Page 78 of Dirty Mechanic
She glares at me. “If you tell anyone I gave birth in the woods like some feral fairy, I’ll bury you right here with the placenta.”
“As long as you don’t tell anyone I don’t want to be a nurse.”
“What?”
“I let my license lapse. Haven’t practiced in years.”
“And you’re telling me now?”
“Would you rather I handed you a résumé mid-contraction?” I raise a brow. “You’d have panicked. I’d have panicked. But instead”—I gesture to the tiny pink-faced miracle curled against her chest—“we have a perfect baby boy.”
She looks down at him, her eyes going soft. “Yeah,” she whispers. “We do. Thank you.”
The world goes quiet around us. Even the trees seem to hush.
For one perfect moment, we breathe. We cry. We laugh and sit tangled in adrenaline and new life, our hearts syncing to the rhythm of that tiny cooing baby.
Then Emma’s phone buzzes in her pocket.
I stiffen, heartbeat back in my throat. “Eric?”
She glances at it and squints. “No. The clerk. It’s from my contact at the courthouse.”
I don’t like the look on her face. “Mike’s definitely the one contesting the divorce papers.”
The breath leaves me in a rush, like someone punched me straight through the ribs. Cold bleeds into my chest. Not dread—terror. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers you’ll never be free.
“Then I’m not divorced,” I whisper.
Emma’s lips press together. “Not yet.”
Then my marriage to Derek isn’t valid. I sit hard on the nearest log, clutching the phone like it might save me. My lungs won’t work. My skin’s too tight. My hands shake.
That bastard won’t let me go.
By the time Derek and Eric show up, Emma’s composed herself just enough to say, “Took you long enough,” before bursting into tears again.
Derek reaches for me immediately, scanning every inch like I’m the one who just gave birth. His palms land on my arms, my waist, my cheeks, as if he’s counting bones to make sure they’re all still there. I press into him, letting his scent and strength ground me.
“She’s okay,” I say, voice thick. “They’re both okay.”
And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.
We walk back slowly, Emma cradling her newborn like a prize, and Eric glued to her side, still looking like he just ran a marathon barefoot and backwards. The sun dips lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and honey.
As we near the square, voices rise in stunned waves. People part like the sea.
And there, center stage in wedge sandals and a maternity romper that screams “influencer at the farmer’s market”, stands Caroline, clutching an iced tea and blinking like we just rolled in with a UFO.
Her eyes lock on Emma’s baby.
“You didn’t,” she gasps.
“Oh, I did,” I say, grinning as I steady Emma’s elbow. “In the woods. No epidural. No drama. Just twigs, towels, and sheer willpower.”
Caroline’s jaw drops. “Well, that’s cute for you. But I’ll be in a private suite with mood lighting and a nurse named Tina who brings me crushed ice every ten minutes.”
Emma chuckles. “I thought I’d be delivering to whale music, not the honk of a corn-dog cart and a drunk guy yelling about arm wrestling.”
