Page 146 of Babies for the Big Shot
Not because I need someone to rub my back or whisper mantras in my ear. Not because I believe Nick should’ve been here, or would’ve been if I’d told him. It’s not about him.
It’s about me.
The instructor is demoing counter-pressure techniques on a bolster when the door swings open with an audible thud. Everyone turns.
He’s flushed, slightly out of breath, and wearing the full armor of a three-piece suit—minus the jacket, which he’s holding in one hand—with his tie slightly askew.
The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the forearms, and he’s got the look of a man who ran here. Literally. Through traffic. Possibly over small furniture.
Nick.
His eyes scan the room, find me instantly, and soften so quickly I feel it in my chest.
Without hesitation, he crosses the floor, drops to one knee beside me, and says, low and steady, “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”
I blink. Actually blink, because for a second I think I’ve conjured him.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The instructor blinks too. Stunned, though she tries to hide it behind her practiced glow.
Around us, the room shifts. Not in a dramatic gasp sort of way. But in that subtle, rippling recognition of a story realigning itself.
Nick looks… wrecked. In the way only someone who’s fought through Manhattan congestion in designer shoes can look.
There’s a sheen of sweat at his collar, a small smudge of something on his shirt cuff, and not a single part of him that seems to care.
He’s here.
With me.
And somehow, without needing to say more than a sentence, he’s placed himself directly between me and the storm inside my chest.
I find my voice, barely. “How did you…?”
“Tina,” he says. “Apparently she has very strong feelings about prenatal education.”
That earns a light laugh from someone across the room. I glance up and see it. The shift. The recalibration. Camber, bless her over-enunciated optimism, gives a small nod, gracious in her surprise.
“Well, welcome,” she says, addressing Nick. “We were just discussing pressure points and support positioning. Would you mind sitting behind her?”
He doesn’t answer me. He just moves and settles onto the mat behind me, one knee brushing my hip, steady hands adjusting to support my back like he’s done it a hundred times.
His mouth is near my ear. “You okay?”
I nod. Or try to. I feel warm. Shaky. Not from nerves, not now, but from the quiet, disarming sense of being seen.
He didn’t need to come. I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t even planned to. And yet here he is, suit and all, body folding into the space beside mine as if it was always meant to be here.
I don’t speak. I don’t trust my voice not to crack.
We resume the session. Camber resumes her cheerful instruction. This time, when we’re told to sync our breath, Ifeel Nick’s chest rise behind me, calm and measured, anchoring mine.
His hands rest carefully at my lower back, not possessive, just present. A silent promise. One I don’t have to ask for.
When the class ends, and the room starts gathering their things, I stay seated for a beat longer. Just breathing. Just… feeling.
Nick’s hand slides into mine.
And I realize something I didn’t know I needed to learn.
