I can’t sleep.
My mind is occupied with thoughts of my father. He’s gone now, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. But it still fucking sucks. Beside me, Lennon is restless. I’m not sure if she’s actually sleeping, but if she is, it can’t be good sleep. She has her body wrapped around a pillow, holding on to it for dear life.
She goes to roll over, her eyes cracking open slightly. Seeing me awake, she opens them fully. “Hey.” She rubs her eyes groggily. “You’re not sleeping.” There’s an accusation in her tone.
“Thinking about my dad.”
She frowns, then sits up and scoots closer to me. She doesn’t say she’s sorry, which I’m thankful for. Looping her arm through mine, she leans her head on my shoulder. Sometimes nothing at all needs to be said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I answer automatically. Hesitating, I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. “Yes. I think I should, at least.”
Sitting up, she rests her cheek on my shoulder. “I’m listening.”
“It’s just that . . . he’s gone. Truly gone. I’ll never have a chance to tell him how much he meant to me, and I should have done that. I don’t know why I didn’t. I’ve always been bad at that. Keeping my feelings to myself.”
She rubs my arm soothingly. “Sometimes it’s hard to say the things we mean. Words can be scary.”
It’s such a simple way to put it, but she’s right. Words are terrifying. Once you say them, put them out there, you can never take them back.
But some things should be spoken and not kept like a closely guarded secret.
I brush my lips over hers and speak into existence the words that I’ve been struggling with for months. “I love you.”
Surprise fills her eyes, a tiny gasp falling from her lips. I want her to say it back, of course I do; I want her feelings for me to be as strong as mine are for her.
But Lennon never does anything I expect. “You do?”
I laugh, cupping her cheek. “Yeah, I do.”
“That’s cool.” I laugh harder at that response. “Because I love you too.”
Now it’s my turn. “You do?”
“Yeah.” She grins goofily. “I do.” She pulls my head down so our lips meet in a kiss.
I think my dad, wherever he is, would be proud of me. I hate that it’s taken getting that call to have this realization, but sometimes we all need that thing that wakes us up from the box we’ve put ourselves in.
For the longest time I didn’t think I was good enough for this—for love, a family—but we’re all worthy of the things we want, and Lennon is the thing I want most in this world.
I manage to scrape by with a few hours of sleep—three tops—and finally get out of bed at seven to make breakfast. The cats devour their food, then circle between my legs begging for more.
I plate up the scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon and call for Lennon, since I heard her stirring in the bathroom.
I’m surprised I even feel like eating. Getting that phone call last night was expected but rough. My mind has been spinning ever since.
Life is scarily short, and anything can happen, and loving someone can lead to unimaginable pain but a joy that is unlike anything else. I’m angry at myself for holding back from the people I care about, for not giving them every last piece of me that they deserve. All this time I should have been telling them how I feel.
Lennon strolls into the kitchen, looking paler than her normal golden complexion, instantly putting me on alert. She slides the chair out, plopping in front of me.
“Are you okay?” My eyes dance over her face: her eyes are dilated, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat above her brow.
“Mmm,” she hums, wiggling uncomfortably in the chair. “But I need you to time my contractions.”
Silence settles between us, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth. “What did you say?”
“My contractions.” She bites into a strip of bacon. “Time them.” She wiggles her pointer finger at my phone sitting on the table.
“You’re in labor?”
“Pretty sure. It could be Braxton Hicks.”
“Braxton who?” I recall reading about those, but now that she’s telling me she believes she’s in labor, it’s like my brain is leaking out all the information it has stored away on pregnancy and birth.
“The fake kind of contractions. Now start timing—I just had one.” She taps impatiently at the table for me to pick up my phone.
“Are you sure you should eat?”
Her eyes widen like I’ve hurled a massive insult at her. “I’m eating before we go to the hospital. You know why? Because hospitals starve mothers before birth, and I need my strength if I’m going to have to push a whole-ass human out of my vagina. And chances are, since this child is half yours, that their head will be huge.”
“I think I should be insulted.”
“I can’t help it. I’m mean when I’m in pain.”
I start the timer on my phone, letting it go until she tells me she’s having another contraction. “Twelve minutes and forty-four seconds.”
“They’re getting closer together.”
“Do we need to get to the hospital?” My panic is rising. I’m ready to drag her to the car and speed there if need be. In my mind, the baby is coming right this second.
“No,” she laughs. I’m panicking and she’s laughing. I might need a drink to get through this. “I’m going to call Dr. Hersh and see what she says. Since this is my first baby, it’s probably too soon to go in.”
“Jesus.” I rub my hands over my face, stubble rasping against my palms. “When do you go in? When they’re three minutes apart?”
“Probably six, I think.”
“This is stressing me out.”
She finishes her breakfast before pushing her plate away. “I’ll call the doctor, and we’ll go from there.”
“Okay.” I tug at my hair. “The doctor. Right.”
Is this what a panic attack feels like?
She’s the one having the kid. I need to keep my cool and be strong for her.
Cheddar rubs himself against my leg, and George Sanderson hops up into the chair Lennon just vacated. George seems to be judging me for my internal meltdown, while Cheddar is trying to comfort me.
“Beckham?”
I nearly fall out of the chair, on instant alert. “What?”
“Do you have a bag packed for the hospital?”
I abandon our plates in the sink to come back and wash later, then find Lennon in the nursery, riffling through the baby bag.
“Should I have something packed?”
She pauses her ministrations. “Uh . . . yeah.”
“Fuck,” I curse. “How much do I need?”
“I don’t know.” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “In case you need the reminder, I’ve never had a baby before. Pack some clothes and your pillow if you want it.”
“Do we need to go to the hospital? Like right now?”
She sighs, frustrated with me, or maybe that’s just the pain. “No. Dr. Hersh wants me to wait a bit longer to see if the contractions get closer together or stop. She said it’s very likely they won’t continue and not to get my hopes up, but we should be ready to go just in case.”
“Right.” I tap my fingers against the doorframe. “I’ll pack some things and call the cat sitter so she’s on standby.”
And try to get myself together, because I need to be strong right now. Lennon needs to know she can lean on me if she needs me, not that I’ll crumble at the first sign of stress.
I shove a few shirts and pants into a duffel bag, as well as my phone charger, camera, batteries for my camera, and my laptop. Hopefully I’m not forgetting anything important. The call to the girl who checks on Cheddar for me—and now George Sanderson—goes well, and she’s thankfully okay with being put on standby.
When I come out of the bedroom, I find Lennon on the couch, eyes closed, and taking deep breaths in through her nose, out through her mouth.
“How are you feeling?” I pace around awkwardly, not sure what to do with my hands, my legs, anything.
She cracks one eye open. “It’s like bad period cramps.”
“I don’t know what that feels like.”
“It hurts like a bitch, that’s what it feels like.”
I start timing her contractions again, and it’s slow going, but two hours later they’re close enough together that her doctor says it’s time to come in.
I feel completely bewildered. I knew this day was coming, but there’s a vast difference in knowing it and experiencing it. I’m not sure I’m ready for this—to watch Lennon go through this kind of pain.
But I have no choice.
This is happening.
