“What do you need from me?” I ask, shucking off my coat.
Skye looks up, surprise widening her blue eyes. “S-sawyer?” she stutters, a flush darkening her cheeks. “What are you?—”
I roll my sleeves up. “How far along?”
For a moment, she stares at me in shock, her breaths coming faster. “Not far enough to be an emergency,” she says on a breath, squeezing her eyes shut, groaning. “I’ve got this under control. You don’t need to be here.”
But seeing her in pain makes it all clear in my head: I don’t want to be anywhere else. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines of life anymore. Iwantto do this with her.
Pumping soap into my hands, I shake my head. “I’m not going anywhere, baby girl. I’ve got you. Now, tell me what you want to do. You want me to take you to the hospital? I have your go-bag in the truck. You want to spread out on the bed? We’ll do that. But I’ve got you, okay? I’m here no matter what. I’m yours.”
TEN
SKYE
The moment Sawyer walked out that door, I thought that was it. What a strange thought to even have about a man who technically isn’t mine, who never could be in our current reality. This isn’t a fairytale where the characters get their happily ever after. This is real life, and I am about to give birth to a baby that isn’t his. A baby that’s already been abandoned once by her daddy.
Putting any expectations on Sawyer hadn’t been fair to him, but it’d been so easy to slip into the ease of what a family could look like withhim.
It was wrong, and I know that.
And now, I’m reaping the consequences.
Or I was until he came in like my knight in shining armour and told me everything I wanted to hear.
I can’t help but sob as he washes his hands before stepping up to me. The shower isn’t big enough for the two of us—really only just big enough for me—but he does catch some of the spray from the open shower curtain as he bends to look at me. The last thing I want to do is meet his stare. I’m terrified of what might be waiting for me in those dark, warm eyes. What else can he break of mine that I’m not willing to give him?
But I also can’t help myself from meeting his gaze. “Breathe, love. Just breathe,” he murmurs, gently brushing my hair back from my face. “How far along?”
“Fifteen minutes but dropping quickly,” I reply, easing out of my hunch. “Not close enough for the hospital?—”
“The roads still have snow, but they are being cleared,” he interjects, all matter of fact. “It’s going to take us over thirty to get from here to the hospital. What would you tell a patient with that information?”
I stare at him for a long moment, heart pounding. I’d tell that patient she should have been on the road half an hour ago to give herself time. Labour isn’t linear; it can change just as quickly as the weather, for good or for bad. Doesn’t matter if you’ve had the best pregnancy of your life leading up to D-day, there’s always something that can go wrong. And even though we get told to turn expectant parents away when they aren’t close enough, the weather doesn’t care.
Slowly, I stand, feeling the muscles in my lower back and abdomen contract. “Okay. We have to go.”
Sawyer nods once before wrapping an arm around my back and helping me out of the shower. Somehow, he turns the water off as he does, grabbing the towel hanging behind the door and wrapping it around me.
“I’m going to get you a pair of sweats and a flannel,” he says, running his stare over me. “Dry off. I’ll be back in a second.”
Before he can turn, I take his hand. “How did you know?”
How did he know to come storming in here like a fairytale hero? How did he know I was in labour?
“I noticed you wince,” he replies slowly. “In my gut, something told me I needed to get back here. That something was wrong. And I’m glad I listened to it.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because I promised you I would be by your side for this,” he says, cupping my cheek. “And I might be a broken man, but I would never break my promise to you.” His gaze flickers to my stomach, which cramps uncomfortably. “Or her.”
There’s no point in stopping the tears lodged in my throat. They fall freely, sliding down my cheeks. I barely manage to bite down on a choked sob as he wraps his arms around my trembling body. For a quiet, long moment, he holds me. Draws me in closer and holds me tight to his chest.
“I might not be the best man,” he says quietly, voice so gentle it hurts, “but I think I can be better. For you. For both of you.”
How does he not know that he alreadyisa good man? That he doesn’t need to bebetterbecause he’s already perfect? He isn’t the scary, terrifying beast he thinks he is. He isn’t the broken man he tries to make himself out to be. Sawyer might be quiet, a little reserved, and maybe even broody. But that doesn’t make him bad. It doesn’t make him broken.
I want to say those words but let out a low groan as another contraction grips me instead. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen labour, how many hands I’ve held during the worst of it, how many people I’ve seen push out literal watermelons. It still takes me by surprise how much it actuallyhurts.
