I swallow down my groan as I see my phone light up on the nightstand.
Maddox
Everything okay?
Did the man already install the baby monitor in here? I wouldn’t put it past him.
Gabi
I’m fine.
Please don’t call me out on it… please don’t call me out on it…
But you’re answering a text at three in the morning?
And you’re texting me at one a.m. your time.
I couldn’t sleep. Worried about you.
You’re sweet, but I assure you, I’m fine.
I’m not giving the order to gas up the plane?
Stand down. I’ll send you the signal.
Gabi, we’re really bad at coming up with code words and signals.
It’ll be easy. I’ll send “GET ON THE FUCKING PLANE.”
Clear and to the point. I like it.
Get some sleep. You have to play football tomorrow.
Technically it’s later today.
Semantics. Go to bed Maddox.
Only if you’re sure you’re okay.
I’m fine. I love you.
Love you too.
I set my phone down and promptly turn my head back into the pillow. It’s not a contraction but fuck… something is going on with my body.
But I’m not in labor. And that’s what matters.
5:58 a.m. CT / 3:58 a.m. PT
“Gabi?”
I’ve been trying for hours not to wake up Shelby. Around 4:30, I moved into a spare bedroom so I could moan without alerting her that anything was wrong.
Apparently, that didn’t work so well.
“Go back to sleep,” I say, though my voice is gritty as I fight off a contraction. But it’s fine. My last one was maybe six minutes ago? Sixteen? Fifty-six? Who knows at this point, because really, what is time?
“Are you in labor?”
