Page 102 of Wish You Would

“Hospital?” she questions with panic in her eyes.

“Yes, hospital, Bee. Just in case. I’m not wasting time.”

She nods, agony sweeping her face as I help her to stand. I sweep her into my arms and carry her out to my truck. Once she’s buckled into the front seat, I run back inside, unbuttoning my dress shirt as I go. As quickly as I can, I change into a T-shirt and joggers before grabbing the hospital bag that we had packed along with her phone andcharger. I turn off the lights and lock the front door realizing the next time we’re here, we might have Slugger with us. The thought sends a shot of adrenaline to my chest.

I throw Briar’s bag in the back of my truck, then I climb in, checking to see how she’s doing. “Briar. You okay?”

“It hurts,” she winces, bent over her stomach. Her right hand grips the handle of the door so tightly that her knuckles are white.

Is this normal? If they’re contractions, don’t they come on gradually? Why is she already in this much pain?

With one hand on the steering wheel, I place my other on her back, reversing out of the driveway as fast as I can. I’m driving up Haven Harbor about 20 miles over the legal limit while I rub circles over Briar’s back.

“We should call the hospital and tell them we’re on the way.” She sits back in the seat, loosening her grasp on the door handle.

These have to be contractions. That’s why she’s getting breaks in between the pain, right? I should be timing them. That’s what I learnt in the prenatal classes we took. I check the time on the dash as I drive through town to Reed Point General.

“It’ll be fine, Bee. There will be a doctor there to help us.”

There would be, right? It’s a hospital. There has to be a doctor available who can deliver a baby. Fuck. I love living in a small town—except for times like these, when I wish we had a big city hospital with tons of staff around to help. But babies are born in Reed Point all the time, I remind myself. They’ll know what to do.

“I thought we’d have two more weeks,” she whispers.

“I know, baby. Maybe Slugger just can’t wait to meet us,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her knee gently. “Bee, don’tworry, okay? We’re almost there. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Shit. Why is this drive taking so long? It never takes more than 15 minutes to drive anywhere in Reed Point but for some reason, it feels like it’s taking 15 years to get to the damn hospital.

“It’s hurting again.” Briar leans forward over her stomach again and I check the time on the dash. Four minutes. It’s been 4 minutes since she had her last contraction.

So, I drive faster, saying more prayers, until the hospital parking lot finally comes into view and I’m parking in front of the hospital doors.

“Holden, you can’t park here.”

“It’s fine. I’ll get someone to move it for me later.” I round the front to get to Briar. Helping her out of the truck, I grab her bag from the backseat and grasp her hand in mine, walking Briar slowly through the hospital doors. The second the receptionist sees us, she’s flying from her chair to bring Briar a wheelchair.

“I think she’s in labor. I timed the pain, she’s at 4 minutes apart.”

“You timed my contractions?” Briar’s voice sounds surprised.

“Of course I did. I read that baby book five times.”

“Let’s get you to see a doctor, honey,” the woman says. “What’s your name?”

“Briar Moore.”

“And you must be Dad. Are you ready?”

“I was born ready.” I fake a grin that I’m not really feeling. Now that we’re here, my hands are shaking.

The woman gives Briar a kind smile then returns herattention to me. “You can follow us through those doors and once she’s in a bed, I’ll get you to fill out some forms.”

She wheels Briar through a set of large automatic doors, past a nurse’s station to a private room. There’s a bed in the center of the room, a plastic bassinet against a wall and a small bathroom with a shower on the opposite side of the room.

“This is where you’ll have your baby,” she explains. “Providing the doctor keeps you here and doesn’t send you home.”

“Send her home? The doctor can’t send her home. Look at the pain she’s in. She can’t—”

“Holden, baby, it’s okay.” Briar interrupts me with her palm on my forearm, trying her best to give a small smile.

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