"You scared me." The admission comes out rougher than I intend, but I don't try to soften it. She needs to know.
"I know. I'm sorry." Her hands come up to cover mine, her fingers curling around my wrists. The warmth of her touch seeps into my skin, grounding me in a way nothing else can. "But I'm fine. I just got lightheaded, that's all."
I want to believe her. She's sitting here in front of me, talking and breathing and giving me that look that says she knows exactly how worried I've been. But the echo of fear is still inside me, residue of the past fifteen minutes of anguish when I didn't know what to think. I need more than her reassurances to quiet it completely.
"We're going to the hospital," I tell her. "I want you checked out properly."
Her and the baby both.
"Nick, that's not necessary." Although she doesn't say it, I know she understands how I feel about hospitals. Too many memories of watching my mother's agony while disease slowlytook her away. None of that matters right now. Still, Avery's expression is tender as she frowns and shakes her head. "I can just call Dr. Wilson's office. You don't have to—"
"I'm not taking any chances. Not with you." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, gentling my voice even as the words remain firm. "We're going to the emergency room, and we're not leaving there until I know for certain that everything's okay."
She searches my face for a long moment, and whatever she finds there makes her agree. "Okay. If that's what you need."
"It is." I help her stand, keeping my arm around her waist. She leans into me, even though she seems steady on her feet.
Kelsey holds the door as we pass through the reception area. “I’ll update Gabe, let him know what’s going on.”
“Thanks, Kelsey.”
Outside the fall air is cool, riffling Avery’s hair as I guide her to my BMW. I open the passenger door, then carefully settle her into the seat. When I reach across to fasten her seatbelt, her fingers brush the back of my hand in wordless permission and gratitude. She may be okay outwardly, but that touch tells me she’s glad I’m with her now.
I close her in then round the car and get behind the wheel. Midtown traffic is chaos as usual, but I navigate into the fastest-moving stream of it and head for the hospital.
Avery rests her head back, eyes half-closed. She’s pale and spent, but the pulse at the base of her throat is steady enough that I let myself breathe. I have to believe she’s going to be okay. I won’t let myself consider all the terrible possibilities that ran through my head before I arrived at the atelier. But they’re there, just beneath the surface of my mask of calm.
Her hand settles on my thigh after a few blocks, warm through the fabric of my suit pants. Neither of us speaks. The fear is the same for both of us and naming it won't make it smaller.
Up ahead is the NYU Langone building. I pull up under the ER’s covered awning on First Avenue, angling in parallel between another parked car and an idling ambulance. I cut the engine. Then I'm around to Avery’s side and opening her door before she can reach for the handle herself.
A uniformed security guard moves forward, possibly to tell me I can’t leave my car at the curb. I don’t give him a chance to speak.
“I’m Dominic Baine,” I say, already moving past him. “My fiancée fainted. She’s six weeks pregnant.”
He nods and backs off as the ER doors slide open. Sometimes, my name and all the baggage that comes with it is actually a good thing. I assist Avery inside, holding her elbow in one hand and my other arm wrapped around her waist just to keep her steady if needed.
I walk her past the waiting area with its rows of occupied chairs, past a tech wheeling a monitor down the corridor, straight to the triage nurse behind the intake window. As soon as we arrive there, an orderly appears with a wheelchair for Avery.
“Just for safety, until we get you checked in,” the young man tells her.
I help her into the seat, standing by as the triage nurse gathers Avery’s information. The hospital is busy, but we’re shown to a curtained examination bay minutes later.
Avery sits on the edge of the wheeled ER bed while a nurse wraps the blood pressure cuff around her arm. I take up a position next to the bed, barely resisting the urge to pace the small, harshly lit space. Monitors beep on the other side of the privacy curtain. Antiseptic odors permeate the cool air. A continuous chaos of voices and movement sound from all around us.
Cold, dark memories crowd in, but I push them away. This isn’t about me. The only thing I’m focused on is the womanI love, and the fragile life growing inside her. I feel a warm, light touch on my hand and glance down to find Avery’s fingers threading through mine. Grounding me, even now.
I squeeze her hand gently. “Doing okay?”
She nods, but I see the flicker of uncertainty behind her brave front. “You?”
“I’ll be better once I know you’re all right.”
Her numbers come back low but stable, and the pink is returning to her cheeks. Not the warm flush I know from mornings in our bed, but a hell of an improvement over what I found at the atelier.
The ER doctor is a young woman with a kind smile and a patient demeanor. She listens to Avery describe the fitting, the heat, the lightheadedness. Checks reflexes. Palpates her abdomen with careful pressure. I watch every shift in the doctor's face, looking for anything she's not saying.
The ultrasound tech arrives with a portable unit. Gel on Avery's abdomen, wand pressed flat. Our baby’s heartbeat fills the room. Steady and rapid, the same relentless rhythm we heard in Dr. Wilson's office last week. Still there. Still going strong.
