Page 98 of Pregnant in Plaid
The hospital appears ahead, lit up like a beacon. I pull into the ER entrance—probably not legal parking, but I don't care—and I'm out of the truck before I've fully put it in park.
The automatic doors slide open, and I nearly collide with an orderly pushing an empty wheelchair.
"Sorry," I mutter, looking around wildly. "I'm looking for—someone just came in—labor?—"
"Name?" A nurse behind the desk looks up, unimpressed by my panic.
"Patrice. Patrice Henley. Her water broke. She's—they just brought her in."
The nurse taps something on her computer with maddening slowness. "She's being admitted to Labor and Delivery. Third floor. But you'll need to?—"
I'm already moving toward the elevators.
"Sir! You need to check in first!"
"I'll check in later!"
The elevator takes a thousand years. I pace the small space, watching the numbers climb with agonizing slowness. Second floor. Come on. Third floor.
The doors open onto a quieter hallway, all hushed voices and soft lighting. A sign points toward Labor and Delivery, and I follow it, half-running.
A nurse steps out of a room ahead, and I nearly crash into her.
"I'm looking for Patrice Henley," I say, breathless. "She just came in. I'm the father. The baby's father. Her—we're having a baby. She's in labor. Is she?—"
"Room three," the nurse says, her expression softening at my obvious panic. "But she's being examined right now, so if you could just?—"
I'm already moving past her.
"Sir, you really should wash your hands first and?—"
I pause, look down at my hands. Right. Hospitals have rules about that sort of thing. There's a sanitizer dispenser on the wall, and I pump it probably six times, coating my hands in so much antiseptic they could perform surgery.
The nurse watches with poorly concealed amusement. "That should do it."
Room three. The door is partially open, and I can hear voices inside. Dr. Martinez's calm, professional tone. Tessa's softer one. And then?—
A cry of pain that makes my blood run cold.
Patrice.
I push through the door, and the scene hits me all at once. Patrice on the bed, face pale and streaked with tears, one hand gripping Tessa's while the other clutches the bed rail. Dr. Martinez is between her legs, gloved hands moving with practiced efficiency. Gage hovers near the window, looking like he'd rather beanywhere else.
And then Patrice sees me.
Her eyes go wide, filling with fresh tears. "Trace."
I'm at her side in two strides, taking her free hand. "I'm here. I'm right here."
"I'm sorry," she sobs. "I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me."
"Never." I bring her hand to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Another contraction hits, and her grip on my hand turns crushing. I don't care. I'd let her break every bone if it helped.
Dr. Martinez looks up, giving me a brief nod of acknowledgment. "Good timing. We're just getting her settled." She finishes her examination and straightens. "Patrice, you're at three centimeters. Baby's coming today."
"But it's too early!" Patrice's voice breaks. "It's too early! The baby's only 33 weeks!"
