, breathing loudly, too loudly, and I start to get scared—she looks way too pale and exhausted.

“She’s in labor!” I shout the moment I push open the door to the maternity ward.

The nurse at the desk looks up instantly.

“Happens every hour here. Let’s all stay calm. Do you have her ID? “

Right then, Erin cries out again, and I feel anger boil inside me toward the medical staff.

“ID? She’s having contractions. Strong ones,” I hiss.

“I’m supposed to be seen by Dr. Sanders. Is he here? Is it his shift tonight?” Erin asks hoarsely.

The nurse frowns and sighs.

“Dr. Sanders was in a car accident this morning. One moment, I’ll call the midwife,” she replies, pressing a call button.

I start pacing nervously, flinching every time Erin screams again. Is it really that bad? She looks too pale, and there’s fear in her eyes that’s starting to creep into me, too. What the hell am I even doing here? I should’ve been fast asleep by now.

“I'm Dr. Collins. I’ll be delivering your baby instead of Dr. Sanders,” says a ridiculously young doctor, who immediately fails to inspire any confidence in me. “Come on in. I’ll examine you.”

He and Erin disappear behind the door, and I’m left standing there in the hallway with her black bag, completely lost on what to do next. In the end, I just decide to sit down on a chair by the wall and wait. But I don’t even get the chance.

That same doctor bursts back out, calling out anxiously, “Lizzy, get a gurney—her water just broke, and she’s already at eight!”

I have no idea what that means, but the look on his face is so worried it makes me even more nervous. Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity around me, and once again, I have no clue what to do. So, when they wheel Erin down the hallway on a gurney, I just follow the whole parade.

“I’m not supposed to have a natural birth. Please, do a C-section,” she begs through tears.

“It’s too late for that. The baby’s already on the way.”

“What’s going on?” I cut in.

“Don’t worry so much. Half of our patients come in with some kind of complication, but they still give birth naturally and everything turns out fine,” the nurse says, trying to reassure Erin. Then she turns to me.

“Are you here for a partner delivery? Follow Ellie, she’ll get you a gown, shoe covers, and a mask.”

“No, no, no, no partner delivery, I’m not—”

“So when it comes to making the baby, you men are all front and center,” she snaps, “but when it’s time to support your wife—you vanish into the bushes.

Fine, then wait outside the delivery room.

But you’re still putting on the gown and shoe covers.

At least this one’s sober—earlier today we had a dad who started celebrating before the baby was even born. ”

Long story short—I have no idea how it happened, but instead of going home with a clear conscience, I end up sitting in a hallway in a ridiculous white gown that doesn’t fit me at all, flinching every time a gut-wrenching scream comes from behind the door across from me.

I’m not feeling great about any of this.

At some point, I catch myself thinking, What the hell am I even doing here?

I almost get up to leave—but the women’s bag in my hand stops me. I can’t just leave it here.

I pace the hallway, still gripping the bag like it owes me something. Then suddenly everything gets suspiciously quiet, and the next second, a sharp, high-pitched baby cry cuts through the silence. I exhale in relief. It’s over.

“Congratulations, Daddy. You’ve got a son,” a woman appears in the doorway and drops the bomb on me.

Wonderful. Just became a “dad.”

“Thanks, but I’m not—”

I want to say I’m not the father and that this is all some huge mistake, but before I can get the words out, the doctor’s loud, panicked voice drowns me out:

“Miss Carol, get the resuscitator. Now. Cardiac arrest!”

“Is… is that supposed to happen?” I ask weakly, calling after the same nurse who just congratulated me on fatherhood—but no one answers me anymore.