It wasn’t planned. Or graceful. Or remotely believable asnotan accident.
We both froze.
His eyes widened, mine darted anywhere but at him, and for one long, echoing second, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.
Then I did the only thing I could do—pretend I wasn’t on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I straightened, gave an awkward little nod, and walked out before either of us could say something that would make it worse.
As I hurried down the hallway toward the delivery floor, my brain finally decided to catch up with what had just happened.
Great, I thought bitterly,just wasted my second first cheek kiss on him.
Was there a limit to how many first cheek kisses a girl got? Like some cosmic punch card where, after three, the universe started charging interest?
I pressed the button and exhaled, the memory replaying in excruciating slow motion—the graceless lean, the half hug, the ridiculous collision.
And then there was the part that really bothered me.
Why were his cheeks so soft?
I stepped into the elevator and skimmed my fingertips over my tingling lips, glaring at my reflection in the metal doors as if it could explain things. Of course, Mr. Rude-and-Stubborn-and-Emotionally-Unavailable wore moisturizer. Probably the expensive kind that came in a jar with a French name and promises of eternal youth.
The scream reached me before the door did, shattering my frivolous thoughts. Jennie Thompson’s panicked voice carried down the hall like a warning siren. By the time I burst into her room, the place was chaos. Machines blared in overlapping rhythms, nurses hurried between drawers and IV poles, the air heavy with adrenaline.
“Her contractions are one minute apart,” a nurse called over the noise, sweat shining along her temple.
Jennie was gripping the rails of the bed, knuckles bone-white, her hair plastered to her forehead. “It’s too early,” shesobbed, chest heaving. “They can’t come out now—they’re not ready.”
Before I could reach her, her husband rounded on me. “What took you so long?” he snapped, his face flushed, his voice thick with accusation.
I didn’t bother looking at him. “I got paged two minutes ago,” I said evenly, pulling on gloves. “Let’s focus on your wife.” I moved to Jennie’s side and took her hand. “Jennie, I’m here, okay? We’re going to take care of you.” I glanced at the fetal monitor—two heart rates flickering across the screen, one slightly more erratic than the other.
“Alright,” I murmured, more to myself than to her. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
I performed a careful cervical exam. Her cervix was fully effaced and dilated to almost eight centimeters—too fast. And then I felt the unmistakable sign of trouble: the first twin was breech, feet presenting instead of the head, and the second twin was transverse, lying sideways.
My stomach dropped.
“Okay,” I said softly, but with a steadiness I didn’t quite feel. “Jennie, you’re doing amazing, but I need you to take some slow breaths for me. We’re going to have to move you to the OR for an emergency C-section. The babies’ positions aren’t safe for a vaginal delivery.”
Her eyes went wide, wet with tears. “No, no, I can’t—I can’t have surgery—”
“You can,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze. “And you will, because that’s how we’re going to keep you and your babies safe.”
Her husband muttered something under his breath—something about howthis wouldn’t be happening if they had a real doctor—but I ignored it. He was just noise, background static.
“Betsy,” I said. “Let’s prep for a Category 1 C-section. Notify anesthesia and the NICU—these twins are thirty weeks; we’ll need the incubators ready.”
Within seconds, the team was disconnecting monitors, switching IV lines, rolling the bed toward the door.
Jennie’s hand clutched mine again, trembling. “Promise me they’ll be okay,” she whispered.
I squeezed back. “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to make sure they are.”
And then we were running down the corridor, past the waiting families and vending machines, toward the bright, sterile walls of the operating room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THERE WAS BLOOD EVERYWHERE.
