“I’m not in labor,” I insist. “My contractions are way too far apart, and in no way consistent.”
“You’ve been tracking?”
“Yes.” It’s not a complete lie.
“Gabi…”
“I swear I’m fine, Shelby. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up if anything changes.”
I feel the bed move as Shelby lays down next to me. “I’m not going to sleep.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Please, one of us should get some rest.”
“Do I need to text Maddox?”
“Absolutely not,” I insist. “I promise you if my contractions get closer, we can text him. But right now, the closest one was twenty minutes apart. That’s not labor. I’m sure this is going to pass.”
Shelby gives me a heavy side eye. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Now get some sleep.”
9:14 a.m. CT / 6:14 a.m. PT
“Fuck me!”
And not in the good way. Then again, “fuck me” is how I’m in this situation.
“Gabi.”
Shelby’s stern voice has me looking up from my spot that I’ve created on the medicine ball, my arms gripping onto the bathroom counter.
“Yes?”
“Can I text him now?”
“No. It’s four a.m. in California. Plus, I’m not in labor.”
“You’re not?”
“No,” I say, tossing my phone to her. “I looked it up.”
She takes my phone and reads it, but I don’t think she’s believing my highly vetted baby blog source. “At what point are you in labor? Because this sure as shit looks like labor.”
“When my contractions are consistently less than ten minutes apart, and even closer to six minutes. Or my water breaks. Neither of which are happening.”
Shelby gives me a side eye. “And you’re going to tell me when you’re there?”
“Yes. I’m going to tell you.”
“And you’re going to let me text Maddox.”
I let out another groan. Hopefully she thinks it’s because she’s annoying me. “And then I’ll let you text Maddox.”
12:02 p.m. CT / 10:02 a.m. PT
“Why are you not at the hospital?”
I look up from my odd positioning half on the bed, half on the medicine ball, to see Beau storming into my bedroom. “Hey big brother. What brings you by?”
