CHAPTER53
ZEKE
MARCH
I stand at the edge of a bed, watching the woman I love be slowly consumed by the intensifying labour pains. I’m in awe as I watch her conquer it every time.
It’s just Ronnie and me in here with her, taking turns at her bedside for hours and hours. Exhaustion claws at me, and I come dangerously close to snapping at the doctor the sixth time he comes in to check her, saying in that calm, smooth voice, “Almost, Nova. We’re almost there.”
We were almost there ten fucking hours ago, too.
My phone is jacked up, buzzing in my pocket every few minutes with what I’m assuming are messages from my family. I still haven’t seen them since I got shot because none of them could afford to fly here, and I threatened to withhold sex from Nova if she paid for any plane tickets. She apparently likes sex enough to drop the offer.
There isn’t enough caffeine in the world to get me through any more hours of this, but the nurses keep reassuring us. Every time Nova breaks down, that’s my cue to step up. To pep talk her, remind her of what she is, keep her going.
“Hey,” I say, getting in her line of sight, peeling the sweat and tear-soaked hair from her cheeks. “You can do this.”
“I can’t,” she cries. “I can’t.”
I shake my head, lighting up like these moments are what I was built for. “You will. Babe, you’re amazing. Look at me. Do it with me, okay? You’re fucking amazing, Nova.”
She locks her eyes with mine, and I breathe with her, which I need to do because she’s crushing the bones in my hands to dust.
The nurse in the room puts a hand on my shoulder. “Okay, let’s check you out here, Nova.”
Nova settles in, moving her feet into the stirrups, and the nurse ducks under her gown. When she looks at us, there’s a huge smile on her face.
“He’s ready.” She leans back and signals another nurse, who picks up the phone in the room—to call the doctor, I assume.
My gut drops, my breathing speeds up, and panic begins to clutch at my thoughts, turning them and twisting them into all the things I’ve managed to keep out over the last sixteen hours. This is it.
I’m going to be a dad.
Insecurities swirl through me, and Ronnie steps up beside me. “Remember to breathe, Zeke,” she says, and I snap back to the moment, pulling in a shaking breath, overcome with emotions so intense I feel like I’ve disassociated from my body. I feel like a stranger in the room, watching a man I don’t know perform a task I could never fathom.
Because it’s all so automatic. Going to her. Gripping her hand in mine. Listening to the doctor when he tells me to brace her leg. Making eye contact with the woman I love, bringing life into this world. This fierce, determined, warrior of a woman switches instantly into a powerhouse when the doctor tells her to push.
My ears ring. I see her mouth move. I hear the echo of Ronnie’s encouraging words. I feel my own mouth form words, but it’s so far away. An elastic band pulls me further and further from the moment until a single sound snaps the elastic, and I whip back into the moment.
The cry of a baby, so crisp and loud. The moment I see him, time slows down. The world around me goes fuzzy, and I crush my eyes shut so I don’t pass out.
“Want to cut the cord, Daddy?” The nurse holds out a pair of scissors to me, and I blink at them for a moment before it all comes into focus. In a haze, I cut where they tell me to, and in seconds, this tiny human is placed on Nova’s chest, and his wailing stops almost immediately.
Shock roots me to my spot, staring at them. I’m paralyzed by my emotions and the sight of the entire thing. It’s gruesome, and messy, and so fucking magical.
Ronnie is the one who urges me forward, and tentatively, I lean down to Nova and kiss her forehead like I have a thousand times.
“You made a person,” I say, looking from him to her, and she smiles weakly.
“You helped,” she teases me, exhaustion in her voice. I choke on a laugh that ends up a sob as the moment overwhelms me.
“Do you want to hold him?” The nurse asks and gestures to the chair by the bed. I sink into the seat, terror zipping along with everything else.
She wraps the baby in a blanket and brings him to me. I’m not sure I’ve ever held a baby in my entire life, but he fits right in the crook of my arm. Like a little football. I stare at him, tears blurring my eyes, studying every single bit of his tiny, wrinkly, purple-tinged body.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, just like I’ve been speaking to Nova’s belly for months. The sound of my voice startles him, and his unfocused eyes dart around like he knows me. He recognizes the sound—his daddy’s voice.
I tuck him up and bury my face in the blanket and sob.
The nurses and doctor tend to Nova, finishing up with her care, and eventually, I look up. My head pounds from years of emotion that poured through me.
She watches me, tears dripping from her nose, and I stand, taking our baby to her.
“Isn’t he perfect,” she says, shifting over slightly so she can hold him and I can sit next to her on the bed. She rests against me, me comforting her, her cradling him.
He’s perfect. So is she.
The whole damn thing, every bit of it, in this moment.
It’s all perfect.