Page 92 of The Bartender's Baby

But the more I panicked, the more difficult it was for me to do anything. I tripped while changing, couldn’t find my sneakers, and nearly flattened Lucy as I ran in circles.

“You have to get out of the way,” I snapped at her, throwing the diaper bag over my shoulder. I ran down the hall, Lucy trailing at my heels, to wake up George. He wouldn’t be happy, but there was nothing I could do. We had to get to the hospital.

Now.

“Come on, Frog,” I rasped, voice cracking with worry. He wiggled and squirmed, nose wrinkling in the telltale way before he would let out a cry. Which he did.

I tried to soothe him, offering him the elephant WubbaNub, which he hated, but I stuck it in his mouth anyway. “We have to get in the car, and I can’t feed you right now.”

Downstairs, I stuffed my cell phone into the bag, buckled George into the car seat, and slammed the door behind me, leaving Lucy howling in rage. I didn’t care. I had only one destination in mind.

Nothing else mattered.

With George safely stuck in the back seat, screaming his lungs out, I headed to the hospital. This time of night, there was no traffic, and I made it there within minutes, my mind consumed with worry, my eyes blurry with tears.

I burst through the emergency room doors, George wailing in my arms. I frantically scanned the room until I spotted the intake desk.

“Nathan Kozlowski,” I nearly shouted to the nurse behind the counter. “He was brought in by ambulance. I’m his emergency contact.”

She nodded, fingers clicking on the keyboard. “Let’s see… He arrived about thirty minutes ago. It looks like he’s still being evaluated and treated, but he’s listed in stable condition.”

My knees nearly buckled in relief. “Can I see him?”

“Not just yet, hon. As soon as the medical team finishes up, he’ll be moved to a room, and then you can visit.”

I blinked back tears, adjusting a screaming George on my shoulder.

The nurse gave me a sympathetic look. “Why don’t you have a seat in our waiting area? I’ll come grab you as soon as we get word you can see him.”

I nodded numbly and made my way over to the small waiting section, collapsing into a chair. George cried, face scrunched and red. “Shh, it’s okay,” I murmured, tugging my shirt up to pull my bra down to feed him. I didn’t care about modesty or judgmental looks, and if I couldn’t feed my kid here in a hospital, where could I? “We’re gonna see Daddy soon.”

George gulped down the milk greedily while I held him, my nose clogged and my eyes stinging with tears. I adjusted my hold on Frogger to find a tissue in my bag. A few seconds later, the check-in nurse appeared by my side. She rested a hand gently on my shoulder and offered me a box of tissues.

The simple act made me absolutely crumble.

“Oh honey, it’s all right,” she said, sitting next to me. “Try not to worry too much.”

I nodded, barely able to utter a thank-you through my hiccuping sobs.

She rubbed my upper back until I caught my breath then asked, “How old is your baby?”

“He’s, uh…” I sniffled into a tissue. “He’s thirteen weeks.”

“You’ve got yourself a big boy.”

I huffed in amusement, despite my misery. “Yes, he is.”

After a few moments of us watching George eat, she told me quietly, “Your husband’s injuries aren’t life-threatening. He’ll be fine, but he’ll be moved to a room for some monitoring because of the smoke inhalation. He’s awake and talking.”

I let out a shaky breath, gratefulness washing over me for her giving me information I doubted she was permitted to. “Thank you.”

She smiled kindly. “I’ll come back for you as soon as he’s settled in his room, but you let me know if you need anything, okay?”

I managed a small, watery smile in return. As she walked away, I sagged back against the chair, nestling George close in the crook of my arm, my other hand on his head, cradling him completely against me.

Nate was okay. He was here, and he was alive. I only needed to see his face. To touch him and know that he was still mine.

I traced my fingertips over the crown of George’s head. “Daddy’s gonna be fine,” I told him, willing it to be true. “He’s too stubborn not to be.”

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