Page 114 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

My head snaps to the side. “What?”

“I’ve often thought it would be a good investment to get in on a dispensary. Even talked to my brothers about it a few years ago when recreational cannabis became legal here. But then Dallas lost Phoebe and DJ and I guess we just never picked up the conversation.”

My eyes are bulging in surprise. “But… but you own a winery. Isn’t that like a conflict of interest or something? Wouldn’t owning a pot store take away from your wine profits?”

He laughs. “On the contrary. A lot of people who get high love to enjoy a glass of wine as well. And they’re much less likely to care about the cost.” He cocks his head. “Is he looking for investors?”

I point at him. “You’re as crazy as he is. Both of you have lost your minds.”

“Says the Boho Gypsy girl who has twenty-five kinds of incense.”

My planned retort to him is cut off by a strange feeling down in my nether regions. “Lucas, I’m feeling a lot of pressure down there. It’s almost like I have to push.”

He presses the button to call the nurse. Within minutes, Dr. Russo has confirmed I’m nearly crowning.

“Here we go,” she says. “Take the cues from your body, Regan. When you feel the pressure, go ahead and give a big push.”

I look at Lucas. He nods. “You’ve got this.”

He grabs my hand, and for a second, my mind swirls with the dream of the perfect family and the perfect birth. The perfect exit from the hospital, car seat in Lucas’s large hands as we go back to his perfect penthouse.

I steel myself and settle for one out of four. The one that is the most important. My perfect son. Right now, nothing else matters.

The pressure is building.

Dr. Russo puts a hand on my lower belly. “The baby is positioned very well. And because he’s small, it might not take very many pushes to get him out.”

I nod, trying not to take notice of the team of specialists who just arrived in my room and are standing in the corner. Dr. Russo told me they’d be here. A neonatologist. A special care nurse. A respiratory therapist. All standing at the ready to assess and possibly resuscitate the baby if needed.

I push a few times with every contraction. It doesn’t hurt, but I can feel him coming out, like my body is a large tube of toothpaste and I’m squeezing it.

Suddenly, the pressure is gone.

“He’s here,” Dr. Russo says.

I stiffen and rise on my elbows, my heart pounding so hard I fear it will come right out of my chest. “He’s not crying.”

Lucas’s hand crushes mine as we both stare over at the doctor. “Give him a second.”

Then I hear it. It’s not anything like I expected. It’s not like what you hear on TV, the high shrill of a baby getting his first lungful of air then expelling it with a forceful wail. This is more like the soft cry of a baby bird.

“There he goes,” Dr. Russo says.

“Because he’s early, his breathing and muscle development are still maturing, so his cry will be quieter than a full-term baby,” the NICU nurse explains.

“But he’s okay?” I ask.

Nobody answers me for what seems like a decade but is probably only a few seconds. I grab onto Lucas’s hand for dear life.

“He appears healthy,” one of the doctors says. “We’ll do a full workup back in the NICU.”

Dr. Russo is still holding him. She looks up at Lucas. “Would you like to cut the cord, Dad?”

Lucas beams. We were told it might not be possible. This is a good sign. He’s going to be okay.

Lucas cuts it, then we watch as he’s immediately handed off to the NICU team and put into a clear plastic incubator as three people hover over him doing all kinds of things.

Mackenzie puts an ID band on my wrist, then Lucas’s. “This matches the baby’s and lets everyone know he’s yours.”

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