“Then they can follow us to the hospital.”
“It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just strong Braxton Hicks.”
“Then the hospital will tell us that and we’ll go home.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “But if it’s not nothing, if he’s trying to come at thirty-two weeks...”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. I was already there, already in the worst-case scenario, imagining Alex in a NICU incubator with tubes and monitors and his tiny chest struggling to breathe. I pressed both hands against my belly like I could hold him in by force.
He ran a yellow light. I would have fought him about it but another contraction crested, my teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut against the pressure, one hand on the door handle, the other crushing his arm. When it passed I was panting and there were tears on my cheeks that I didn’t remember crying.
“We’re almost there,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. “Two minutes.”
“He can’t come yet. He’s not ready.”
“He’s not coming. He’s not.”
Neither of us believed that. We were both just saying it because the alternative was too terrifying to sit with in a car going twenty over the speed limit.
He carried me in. I told him I could walk. He ignored me. A nurse directed us to a room where he set me on the bed like I was made of glass. I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn’t fragile but another contraction hit, my hand crushing his, knuckles aching, and the only thought in my head was please, please, it’s too early, he’s not done, give him more time.
The doctor came, examined me, hooked up the monitors. I watched the lines on the screen tracking the contractions, the peaks and valleys, while Alex’s heartbeat filled the room through the speaker, a fast rhythmic whooshing that sounded like a tiny drum. My whole body was rigid, waiting for the doctor to say something terrible. Another contraction tightened across my belly while we waited and I gripped the bed rail and breathed through it.
“Braxton Hicks,” the doctor said after twenty minutes. “Strong ones, but not labor. No dilation. The baby’s vitals are perfect.”
I closed my eyes. The relief hit me so hard a sob came out of my mouth, half laugh, half cry. Not labor. Alex was staying.
“They might continue for a while,” the doctor said. “But they’re not dangerous. Try to rest.”
She left. Another contraction rolled through, duller now that I knew it wasn’t the real thing, but still enough to make me clench my jaw. “Shit,” I muttered, breathing through it. “Even the fake ones hurt like hell.”
Finneas was in the chair beside my bed. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands pressed flat against his face. His shoulders were rigid. He wasn’t looking at me.
“Hey,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“Finneas. Hey. I’m okay. The baby’s okay.”
He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. His jaw was locked so tight the muscle was jumping and his hands were shaking in his lap. I stared at them because I’d never seen that before. Finneas’s hands didn’t shake. They gripped armrests, crushed pens, held me upright when I couldn’t stand. They carried me through hallways and drove through yellow lights and pressed against my belly every night like a promise.
They were shaking now.
“I thought...” he started, and his voice cracked and he stopped.
My chest split open. He’d held it together. Every second of it, from the moment he came through that door and saw me on the floor, through carrying me, driving, walking into the hospital, standing beside the bed while the doctor examined me. He held it all together because I needed him to, and now the doctor had said we were safe and he was falling apart in a plastic chair.
“I know,” I said softly.
“If something had happened to you. If something happened to him...”
“Nothing happened. We’re here. We’re fine.”
He reached for my hand. I gave it to him. He held it with both of his and pressed it against his forehead and I could feel him trembling through his palms. The aftershock of the fear he’d been swallowing since my phone call, coming out now in waves through his hands.
I watched him. This man who ran a kingdom, who commanded Alphas, who stood in front of councils and gave orders that shaped hundreds of lives. Undone in a hospital chair because the idea of losing me, of losing our son, broke something in him that pack politics couldn’t touch.
This was who he was. Not the King, not the CEO. This.
“I forgive you,” I said.
