Saving Forever (The Ever Trilogy: Book 3) (30 page)

Carter had me in his arms in a blink. “Are you okay?” Concern filled his voice and his eyes.

I nodded, moved away from him and took his hand in mine, placed it on my belly where the baby was kicking me. “Feel that?”

A moment of hesitation, and then Carter molded his hand to my belly, closed his eyes as the fluttering and batting of tiny feet slid against the skin of my womb. “Holy shit.” He laughed, a sound of amazement and disbelief. The baby kicked
hard
, and I winced. “Damn, that must really hurt, huh?”

“Yeah, sometimes. If she kicks me in certain places, it can really hurt. Other times, it’s just…fluttering.”
 

His eyes held his awe. “I’ve never felt that before. It really makes it seem…I don’t know—”

“Reminds you that I really do have a baby inside me,” I finished for him.

“Yeah. Exactly.” He took my hands, wove our fingers together, and held them up between us, chest height. “Promise me one thing?”

“If I can.”

“When it’s time, call me.” He squeezed my hands. “False alarms, three in the morning, I don’t care. Call me.”

“Carter…”

He dipped down to look into my eyes. “
Promise
me.”

“I promise.”
 

“Okay. Good.” He let go of my hands and backed toward the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“’Bye.” And then he was gone, and I was alone.
 

Silence had never seemed so loud.

childbirth

It started with a slight ache in my womb. No big deal. Every once in a while over the past few weeks I’d get a couple of hard pains, contractions, but they were never regular or consistent. My doctor told me that if I ever felt contractions to time them. When they were evenly spaced and regular, and got closer together and stronger, then I should go to the hospital. If there were just one or two, or if they came sporadically for a few minutes, they were false contractions. Not because they hurt any less, she was quick to add, but because they were my body practicing, basically.
 

So, the ache. A long, slow ache, and then it faded. Another one, half an hour later. A third, after another twenty-five minutes, slightly more painful.
 

Shit. Shitshitshit. Three contractions almost exactly thirty minutes apart. It was three in the afternoon, Sunday.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence,
I told myself. Give it more time. So I waited another two hours. And yep, every half an hour, a tightening in my belly had me hissing. Then, at the beginning of the third hour, they got a little closer together, coming every twenty-five minutes. And then those fuckers started hurting. By seven that evening they were so painful they stole my breath. I set down the PB-and-J sandwich I’d been eating to calm my nerves. I dug my phone out, rifled through my purse until I found Carter’s business card, and called him between contractions.
 

I ignored the red icon on my phone signaling that I had voicemails—thirty-seven of them, to be exact.
 

The line rang twice. “Carter.”

“It’s time.”
 

“Be right there.”

He was at my door in ten minutes, by which time I had a bag packed with everything I’d need. He took my bag from me, wrapped his arm around my waist. “We’ll be at the hospital in about forty minutes.” His eyes searched me, concerned and compassionate. “Should I call an ambulance?”

I shook my head. “No. They’re still more than fifteen minutes apart, but it’s for real. I’ve been timing them since three.”

He glared at me. “Since
three
? Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

He had the passenger door open and handed me in, slammed his door closed as he slid in, and the truck jerked forward as he peeled out. “We’re not in a hurry, Carter. I’m not gonna have the baby in your truck.”
I hope.
I clicked the seatbelt in place.
“I wanted to be sure before I called you. And, anyway, from what I’ve read, once you’re in the hospital it’s just a lot of waiting and sitting through contractions, and I can do that more comfortably at home. But they’re getting really painful now, and….” I trailed off, clutching my belly and hissing as a contraction speared through me, gripping me in a vise. I tried to breathe through it, and eventually it passed. “God, it’s really happening. I’m gonna have this baby. I don’t even know what I’m going to name her. I don’t—holy shit.”

Carter took my hand. “One step at a time. Let’s get you to the hospital. Worry about names later.”

A few minutes passed, during which my brain began to spew out all sorts of worst-case scenarios. What if there was something wrong with the baby? What if I’d had too much caffeine? Or ate the wrong food? What if…what if something went wrong during the birth and I died? What if the baby died? What if they had to do a C-section?
 

Another contraction gripped my body, and I clutched the door handle with one hand and Carter’s hand with the other, gritting my teeth and trying to breathe through it:
one—two—three—four—five—six
….

“You’ve got it,” Carter said, glancing at me briefly. “Breathe through it, babe. That’s it.”

When it passed, I gasped for breath and wiped at my forehead. “Oh, my fucking god. Those are starting to hurt.” I looked at Carter, my eyes wide. “I’m scared, Carter.”

“I’ll be with you the whole time, Eden.” We were stopped at the Garfield/M-37 intersection, and he turned to brush my sweat-damp hair away from my cheek, offering me a reassuring smile. “I promise. Okay? I won’t leave your side. You’re not alone.”

“You’re amazing.”
 

He shook his head, focusing on the road as the light turned. “Not really.”

Another few minutes of driving brought us to the Munson Medical Center. Carter parked and circled the truck, grabbed my bag from off the floorboard, and held my hand to help me down. His arm wrapped around my waist and guided me through the melting slush and swirling snow to the entrance. As we passed through the doors, a wave of pain seized me, the strongest one yet, doubling me over. I stumbled, and Carter caught me, holding on. I gripped his bicep with both hands and hung on, teeth clenched, trying not to cry.
 

They tell you childbirth is the some of the worst pain a human being can experience. Sounds scary enough. But I was finding out with every contraction that nothing can prepare you for the reality of childbirth contractions. There are no words to explain it, no comparisons that do it justice. And these were the just the start. When it passed, I gasped for breath and blinked away the mist in my eyes. A nurse had seen me doubled over during the contraction and brought a wheelchair over, helped me sit down. I sighed in relief. I was brought to triage first, where monitor leads were attached to my belly before I’d even changed into a hospital gown. A different nurse appeared with a laptop on a rolling cart, and started processing me for admittance. Partway through the questioning, a contraction tore through me, and I was too out of breath to answer.
 

The nurse, naturally enough, turned to Carter. “Has she ever had any kind of surgical procedure?”

Carter’s mouth flapped. “I—um. I don’t know. Not that she told me.”

I sucked in a breath. “No. No surgery,” I grated through clenched teeth.

“Is she allergic to any kind of medication?” She addressed the question to Carter again, who watched me. I shook my head slightly, all the motion I could manage.

“No allergies.”

“Is this her first birth?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing at me for confirmation. I could only incline my head slightly as I struggle to breathe through the vise-grip of the contraction.

“Any history of illness in the family?”

“I—I don’t know.”
 

The nurse seemed irritated. “You don’t know.”

The contraction had passed, and I slumped back against the triage bed. “He’s not the father, okay? He wouldn’t know any of this stuff.” I wiped at my forehead. “No conditions in my family that I’m aware of. The father’s…I’m not sure. I know his mother died of breast cancer, but I never heard about any other family illnesses.”

The nurse was tactful enough to stick to the questionnaire, but I could sense her disapproval. I didn’t know much about the father, who wasn’t the same person as the man at my side. Skanky indeed. When all of the information she needed had been entered to her satisfaction, she gave me a cursory glance. “We’ll get you to an L and D room in a few minutes. Just hang tight.” And then she was gone in a bustle of efficiency.

“I’m sorry, I should have thought to find out—” Carter started.
 

I interrupted him. “Don’t. Please don’t apologize. You have no reason to know any of that.”

I was already aware of the difference between a hospital’s notion of “a few minutes” and reality, but I soon learned that when you’re giving birth, the discrepancy is even more pronounced. In my case, a few minutes turned into more than an hour before someone showed up to transfer me to a labor and delivery room. The nurse gave me a gown and asked me to change into it. I stepped into the bathroom and managed to get changed before another contraction hit. I felt bare, exposed. Nobody likes hospital gowns, obviously, but when I stepped out of the bathroom wearing it, clutching it closed at my backside, I felt ugly and frumpy and awkward and naked. My hair was a sweat-tangled mess already, I was red-faced, and all my bits were on full display, and not in a sexy or attractive way.

Nothing to kill a budding romance like giving birth, right?
 

Carter had only ever seen me at my worst. Except for the first few weeks before I started showing, he’d only seen me gain pound after pound, retaining water and getting increasingly awkward. I couldn’t imagine he’d still feel even a shred of desire for me once this birth was done. I’d seen and read enough to know it was going to be messy. Bloody. Nasty. There might possibly be poop.
 

That thought struck me like a lightning bolt. I crawled clumsily onto the delivery bed, covered my lower half with the thin white blanket. Carter watched me, hands in his pockets, looking slightly nervous. I felt like I should probably warn him.

“So, Carter.” I pulled my hair free from the ponytail holder, combed my fingers through it. “This is going to be messy. Just FYI.”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“No, I’m not sure you understand. There’ll be blood. I could possibly shit myself. There might be boobage, and not in a hot and sexy Mardi Gras sort of way.” I tried to sound casual, funny. “You might very well be scarred for life.”

Carter laughed and moved to stand beside me. He took my hand in his. “Eden. You’re not going to scare me away.”

“Okay, well, I’m scaring myself off, here.”

He gave me a steady smile. “You’ll be fine. You’ll get through it. And I’ll be here the whole time. No matter what.”

“Even if I poop myself?”

He laughed. “Yes, Eden. Even then.”

“Why? Why would you volunteer for something like this? I can’t ever repay you for everything you’ve done for me.” Damn tears, making my eyes burn. Damn Carter, being so fucking perfect and selfless.

He brushed a tear away from my cheek with his thumb. “Eden. You still don’t get it, do you?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“I’m not offering you my services, Eden. I’m not here with you for any kind of repayment. It’s not a favor, or pity, or charity. This is me spending my time with someone whose company I enjoy.”

I snorted. “You like pregnant, moody, sarcastic skanks, then?”

His expression lost all traces of humor. “Don’t you dare knock yourself like that, Eden Eliot. You’re worth more than that. You’re not a skank.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. “You don’t know me that well, Carter. The thing I had with Caden was the most serious relationship I’ve ever had. My boyfriends up until then were all…they were only about one thing. And once they got that from me and got tired of it, they moved on. You should know this about me. I have horrible taste in men, and even worse judgment.”

“Because you doubt your own worth.”

“Yes! I do!” Deep breaths, in and out. Don’t lose it. “I always have.”

“Has no one ever told you how beautiful you are?” His middle finger brushed across my temple, his eyes soft and warm and sincere. “No one has ever made you feel special and perfect for being exactly who you are?”

I shrugged. “Maybe my mom, when I was a little girl.”

He sighed. “That’s a sin. Seriously. You’re—”

I held up my hands, feeling a contraction coming on. “STOP, CARTER! I can’t—I can’t handle your sweetness right now. I can’t—I just can’t deal with that. You’re not going to fix a lifetime of low self-esteem with a few pat compliments.”

Carter ducked his head. “I know. I’m not trying to fix you—”

“Yes, you are. And—oh, Jesus, oh, shit…” Pressure like a thousand tons of bricks crushed me, a giant’s fist inside me squeezing.
 

His hands clutched mine, and I squeezed so hard it had to have hurt. “Breathe, babe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. One, two, three, four, five….” He counted calmly as the contraction wrung every ounce of strength from me, and I tried to focus on his voice.
 

Yet another nurse came in at that moment and introduced herself as Vicki, the night shift nurse. She attached leads to me, wrapped a strap around my belly, and plugged a cord into a circular disk on the strap. With a tap of a few buttons, the sound of a steady heartbeat filled the room.
 

“And there’s Baby,” Vicki announced. “Nice and steady. Very good. Now, you just relax and try to breathe through the contractions. Dr. Nasri will be in to check your progress in a while.”

It passed, and Carter pulled up a chair to sit beside me, held my hand, and moved the conversation to other things. He told me stories of his childhood—running amok on his parents’ acreage with his brothers, climbing trees and jumping dirt bikes, breaking arms and getting into fights and catching fish, adventures that got more dangerous as he and his brothers got older. He told me how they’d put all their money together when they were teenagers and bought a classic Mustang, spent two years restoring it so they could drag-race it. Kirk wrecked it the second time they raced it, rolling it a dozen times and almost getting himself killed in the process.