Page 74 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Clay?” Her voice was barely louder than the hum of the tires on the asphalt.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand in response.

Words were too much; they were for later. For now, holding on was all that mattered.

The hospital doors slid open as we helped Grace out of the back seat, nurses rushing out to help us. I took Grace’s arm, supporting her weight as her feet touched the ground. The automatic doors gave way to the sanitized smell and the white light of the emergency room.

“Maternity ward,” Grace said, voice firm.

They looked confused. “But you’re not…”

“Her sister’s in labor and that’s what she cares about right now,” I said. “Her sister is Mariah Cross, if you could just…”

“Follow me,” one nurse said. She led the way at a brisk pace. I kept my hand around Grace's waist, feeling her lean on me with each step she took. The sounds of the hospital enveloped us—the quick steps of medical staff, the distant beeps of monitors, the low hum of conversations we weren't part of. But none of that mattered. I focused on Grace, noticing the slight squint of her eyes as she fought to stay alert.

“Almost there,” I told her quietly. “Then you can see Mariah and get checked out yourself.”

“I don’t care about myself?—”

“I care,” I interrupted, my voice rough. “Grace, you’re hurt, too, and Mariah’s going to be pissed if you let yourself die after all this work to save your life. So let us do this.”

She nodded but didn't speak. The pain and the fright were still too fresh, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

We crossed another set of doors, then we turned down the corridor, the murmurs of newborn cries reaching our ears. At the end of the hall, the nurse outside Mariah's room looked up as we approached.

“She's been asking for you,” she said.

“Is she okay?” Grace's voice was weak, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of her concern.

“Your sister is strong. She's doing fine,” the nurse replied with a reassuring smile. “Her husband just arrived as well.”

“Thank God,” Grace said. “Can I see her?”

“Of course,” the nurse said. “Can I help you, get you a wheelchair…?”

I could tell she was about to argue, so I cut her off.

“A wheelchair would be great.”

Once the nurse had brought a wheelchair, I got Grace into it and then I finally pushed her into the room. I didn’t want to intrude—but I knew Grace needed me. Mariah lay in the hospital bed, her cheeks red, sweat dampening her hair. Her husband, Colt—a kid I’d gone to high school with, who looked a hell of a lot different—gave us a relieved smile.

“I got home as fast as I could,” he said. “Jesus…you look like hell, Grace.”

“Thanks,” Grace muttered.

Mariah, who seemed to have been distracted, finally looked at Grace, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Grace…thank God?—”

I pushed Grace closer to the hospital bed, her hand outstretched. “Of course I did,” she replied. Her fingers met Mariah's. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The room was still except for their quiet breathing. I watched Grace and Mariah, the bond of sisterhood evident in the way they held onto each other.

They had weathered storms before, but none like this.

And yet, somehow, we’d come out on the other side.

---