by Nikki Chase
“I was speeding,” Heath says, clearly frustrated. “Fuck!”
Someone knocks on his window, and I don’t have to turn around to see that it’s a cop.
Heath lowers his window and says, “My girlfriend’s in labor. Could we make this quick, please?”
The cop remains quiet for a few tense seconds. All I can hear is my own heavy breathing. Or labored breathing—that word takes on a new meaning today.
“Forget about the ticket. Just go,” the cop says, to the relief of everyone in the car.
But just as Heath rolls the window back up, the cop knocks again.
Oh my God, what does he want? Can’t he see we’re in a rush?
“There’s a lot of traffic ahead. I’ll help you clear the way,” he says.
“Oh, thank you!” Heath says with a big, relieved exhale.
When the car starts gliding down the road again, there’s a police siren wailing in front of us. As far as I can tell, there’s no more stopping—for traffic, or even for the red lights.
But even with the police escort, it takes forever for the car to finally pull up and stop in the hospital driveway.
Colleen rushes ahead to find someone to help us while Jane helps me get up to a sitting position. I hear the other rear passenger door open and close, then Jane appears just outside mine and pulls it open.
I’ve been sweating the whole way in the car, and now the crisp, cold air feels good on my skin.
Colleen appears with a woman in scrubs who’s pushing a wheelchair. The effort they have to exert just to get me into it makes me feel like an elephant. Totally graceless.
“I’ll park the car and find you,” Heath says, anxiety written all over his face.
He drives off as I’m rushed through hospital hallways with fluorescent lighting and glossy, pastel-pink paint on the walls.
God, why are there so many humans in the world if giving birth is this painful?
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Maybe I shouldn't have accepted Heath's offer.
But it’s just a tiny bit too late for that. As I wheeze and groan from the pain twisting my insides, I ignore the stares from other patients and their loved ones.
“You’re okay,” Jane says nervously as her eyes dart around us, clearly freaked out by what’s happening. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I don’t want to worry her any further, because even though I feel like I’m about to burst open and die, she’s probably right. I’m probably going to be okay.
I hold out my hand toward her as she scurries beside my speeding wheelchair. She takes my hand and I squeeze, hard. I look up at her and call out, “Jane.”
“Yeah? What do you need?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. But my vag hurts like a bitch.”
“He’s perfect,” the nurse says as she holds up the baby who has just come out of me.
I heard the nurse and I appreciate the compliment, but he really is not perfect—at least not objectively.
He’s still covered with so much blood and all kinds of mysterious bodily fluids that have congealed into a sticky-looking, yellowish-brown film that covers almost every inch of his skin.
He’s also crying up a storm—how can something that small produce such a loud noise?
Oh, and he’s purple. And his face is all squished up. And his eyes are just two horizontal lines because, according to all the baby books I’ve read, he won’t open his eyes much for the first couple of weeks of his life.
“Ten fingers, ten toes,” Heath says as he looks upon the goo-covered baby with pride shining in his eyes and a big grin stretching from ear to ear.
To be honest, I probably have the same look on my face. Sure, the baby is dirty, but all that gross stuff came out of me. And he did, too. A new human just came out of me—I still can't believe it.
I watch the nurse’s back as she cleans the baby in a big, stainless-steel sink. When she turns around with my baby swaddled in a blue, soft-looking fabric, he looks brand new—which he is, I guess.
He looks perfect as the nurse passes him to the doctor.
Out of nowhere, my whole body shakes.
“Are you okay?” Heath asks, taking my hand in alarm.
“It’s completely normal,” says one of the nurses as she gives me a kind smile. “We call those ‘the shakes.’ They’re caused by changes in your hormones.”
“Do you want to hold him?” another nurse asks.
I look around me. I’m still hooked up to so much hospital equipment I feel like a cyborg. A clear oxygen mask covers my nose and mouth.
I thought the first time I held my baby, I’d be able to scoop him up in my arms. But when the doctor puts him on my belly, squirming and crying, all I can do is just take a closer look at his tiny body.
I touch him as gently as I can. He looks so small and delicate, I’m worried I’ll hurt him. He quiets down as I caress his face with the tips of my fingers. He’s softer than clouds.
Heath pulls up a chair beside my bed. Gingerly, he reaches out toward the baby, looking so nervous it makes me giggle.
“He’s beautiful,” Heath says, staring at our baby like he’s never seen an infant before.
“He is.” I join him, taking in the sight of the baby, memorizing every little fold of his skin. I know we’ll have a lot of time to get to know each other, but I can’t wait to start.
This baby was inside of me for nine months. And now that he’s out, I crave more closeness. He’s lying on my belly, but this is still as far apart as we’ve ever been.
“Welcome to the world, little baby,” Heath says. “Mommy and Daddy have been waiting to see you, and now you’re finally here.”
Mommy and Daddy. When we visited the doctor for regular check-ups during my pregnancy, sometimes he or his nurses called us Mommy and Daddy. I thought it was silly, because we weren’t technically parents yet.
But now we are.
We.
Not just Heath.
And definitely not just me.
I don’t know if I can still blame hormones for this, but tears spring to my eyes, quick as a flash, and stream down my face.
Two hours later, we’re finally alone.
And by “alone,” I mean Heath, me, and our baby. Because we’re not just two now but three.
Jane and Colleen have stormed in, squealed over the baby, taken some pictures to upload to Instagram, and left. And Heath’s parents are already on their way here, so we don’t have much time.
(But most parents I know never have any time, so maybe I should just start getting used to this feeling.)
“You were amazing,” Heath says as he plants a kiss on my forehead. “You were screaming so loud I was afraid something had gone wrong. I was so scared. I’m not a religious man, but I prayed for you and for our baby.”
His sweet words make me smile.
“I’m sorry I was such an ass,” he says. “I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve paid more attention to what you wanted.
“I just… I don’t know. My dad’s illness makes me hyper-aware of mortality, of just how easily it is for someone to… leave.” Heath’s voice cracks. He pauses as he blinks down his sadness. “I was trying to protect the people I love, but I know now that I was out of line. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, firstly, you shouldn’t curse around the baby,” I say, leveling my gaze at him.
“Oh, sh—” he stops himself before he finishes his word “—shucks.”
I burst out laughing. I stop myself mid-laugh, worried I’d made the baby uncomfortable on my chest. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse than regular cursing. It just sounds so weird, coming from you.”
“Well, get used to it, kitten.” Heath grins. “From now on, I’m the kind of guy who says ‘frick’ and ‘darn.’ Ducking get used to it.”
I giggle.
He remains silent, and a little sadness seeps into his eyes, turning them a darker shade of blue. “Forgive me?”
�
�Yeah,” I say. “I was just… I don’t know. I was afraid that you only saw me as a baby incubator.”
“What?” he asks with a deep frown. Then, his whole expression softens. His muscles relax, and he says, “I love you, and you’re my treasure. I tell you how I feel every day.”
“I know.” I take Heath’s hand and caress it with my thumb. “It was just hard to believe that someone like you would want to be with someone like me. You’re this big-shot guy and I’m a nobody.
“And all your rules made it seem like I was only there to carry your baby.” I notice Heath opening his mouth to speak and add, “I know that’s not true. And I knew it before this, too. It’s just that… sometimes, I had doubts.”
“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Heath says. “But, kitten, I don’t understand why you don’t see how beautiful and lovable you are.” He sees me start to smile. “It’s true. It’s so easy to love you. You’re smart, you stand up for yourself, you have big ambitions, and you work hard to make your dreams come true. I respect all those things about you.”
Again, tears well up in my eyes. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve cried today.
“Of course, it doesn’t hurt that you have a cute ass—I mean butt, too.”
I giggle.
All my worries seem insignificant, even though they were plaguing me up until the moment my water broke (and probably destroyed the Ikea couch I was sitting on).
“I’m sorry, too,” I say softly as I gaze into Heath’s eyes. “I know now how it feels to want to protect someone. I mean, I want to lock this baby up in a padded room so he doesn’t get hurt. There are so many sharp things out in the world.”
“So many,” Heath agrees. “But he’s going to have to learn to fend for himself. Otherwise, he’ll grow up to become one of those whiny, rich guys who can’t stand up on their own feet.”
“Exactly.”
As we gaze into each other’s eyes, I realize we’re in complete agreement. I understand where he was coming from, and he sees things from my perspective, too.
I know people say having a baby doesn’t solve problems or fix relationships. But, at least for us, it turns out all we need to stop fighting is this baby.
Epilogue
3 Years Later
“Mr. Anders asks that you wait here. He’ll be with you shortly,” says Tina, Heath’s new personal assistant. Apparently, she’s been doing great work, thanks to her thirty-year experience in corporate administration.
“Does he know who's looking for him?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yes, Mr. Anders is aware, Ma’am,” she says patiently, like she's a kindly old teacher trying to explain the class rules to a kindergartner.
“I’m his wife,” I say indignantly. There's nothing I hate more than pulling out the do-you-know-who-I-am card, but this is ridiculous. It's not like I’m trying to get a backstage pass to a concert; I just want to see my husband.
Well… he's not legally my husband, but… I don't know; we're both grown-ups and we even have a three-year old toddler together, so it just feels strange to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend. I feel like we need a more serious term for each other. At the same time, something about the word “partner” makes me think about stuffy old men in legal firms.
I don't even know who started it first, but one day Heath and I simply began referring to each other as husband and wife. And then, one day, we decided to get rings together—plain gold bands to signify our promise to each other.
That’s all it is, by the way: a promise. We’ll both do our best to treat each other with kindness and love. That’s all we need. That’s all we want.
What we don’t want is another contract dictating what our relationship is about. We’ll define it ourselves, thank you very much.
I love the fact that we don’t need a public celebration to bind ourselves to each other. So much of our lives is open to public consumption, so why not keep this one thing to ourselves?
I like the feeling of sharing something private, hiding a sexy secret. It feels naughty and just a little dirty. Sometimes, I feel like we’re going undercover, pretending to be a married couple.
Right now, though, I need Heath’s new personal assistant to learn who I am and stop blocking my path.
“Yes, Mrs. Anders, I know who you are. But Mr. Anders specifically told me to ask you to wait here,” she says.
“Why? Is he having a meeting?” I ask.
“As far as I know, Mr. Anders is currently on his own,” she says with a calm, polite smile.
“I’m sorry, Tina, but I have to see him now,” I say, more out of exasperation than actual urgency. I march past her. I can see Heath’s office door just a few steps away.
I’m going to make him regret telling me to wait outside. He’s going to pay. Oh, he’s so going to regret this.
I’ll give him a piece of my mind, go home, and dump a bunch of Lego bricks all over the apartment so he’ll step on them when he gets home. Or maybe I’ll put some Sweet’n Low in his coffee instead of his usual raw sugar.
The phone on Tina’s desk rings, and she stops in her tracks, which allows me to reach the door without any obstruction. I reach for the door handle. Almost there.
“Mrs. Anders, Mr. Anders says you may come in now,” Tina says with a smile.
Damn it.
“Thank you,” I mumble, annoyed that my entrance won’t be the dramatic act of rebellion that I wanted it to be.
I swing the door open and my jaw drops.
There’s the father of my child, sitting at his big, stately desk, wearing his crisp, expensive suit, staring at me with wickedness in his blue eyes.
But that’s just the usual sight.
Today, the shades have been drawn over the glass wall behind his desk, and the warm overhead lights have been turned on, making this office a warm, cozy space. A refuge from the chaos of the world outside. A sanctuary. A secret hideaway.
“I hear you think my office feels like a jazz lounge,” Heath says with a mysterious smirk. He grabs some kind of a remote control and presses a button. Smooth jazz floods the room—I honestly can’t call it an “office” anymore when it looks like this. Heath watches me intently, obviously amused by my confusion. “Take a seat, Sarah. Don’t forget to close the door. I don’t think you want anyone to overhear our… conversation,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.
Sarah? Who is Sarah? And why should I be worried about people hearing us talk about picking up our kid from daycare?
“What are you talking about, Heath?”
“Shhh…” Heath presses a finger to his lips. “Call me Mr. Jones in the office.”
I knit my brows and stare at him. I open my mouth to say something, but… what do I even say? This is bizarre.
I close the door and walk across the room to sit across the big desk from Heath.
I stare at his cryptic facial expression for several confused seconds, but then I recognize the names from my first manuscript—the one Heath read on this very computer.
That story went through a lot of editing before it was finally published. I had to re-write the beginning because Jeff had somehow gotten ahold of my document and sent the first chapter to a few tabloids. I guess he wasn’t just taking my pictures but also going through my files.
He’s been a creepy asshole to me the whole time. Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. After I made that statement and stripped all credibility from his accusations, nobody wanted to hire him. Which employer would take the risk of having him suddenly accuse them of sexual crimes for no reason?
It wasn’t all his fault, though. He was creepy, but he wasn’t evil. It took Melanie, Heath’s ex-wife, a few months to persuade Jeff to use all the information he’d gathered as a weapon against Heath and me. They’d become close friends after all the phone calls from Melanie that Jeff had fielded for Heath.
But maybe, I should thank them both, because I actually prefer the new version of the book better than the origina
l one. The book is a big global hit that has been translated into twelve languages, and I’m sure it owes some of its success to its new, improved first chapter.
Back when all this success was just a dream, I imagined myself becoming a famous author. But what I really wanted was not the fame; just the recognition that I’m good at what I do.
So when my publisher suggested that I use my real name, I declined and said I wanted to use a pen name instead because I wanted people to judge the book on its own merit. I don’t want them to pick it up just because I’m the author.
So I've been going incognito.
I don’t know how well that has worked, though, because there’s speculation on some online forums about the real identity of a certain New York Times best-selling author named Olivia Pearson.
She’s never attended any book signings or romance conferences, so nobody knows what she looks like, aside from her publisher. Oh, and me. I know who she is—very, very well—and she enjoys her mysterious image.
My name has already been mentioned on the Internet as one of the possible authors behind the pen name Olivia Pearson. I’m not going to say anything, though. They can think what they want.
Sure, I won’t see “Katherine York” printed on the cover of a novel any time soon, but I’m okay with that.
The whole reason I wanted to become a famous author in the first place was so my dad would find me. And he did, not long after I’d made that surprise statement at the press conference while heavily pregnant.
I don’t know why I was looking for my dad anyway. He's always been selfish and irresponsible.
I guess when I was growing up, he was the only adult who’d pay attention to me, even if he didn’t do it all the time. It took me finding Heath, who’s always showering both me and our son with plenty of love, for me to realize what a douche my dad has been.
My dad was doing great when I met him. His hair had thinned out and his belly had rounded out, but he didn't have a care in the world. Yet he hadn’t even made any effort to reach out to me before my sudden fame.
I hate to think this of my own father, but he probably has ulterior motives. Now we’re friendly, but I keep my distance. It’s not that hard because he lives in Florida with his new girlfriend of five months.
