I’d always been his, even when I bucked against the bounds he used to tie me down. The harder I’d fought him, the more he’d fought back.
What if I just—didn’t?
Ever since he’d sent me that text after my conversation with my brother, I’d thought about answering countless times. I alwaysstopped myself. The fear of losing myself was bigger than my need for him. In that instant, in the breath between contractions, I realized my battle for independence had taken a wrong turn somewhere. I’d pushed my brother away and cut myself off from a support system. I’d ignored Cal’s efforts to reach out, not believing him when he told me he wanted to be there for me.
Until now.
Until there was an IV in my arm pumping synthetic hormones into my body, and the pain was immense, and the only person I wanted was him.
We could find middle ground. We could find a way to make it work. It was my responsibility as much as his. My next contraction rushed at me, and I scrabbled for my phone.
Cal answered before the first ring had ended. “Deena?”
A contraction stole my breath, and I moaned into the microphone.
“DEENA!” I could hear Cal’s voice from the phone I’d dropped on top of the hospital bed, but my hands were gripping the blankets and I had to focus on not keeling over and losing consciousness before the end of the contraction. Fear was a ball in my throat, a pit in my stomach, a constant, sickening sense of dread. I couldn’t do this. I was going to die. Everything had gone horribly wrong, and I was all alone, and this was the end.
I’d read about this in all those fucking books. How fear and pain and panic were intertwined, and I had to do my best to leash the fear in order to master the pain.
What a fucking joke.
The pain receded. I patted the bed until I found my phone. Cal was still yelling.
“I’m in labor,” I panted. “I need you.”
He crashed through the door an indeterminate amount of time later, right when I collapsed to my knees on the hard tile floor. “Deena,” he said, his warm hand landing on the small of my back, where the sensation was most intense. Then his face was there, just next to mine, his eyes wide and terrified.
He was here. I wasn’t alone. Just like that, he was there next to me.
He said something else, but I didn’t hear it. I just grabbed his hand and squeezed it until the contraction receded.
“Pre-eclampsia,” I mumbled, stumbling over the word. “Baby needs to come out.”
Another contraction. Distantly, I heard Cal yell, “Is this normal?” and the nurse reply, “Yes.”
His hands were on my back. He rubbed it, pushed hair off my face, and told me I was strong. He told me I was amazing. He told me I was so perfect and he’d missed me and he was so glad I called. Tears ran down my face. He was the only thing keeping me going. His pale blue eyes. His beautiful lips. That voice I’d missed so much.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when this started.”
“I can’t do it. It’s too much.”
“You can do anything, Deena. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever known. I love you so much.”
I blinked, shocked. Just then, the anesthesiologist came in the door. There was a blur of gowns and swabbing and explanations. More forms. A gigantic needle. Cal crouched on the other side of the bed while the anesthesiologist worked behind me. He held my hands in his much bigger ones, his eyes steadily holding mine. I couldn’t quite believe he was here.
“You’re going to be such an amazing mom,” he whispered.
My hands convulsively squeezed his. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to be a mom.”
“You’re doing it right now. Doing what’s best for our son.”
Tears streamed down my face. Another contraction came over me, and I had to stay still through it because there was a needle in my back. That was hard—but Cal was there, speaking in that low, steady tone, holding me, loving me.
The pain backed off, and I loosened my grip on him. Cal stood, shaking out his legs and flexing his hands.
“Didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said through panted breaths.
“I deserve it,” he said, a small smile on his lips.
