"Service elevator," I say, grabbing the bag. "Then the parking garage."
"I remember the plan."
"I know. I'm just—"
"Being nervous. I know." Jamie takes my hand as we step into the hallway. "Me too."
The service elevator is around the corner, past the regular elevator banks. It opens the moment I press the button. We step inside, and the doors close on the quiet hallway.
Jamie leans against the wall, breathing slowly. Another contraction, I realize. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his hand presses against his belly. I want to do something, fix something, but there's nothing to fix. This is just what labor looks like.
"Talk to me," he says through gritted teeth. "Distract me."
"What do you want me to talk about?"
"Anything. Tell me about the first time you came to this building. Why you bought the penthouse."
It's not a story I've told him before. It's not a story I've told anyone. But he needs distraction, and I need something to focus on besides my own spiraling anxiety.
"I was twenty-six," I say. "Fresh out of law school, just starting at the firm my father picked for me. I was supposed to be looking for a sensible apartment in a sensible neighborhood. Instead, I walked into this building, took one look at the view from the top floor, and wrote a check for the down payment on the spot." I see the look he gives me. “Yes, I know I’m lucky to have that kind of money at twenty-six. I still love the apartment.”
"Rebellious."
"It didn't feel rebellious at the time. It felt like the first decision I'd ever made for myself." The elevator dings, and the doors open onto the parking garage. "My father was furious. Said I was being impractical, that the money could have been better invested. But I didn't care. I needed something that was mine."
We cross the garage to the car. It’s a black sedan with tinted windows, deliberately nondescript. I help Jamie into the passenger seat, tuck the bag in the back, and slide behind the wheel.
"And now?" Jamie asks as I start the engine.
"Now it's just a place I sleep." I pull out of the parking spot, navigating toward the exit. "I meant what I said at the cabin. I want somewhere that's ours. This was mine. The next place will be different."
"You're very sentimental for a politician."
"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my image."
The garage exit opens onto a side street, away from the main entrance where the photographers wait. I turn left, heading for the route we've planned.
The city is quiet at this hour. Streetlights blur past, yellow smears in the darkness. Jamie is silent beside me, focused inward, his breath coming in careful measured counts.
"How are you doing?" I ask.
"Fantastic. Never better." He shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. "How far is it?"
"Twenty minutes. Maybe less, with no traffic."
"I can do twenty minutes."
He says it like he's trying to convince himself. I reach over, find his hand in the darkness, and hold on.
The clinic is in a quiet neighborhood, a converted brownstone that looks like a private residence from the outside.
I pull into the small lot behind the building. There's a back entrance, unmarked, with a security camera and a keypad. I punch in the code we were given, and the door clicks open.
Inside, a nurse is waiting. She takes one look at Jamie—hunched over, gripping my arm, clearly in the middle of a contraction—and shifts into motion.
"Mr. Dean? I'm Sarah. Let's get you into a room."
Jamie nods, unable to speak. I keep hold of his arm as we follow Sarah down a quiet hallway, past doors with small nameplates, into a room that looks more like a hotel suite than a hospital. There's a bed, but also a couch, comfortable chairs, soft lighting. A window looks out onto a small garden, invisible now in the darkness.
