It didn’t take me long to figure out that he was going to be an amazing husband. Once we managed to put all our issues behind us and move forward, he threw himself into it with gusto. I was a little nervous about how he’d do with a baby, but I needn’t have been. He’s exceeded my expectations and then some. He can be so gentle, yet so playful. He’s every little girl’s dream daddy, I’m sure. He would’ve been mine, for sure.
My own father has come around quite a bit since the birth of our daughter. It’s like he realized he was being given a second chance to make different choices and set different priorities, and he did. He and Mom come to visit at least once a month and stay for a week. It’s not Tag’s favorite week, but they get along a lot better now that there’s no room for a hostile takeover in their relationship. The merger of a part of each of their companies worked out better than anyone could’ve anticipated. Dad’s money is safe. Growing, in fact. And Tag’s is, too. Not that he cares as much about it as my father does his. It’s nice to have a fortune, but our life is pretty simple. We’re happy spending our time here at Chiara, with each other and with our child. And soon, there will be another little laugh to add to the mix.
As if in agreement, I feel a tight squeeze low in my abdomen. It steals my breath for a second. I breathe through it, thinking that it’s just a Braxton Hicks contraction. I realize that it might be more than that, however, when five minutes later another one seizes my uterus. And another one five minutes after that.
“Uh, babe?” I call out to Tag when the third one eases.
He glances over at me, his face still wreathed in a gorgeous smile. “Beautiful?”
“I think you might need to cut the swimming short and call my parents.” I do my best to get out of the lounger gracefully, but I know it’s no use. At this point, the best I can do is lumber.
When I straighten, I see Tag’s smile fade. He stills, his long fingers unmoving where they’re wrapped around Willow’s waist as he was preparing to pick her up and throw her. “What’s wrong?”
“Whassa matter, Mommy?” Willow chimes in, her tiny hands resting over her father’s much larger, much tanner ones.
“I could be mistaken, but I think we might be making a trip to the hospital.”
With lightning speed that one wouldn’t expect from a man as big as my husband, Tag hauls himself and our daughter out of the pool. He runs, dripping wet, a giggling child in his arms, over to me to help.
“Don’t worry about me yet. I’m fine. Go get some dry clothes on both of you and bring my suitcase to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
“You got it, Mrs. Barton.”
They disappear in a swirl of excited whispers that include something about momma and a baby brother. I smile as I waddle my way across the patio and out to the garage. I have to pause twice, once to catch my breath and once until a contraction passes. This one seemed like it might be less than five minutes from the last one. Quite a bit less.
“Better hurry,” I call out to no one in particular. My labor with Willow was brutal, but surprisingly short, especially for a first child. I can only imagine how quickly our son might get here once he gets started.
I press the button to open the garage door. The cool interior air brings attention to the wetness between my legs. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” I whisper, rarely ever using that kind of language now that little ears hear every word we say. And often repeat them.
Another contraction hits and I cry out. That can’t have been more than two minutes at the most. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!
Sweat breaks out across my upper lip and a sense of panic starts to erupt in my chest. If this is real labor, which it seems to be because it’s escalating, we won’t have time to make it down the mountain.
My mind races as I run through my options, wishing I’d listened to Tag about staying in Atlanta for the last month of my pregnancy. I wanted to be here, though. Our home. And Willow loves it here so much. Just like I did when I was her age. I didn’t think it would be a problem, but what if I am in labor? What if I can’t make it down the mountain? What if I’ve risked the safety of our son?
The thought is agonizing. It brings with it a searing pain to my heart. Behind my eyes, too, as tears rush in.
I hear the scuffle of feet behind me seconds before I feel Tag’s hand at my lower back.
“You coming? Or are we going without you?” he teases. When I turn to face him, his expression falls and turns to one of alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t think I’m going to make it down the mountain,” I say in a trembling voice, all the while silently praying that God protect my baby from my own stupidity.
“Wh-what do we do?” he asks, his words hushed, his eyes full of fear.
“Let’s go back into the house. We can do this. Right?” When the color leaves his face, I prompt, “Right?”
“Yes. Yes!” he replies, his second response more certain that the first. He sets Willow on her feet. “Walk behind us, cricket. I’m gonna carry Momma.”
That’s the only warning I get before he sweeps me off my feet and walks briskly back to the house. He takes the front steps two at a time, pausing to look back for Willow, who is running as fast as her little legs will carry her. Tag starts toward the stairs, but I stop him.