Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Babe,” Annabelle says from the back seat, gripping the handle above her head. “Maybe don’t scream.”
How the Fuck is She so Calm?
“Sorry,” I hiss through my teeth. “I’m new.”
The automatic doors slide open as if God heard my summons of distress and wanted me to make a dramatic entrance. I mean—Annabelle. ’Cause she’s the one in labor, not me.
A nurse strolls out pushing a wheelchair with one hand as if we have all the time in the world to chill, holding a clipboard in the other, like this is a casual Tuesday.
“We’re having a baby.”
The nurse doesn’t burst into action as I’d hoped she would. “Yeah? So are three other people. Get in line.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes At Me and eases herself into the chair like she’s checking into a spa, not about to birth a whole person.
Me? I’m jogging alongside like a puppy trying to keep up, carrying the hospital bag, my phone, and her water bottle, yelling “I Got It!” every three feet as shit falls out of my hands.
“This is it,” Annabelle mutters dryly as we roll into triage.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her again with a pant, juggling a bag of protein bars I packed, her heating pad, and the paper towels from Diego’s Uber.
“You’re doing too much,” she fires back.
When the nurse finally gets us checked in and wheeled into Labor and Delivery, I almost kiss her feet.
Inside the room, things go from zero to emotional-hostage situation real fast.
One minute Annabelle’s shimmying into a hospital gown while vowing to sue me, my DNA, and every ancestor responsible for my swimmers—the next, she’s clutching my hand, sobbing about how much she loves me and how I’m her soulmate.
Nurses buzz around. A doctor appears. Someone hands me a hairnet. A hairnet?
Annabelle is cursing in two languages, possibly inventing a third.
“It’s game day!” I shout.
No one cheers.
Annabelle shoots me a death glare.
The nurse just side-eyes me like she’s this close to sedating me instead of the woman currently threatening to break my fingers with her grip . . .
Annabelle is mid-contraction, teeth bared, eyes locked on mine like she’s trying to laser-burn my soul. “You breathe that loud again and I will put this IV pole through your chest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She’s terrifying.
“Stop calling me ‘ma’am.’”
“Yes, sweetheart. Light of my life.”
Then there’s a whirlwind of activity. Beeping. Gloves snapping. A tray of shiny, alarming instruments appears from nowhere. I am not ready for this.
“You’re doing amazing,” someone says—I think it’s me, though it could be the ghost of my confidence leaving my body.
And then.
And then.
Holy shit, there’s crying.
Not Annabelle this time.
Not me, either—although I’m close.
But a brand-new, real, actual baby wailing because someone dared to interrupt his nap schedule before he had a chance to see his crib.
“Here’s your healthy, beautiful baby—” the doctor begins.
I squeeze Annabelle’s hand. We both look up, expectant, exhausted, a little feral.
“—girl!”
“Wait.” I blink. “What?”
Say that again?
“A girl?” Annabelle blinks. “Are you sure?”
We look down at the doctor at the same time, in synchronized exhausted disbelief.
“A girl?” we chorus, eyes locked on the swaddled bundle in the nurse’s arms carrying the ultimate plot twist in my direction.
“I already ordered the little football jersey with my number on it,” I mutter, dazed, as the nurse hands over the baby.
She’s tiny.
Pink.
A little furious about being born. Her fists are balled up tight beneath her chin like she’s ready to throw hands with the entire world. Wisps of dark hair peek out from beneath her striped hat, and her nose? Scrunched as if she’s about to start wailing.
A perfect bitty burrito of attitude.
Just like her mother.
Annabelle’s laugh is half a sob. “She’ll be so pretty in that jersey.”
And just like that, I’m holding the entire universe in an angry little bundle.
“Hi, baby girl,” I breathe, stunned. “We didn’t see you coming.”
Everyone’s hearts melt.
But mostly mine.
Her tiny fingers curl around my pinky as she lets out a grumpy little squeak, and I swear I’ve never heard anything more powerful or adorable in my life.
Holy shit.
I have a baby.
“I think her name should still be MacGyver,” I say solemnly, gazing into her round face.
Annabelle scowls as she reaches for her daughter. “Stop.”
“She looks like a MacGyver,” I protest. “Scrappy. Determined. Possibly plotting her escape already.” This child is definitely going to be walking and running and climbing out of her crib sooner than most babies. I can tell she’s a genius.
Smartest baby in the hospital.
Her mother isn’t so sure as she coos, “Awww. Baby girl looks like she’s about to poop.”
“Which proves my point—strategic and efficient. Definitely a MacGyver.”
The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Is that going to be her actual name?”
“Absolutely not,” Annabelle says. “No. He’s delirious. We’ll have to workshop it, we were expecting a boy.”
The baby squeaks again, her tiny nose scrunching like she’s got opinions and none of them are good.