Page 120 of Wylder Ranch
“Speed dial two? You’re so keen. Where am I on the list?”
“You’re not. I bumped you,” I snap, maneuvering around two double-deckers so that I can get a clear run of the road.
“You’re lucky your wife’s in labor. Otherwise, I’d punch you. Dick,” she grumbles, which does raise a smile and momentarily assuage my anxiety. “Hey, there’s Holiday.”
My gaze briefly flicks from the road to the side of the bus where a full advert for Holiday’s new play is pastedon. It’s been running for six weeks now, and the reviews have described it as one of the best things she’s ever done. Haven and I went on opening night with the family, and for someone who typically uses Shakespeare as a sedative, I managed to stay awake for the entirety.
By the time we make it onto Fulham Road, Haven’s breathing becomes heavy and labored again.
“Clem?”
“Nearly six minutes.”
“Hang on, babe. We’ll be there so soon.”
Slipping the car into the next lane, I hit the accelerator. The road’s clear, so I couldn’t give a fuck about the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit.
“Al, slow down, you just got flashed by the camera.”
“And?”
I’m focused on the road, but Haven’s breathing through the end of her contractions. “Don’t argue, just let him do his thing. He’s freaking out?—”
“Then the question is, why aren’t you?” drawls Clementine.
“Because with Everly, I was in labor for forty hours. We still have some time.”
I’m thinking that if this goes on for forty hours, I’ll probably have a heart attack from all the anxiety. But one thing that does make me chuckle is when we pull up to the main entrance of the private wing, and I hit stop on the timer.
We’ve made it in eight minutes fifty-one seconds.
“Yes. Suck it,Miles,” I crow, jumping out and yanking open the side door. “Clem, switch spots. Get in the front.”
My eyes land on Haven. Her face is pink and glisteningwith sweat. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay? Are you in pain?”
“No, I’m good. But can we get inside?”
“You bet, baby.” I wink and turn around, only to come face to face with a security guard.
“You can’t stop here.”
“My wife’s in labor. Let me get her inside. Then the car will be gone . . .” I ignore his eye roll and the way his cheeks are turning redder because I dared disobey him while I help Haven out. “Clem, go and park. We’ll be on the third floor.”
We’ve visited the hospital often enough for appointments that I bypass the main reception and go straight to the lifts. Like every other time we’ve been here, there’s a certain calm to the maternity floor I’ve never noticed in a hospital before.
Everywhere is cream with pale blue and pink sofas in a seating area next to the reception desk. Classical music plays softly from speakers in the ceiling. I’m assuming the small water feature in the middle of the seating area is purposely designed to relax agitated family members. Plants and greenery break up the decor, which is dominated by maquettes of babies in utero. Outside, beyond the wall of windows, London stretches along the River Thames. The chimneys of Battersea Power Station are lit bright against the evening sky.
“Good evening,” greets an exceptionally smiley receptionist. “How can I help?”
“My wife’s in labor. We called ahead. Dr. Arnett is our obstetrician.”
“Name please.”
“Haven Burlington.”
She’s typing away at her keyboard when Haven’s fingers grip the edges of the desk, and she bends double.
“Alex—”
