Page 73 of Where the Roses Bloom
“Everything okay?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
“I think so,” I whispered, already halfway down the hall. “It’s probably Jasmine.”
The landline rang again. I took the stairs two at a time, the hem of Rhett’s old T-shirt skimming my thighs, my hair amess of sleep-tangled waves. I snatched the phone from its cradle on the kitchen wall just before the machine could pick up.
“Hello?”
“Willow?” Caleb’s voice cracked like static on the other end. “It’s time.”
“I’m on my way,” I said. “Keep her comfortable. I’ll be there within the hour.”
When I turned back toward the stairs, Rhett was standing at the top of them, shirtless, watching me.
“You goin’?” he asked.
I nodded, already gathering my supples. “Yeah. It’s time. Can you grab my clothes from upstairs?”
He didn’t ask questions. Just turned and padded back toward the bedroom, and I heard the dresser drawers opening as I ducked into the little pantry nook where I kept my kit.
It was a heavy-duty canvas tote with reinforced handles and a zippered top—nothing fancy, but sturdy and dependable, one of the only things of value I’d taken when I left Carter. I tugged it off the shelf and placed it on the counter to double-check my inventory.
First: my binder. Laminated cheat sheets, labor position diagrams, birth plan templates, and intake notes on Jasmine—everything I might need in a pinch. I tucked a fresh notepad and a couple pens into the front pocket.
Next came my comfort kit. A heating pad. Reusable gel cold packs. A small bottle of unscented lotion for counterpressure massage. A few protein bars, electrolyte packets, and individually wrapped peppermints for after the birth.
Then: basic medical supplies. Gloves, a thermometer, a clean bulb syringe just in case. I wasn’t a midwife, but I liked to be prepared.
I added a clean hand towel, a roll of soft paper towels, and a new pair of cotton socks—Jasmine had mentioned she hatedhaving cold feet during her last trimester. A Bluetooth speaker for calming music. Phone charger. A small flashlight and batteries.
The hippie stuff came last: a jar of honey, raw and golden from the hives over at Honeybell, for energy and grounding. Dried herbs in labeled tins—raspberry leaf, nettle, cramp bark, chamomile, motherwort. I added a fresh vial of rose oil and a sprig of lavender I’d cut just yesterday from the garden.
By the time Rhett came back down with my leggings and hoodie, I was tying my hair back and cinching the zipper closed.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Almost,” I said, slipping into my shoes and checking the time. “Can you put my thermos in the side pocket? It’s on the counter—ginger tea.”
He nodded and did as I asked. When he handed me the bag, his fingers brushed mine.
“You want me to come?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just stay close to the landline, okay? In case something comes up.”
He nodded, jaw tight. Ever since Carter’s visit, Rhett had been keyed up in a way that didn’t show in his voice, only in the way he watched shadows and slept with one arm always curled around me.
But he didn’t press me. Just leaned down and kissed my forehead, his palm resting briefly against my cheek.
“You call if you need anything,” he said. “I’ll come runnin’.”
“I know,” I whispered, and kissed him back, soft and quick. “I’ll be okay.”
He looked at me like he wasn’t sure that was true.
“I love you,” he said.
I frowned. “I love you, too.”
But there was no time to ask him if everything was okay…because I had to go.
