Charlotte Cuts It Out (33 page)

The rest of the way to the hospital Trent and I talk about our families. I learn that he's the youngest of six kids—the only boy—and he has two nephews and a niece. He has two dogs—a German shepherd and a Yorkie—and his oldest sister is a cosmetologist. “She's a lot like you,” he says. Stylish? Smart? Fun? “She's bossy, too.”

As he laughs—what is with this guy and his laugh?—I fume and turn on the radio. Some country tune blares out, and I immediately hit the button for my favorite rock station. Before Arctic Monkeys can even finish their guitar solo
,
Trent changes it back. “My truck, my station.”

“And
I'm
bossy?” I tap the rearview mirror. “Might want to look in the mirror.” He just grins.

The ashtray of the truck is full of individually wrapped peppermint Life Savers. He offers me one. I unwrap it and pop it in my mouth just as he turns into the hospital parking lot.

He pulls up to the front entrance and I open my door. It's a long way down. I brace myself for an awkward dismount, but before I realize it, Trent is there helping me down, in much the same way he'd lifted me up, only slightly less awkward.

Before he lets go, he whispers softly into my ear, “When I kiss you, you won't have to guess if it's coming.” I melt. “You'll know. Because you'll initiate the kiss.”

He knew!

“Never!” I push him away.

“Gonna!” I slam his truck door.

“Happen!” I stomp through the automatic entrance and into the hospital lobby.

Is he watching? Will he follow? I refuse to turn around. When I get to the elevators, I push the button for “Up,” then sneak a look. He's not there.

Just as the elevator dings and the doors open, I realize that I don't have my purse or my phone. I hurry back outside, but Trent's truck is gone.

I step out of the elevator onto the fourth floor about 10:30—still freezing and, now, fuming as well—and as soon as I enter the waiting room, I spot Dad on the phone. Holding a full bottle of water, he mouths
Mom
, but before he can end the call, a nurse hurries in and asks, “Is this Charlotte?”

“What's the matter?” I ask.

“Nina is asking for you.”

Me? Why? I leave my coat with Dad and follow the nurse through some locked double doors—we have to be buzzed through—down a hall and into a labor-and-delivery room. I peek around a pastel printed curtain at Nina lying in bed. Oliver is sitting next to her looking sort of rumpled.

“Hey,” I wave.

“Charlotte!” Nina is crying. “I can't do this!”

Oliver leans forward and takes her hand. “Oh, Neen . . . What can I do?”

“You've done enough, thank you!” She pulls her hand away. To me she says, “My eyes are dry and scratchy! I forgot to grab my glasses. And
he
just doesn't get it. And then, they
put an IV in my arm, and he almost passed out. The nurse told him to sit down. He can't even handle an IV—how's he going to be able to handle . . . you know?” She bursts into tears.

I
do
know. I saw the movie. An IV is the least of the horror.

I sit on the edge of her bed. “First of all, pull yourself together.”

Oliver objects. “Don't talk to her like—”

“Shut up, Oliver.” Nina wipes her eyes with the edge of the sheet.

I stare into Nina's eyes with faux-seriousness and intone, “Take a full cleansing breath in.” She has to giggle. Still imitating Ms. Judgy-hippie, I add, “No, Nina, I'm serious.” She does it. “Now exhale all the negative shit from the day.”

After a few rounds of this—in which I drop the soothing voice and we all relax, even Oliver—I convince Nina to take out her contacts. I tell her that Mom will be there soon with her glasses, and in the meantime, she can close her eyes and try to sleep in between contractions. I don't need to remind her that she should rest up before it gets harder; she already knows that. She listens to me, and Oliver seems impressed.

Soon the nurse comes back to check in.

“How's she doing?” I ask, all professionalism.

“Going much faster than usual. This baby is anxious to get here.” After a few more questions from me—How dilated is she? How far apart are her contractions? Can she have ice chips?—the nurse asks Nina if she wants an epidural.

“Oh, hell yes,” Nina says.

I see the contraction on the monitor before Nina says anything. It's a big one. Soon she's panting, her eyes pressed closed. “Relax, Nina. You're tensing.” She does. I breathe along with her. Within a couple of minutes, the pain has passed.

Oliver watches this all like a spectator, pouting a little because it's clear that Nina no longer takes his birth-assist skills seriously. I have to agree with her—who faints at the sight of an IV? We see them on TV all the time. But I still feel kind of bad for him. I mean, this is his daughter, too.

While we wait for the anesthesiologist, I continue channeling Ms. Judgy-hippie and breathing with Nina. In between contractions, I tell her about my booby prize, then about sliding into the ditch and Trent rescuing me. I don't tell her about the kiss fiasco.

The nurses ask Oliver and me to leave while they start the epidural—it's hospital policy. As we walk down the hall to the waiting room, Oliver hugs me. “Thank you,” he says. “Before you got here she was miserable and hysterical and, well, mean. I didn't know what to do.”

“I'd say that if you'd skipped the Wings game you would have, but I'm sure you've already heard that.” We tap the automatic door opener and walk through it.

“Only about a million times.”

The waiting room is pretty empty. There's a guy curled up on a tiny love seat with a flimsy blanket, and he doesn't look comfortable. Dad sits on the floor with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out. In his hands is a copy of
People,
and next to him is his empty water bottle, a granola bar wrapper, and—

“Where did my purse come from?” I ask as I grab it.

“Trent brought it,” Dad replies, as if they're best buddies or something.

I try to sound nonchalant. “Really? Where is he?”

“He's getting your car out of the ditch.” Dad turns the page. “Another day, another celebrity break-up—”

In a flash I pluck the magazine from his hand.
“What?
You asked him to get my car?”

Dad shrugs. “He offered.”

“Oh my lanta!
Dad!
”

As Oliver smirks, our father reclaims his copy of
People,
but before he can open it again, Lydia walks in. She looks wiped.

“Lyd! What are
you
doing here?”

“I've
been
here!” she tells me. “For hours. The ER is over-the-top cray tonight.”

“Thanks so much for taking Kaylee. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. Her ankle's going to be okay—it's just a little sprain. Don't know if she'll be able to dance on it, though. Her parents took her home a little while ago.” She looks at me expectantly. “So how did it go?”

I duck the question. “How did you know we would be here?”

“Nina's Facebook status said that her water broke. And she checked in here.”

“Sit down,” says Dad to Lydia. “How's life been treating you?” Uh-oh. He's been alone in the waiting room too long.

Lydia joins Dad on the floor. He asks about school, her parents, and Patti Cakes. And she actually answers him! She doesn't snap or accuse him of prying or anything.

Mom rushes in as if she's run all the way from the interstate. “What's going on?” she pants. She's carrying enough bags of supplies for a two-week trip.

The sleeping guy sits up, says, “End of the second period, the Wings just scored.” We all look from him to the documentary about narwhals on TV. Then he mumbles something incoherent, leans against the wall, and pulls the blanket up under his chin, still sound asleep.

Oliver fills her in, including telling her that I was the only one who could calm Nina down, and that Ms. Judgy-hippie's breathing exercise helped him, too.

“See?” she says to me. “You
were
the right person to go to that class.” More like the only person who didn't have plans, but it turned out pretty well. I won't admit that to Mom, though.

Then she reaches into one of the tote bags and hands me a pair of jeans, a baggy T, and some casual tennis shoes. I knew she had a diabolical plan to get me in comfortable shoes! But after a whole day in these heels, I'm grateful. I grab my purse and go to the bathroom across the hall, where I change and pull off my false eyelashes. Then I wash off my makeup with a wet paper towel, put up my hair, and cover
my face with moisturizer. The hospital air is totally dehydrating.

The nurse returns and says we can go back to see Nina. Mom and Oliver are off like a shot. I sit down with Dad and Lydia.

Within a few minutes, my phone pings from the front pocket of my purse. The last person to touch my bag was Trent. He carried it all the way up to the family waiting room. Did he hold it like a sack of potatoes, all cute and goofy, like the last time he carried it through the hospital? Did he snoop around in it?

I peek inside, as if I'd be able to tell if he had. There's an envelope in there. I open it and find an invoice from Trent Rockwell Creations. It's dated three days ago.

Here's where I find out how much I'll be in the red.

Then I notice the total amount due:
One kiss.
Payment due:
At
client's
discretion, and not a moment sooner.

“What's that?” Lydia asks.

“Just a bill,” I say, but from the way my pulse is fluttering, I really should say it's a love note.

“Who texted you?”

I check. “Oliver. Nina's getting closer. She wants me to go back there.”

“What are you waiting for?” Dad asks. Lydia starts to shoo me down the hall. But they don't know. They didn't see the movie. I'd rather stay here and learn about narwhals and see the baby after her bath. I'm scared.

But I go anyway. It's okay to be scared, to not know what's going to happen, to not be in control.

I stop, drop, and buzz the door to labor and delivery.

“May I help you?” says the box on the wall.

“I'm here for Nina Pringle.”

“And your relationship is?”

“She's my sister.”

That movie Ms. Judgy-hippie showed us is a crock of crap. All it showed was blood and goo and pain and horror. But in real life, childbirth is so much more than that. It's waiting—lots and lots of waiting—for the next contraction, for ten centimeters' dilation, for the doctor to arrive. (It never takes that long on TV.) It's seeing people you thought you knew become better versions of themselves, full of surprises. It's meeting a whole new person, and falling instantly in love.

Nina is a warrior. After she's been laboring for over eight hours, the contractions get really intense. She doesn't whine. She doesn't complain. She focuses and breathes—which sometimes sounds like humming—and does what she needs to do.

Then, when she's clearly mentally and physically exhausted, she pushes. If someone were filming for one of those classes, it might seem gory—primal—but as the moment grows closer and closer and adrenaline surges through the room, it's amazing and beautiful and impressive as hell.

My dumbass goon brother doesn't pass out. He whispers
sweet things to his wife, cuts the cord when his daughter is born, and cries harder than the baby.

Mom doesn't tell Nina what to do or criticize anyone. She says nothing—but she grabs my left hand and nestles it under her chin and beams so wide I think her cheeks might rip open.

Then Nina snuggles her wide-eyed, scrawny newborn—skin to skin—and thanks God for epidurals. Her hair is sweaty and clinging to her face. She looks kind of pale and overall spent. But she's the prettiest I've ever seen her.

The baby is wrinkly and gooey and kind of blue. Her head looks like a muskmelon, and she has Vaseline-looking goop in her milky eyes.

She's absolutely perfect!

Ms. Judgy-hippie needs a lesson in childbirth. It's not about being prepared for what's going to happen. It's about going in blind and being knocked off-kilter and getting caught up in the messy moment, even though nothing will ever be the same again. It's way better than a stupid documentary. Hell, it's even better than a flipping Folgers or Hallmark commercial.

“Do you want to hold her?” the nurse asks me after Oliver and Mom have each had their turns.

“Sure.” I take the tiny, squirmy, wrapped-up bundle—carefully, so I don't break her. I've never held a baby this new before.

“What's her name?” I ask.

Nina says, “Caroline Olivia Pringle.”

After Grandma! Pops and Dad will love that. I wonder who won the pool.

“Beautiful!” Mom leans in to kiss the baby in my arms—my niece!—and starts singing “Sweet Caroline.” Then the nurses join in, “Ba ba ba.” Mom keeps humming the song, but softer, like a lullaby. One of the nurses sways to the tune as she tidies up around us.

Oliver and I go out to tell Dad. Blanket guy is gone. The TV is now showing an infomercial for some Secrets 2 Success weight loss program. It looks like a scam.

Dad and Lydia are both smiling as if they've been up to something.

“Lydia has some news for you.” Dad gathers his garbage—four empty water bottles, two granola bar wrappers, and a banana peel—and says, “I'll let her tell you. Because
I'm
going to meet my granddaughter.” He stops at the trash can by the elevators on his way down the hall with Oliver.

“Your dad and I have been talking all night, and we might have a solution to my parents' problems.” Lyd looks happier than I've seen her in a very long time.

“See?” I break in. “I told you my dad would—”

“It's not money, Charlotte,” she says. “It's space.”

“Space?”

“Yes.” She moves her purse, so I can sit next to her. “Your dad says he's been stressed about who's going to run the
bakery/deli full-time now. You know, since that Hannah girl is moving, and Nina's going on maternity leave.”

“So you and your mom are coming back to Pringle's? Yay!”

“Listen, will you?” she snaps.

I zip my lip.

“All that subcontracting and synergy stuff from school has really sunk in,” she explains. “Your dad has a bakery with no one to run it, and we have a bakery business with no building. I suggested that we subcontract the space from him. That way we can keep Patti Cakes, but with less overhead so we can pay off our debt. And he'll get more business without all the staffing and ordering hassles.”

“Oh my lanta, Lyd! That's a fabulous idea!”

“Your dad and I are going to talk to my mom and dad about it later today.”

“Awesome!” I high-five her. “We'll get to work together again!”

She smiles. “He also told me about the showcase.”

“He did?” I hide my face behind my hand. “Everything?”

“Of course.” She nods. “We had a lot of time to kill. I'm sorry I wasn't there.”

“It was like a runaway freight train,” I say. “You couldn't have stopped it. I'm glad you're here now, though.”

“Me too.”

Then I see my keys sticking out of my front purse pocket. I grab them. “When did these get here? I thought Dad gave them to Trent.”

“He did,” says Lydia. “Trent just brought them—and your car—back.”

“When?”

“He was by the elevator when you walked in here. You didn't see him?”

“No.” Is he still here? Can I catch him?

“Your dad offered to pay him, but he said you'd take care of it. What does that mean? What's going on with you two?”

I don't explain—or even think. “I'll be back,” I say, racing for an open elevator. (Much easier in tennis shoes.) Some nurses are getting on, but they hold it.

Since it's so early in the morning, I'm sprinting through an empty lobby and parking lot. It's stopped snowing, and the roads are scraped. Trent's truck exits the parking structure. I run, flailing my arms and yelling his name, but he turns the other way.

The sky is pink and purple and blue as the sun peeks around the buildings downtown—seeming even brighter because of the snow (and probably my sleep deprivation). It's really still and quiet. Too quiet. I'm standing there in the middle of a practically empty visitors' lot—ultra awake—without a coat. It's cold, but I hardly feel it.

I missed him. Again.

Then I see the rear bumper of his truck and taillights. He's backing up on Michigan Avenue. Good thing there aren't any other cars on the road right now. He backs past the entry drive and then pulls in. I watch and can't help smiling, no matter how hard I try not to.

He rolls down his window. “I thought that was you,” he says over the rumbling engine, “but I'd already started turning. What are you doing out here?”

“I want to talk to you,” I yell. “About that bill.”

He sighs. “Charlotte, it's been a long night. Just forget it, all right?”

“No! I won't forget it.” I open the door to his truck. Since I'm wearing jeans now, I'm able to get a foothold and climb up. I stand on the floorboard holding on to the sides of the cab and stare at him. His hair is tussled, cute. And he still smells like peppermint.

“What are you doing?” He shifts the truck into park. “Be careful.”

“I want to dispute the total on that invoice. We never discussed payment, and for you to assume—”

“I know. I know. I should've known you'd freak out. I shouldn't have—just forget it,” he says. “You don't have to—”

“Do you really think that creating a stunning PowerPoint presentation, rescuing me from a snowbank, driving me across town in a blizzard, returning the purse I left in your truck, pulling my car out of a ditch, and delivering it to me entitles you to
one kiss
?”

He tips his head back and bangs it on his headrest repeatedly. “You're killing me! You know that? I was just trying to . . .
argh
! You're imposs—”

I lean into the cab, cup my hands behind his head, and kiss him full on the mouth.

He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into the
truck. The steering wheel digs into me, so he scoots to the middle of the seat. I tumble in next to him, and he kisses me back.

His lips are soft and strong at the same time. I melt into him. I become part of the navy blue pleather. I could kiss him forever.

Then he pulls away. “I've never seen you without makeup.”

I cover my face. Oh my lanta! I forgot. I must be delirious from lack of sleep.

He pulls my hands away, smiles, and kisses my nose. “Stop. I've wanted to kiss you since the first time we talked, in the hallway. I'm glad I didn't have to do it with one eye open.” When I look confused, he adds, “You know, to guard against the tarantulas!” I swat at him, and he laughs.

“You're infuriating!” I say.

“You like infuriating. Admit it.”

“Never!” I do my best not to smile, but it starts to peek through. He kisses me again. “Hey! I've already paid my bill.
In full.
” He pulls away in a huff. I'm not sure if he's joking. I tell him I was, but he still pouts. I lean in and kiss him and keep kissing him until he kisses me back.

Then I hear Mom. “Charlotte?”

Mom, Dad, Lydia, and Oliver are standing outside of Trent's truck. Their faces contain about a million questions.

Except for Dad. He says, “Nina's resting. We're going for breakfast. You guys coming?”

I look at Trent, and he nods. “We'll follow you.”

We invite Lydia to ride with us. She hands up my coat
and purse first, and I help her climb up. About halfway down Michigan Avenue, I ask Trent, “Are there any other cute digital dudes in your class? You know, that aren't cheating, lying asshats like Carter Reed?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Why?”

“Charlotte,” Lydia warns. “You're taking over again.”

“Just wondering,” I say. “Lydia and I like to date friends.”

“So we're dating now?” he asks.

“No. Just planning ahead,” I say.

“Is she as difficult as you are?”

Lydia laughs. “Nobody's
that
difficult.”

“Hey, I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm going to roll with the punches now.”

“Cool!” Lydia punches my arm.

“Ow!” I throw a jab her way.

“Hey! What happened to rolling with the punches?”

“I'm still me. I can't help it. That's how I roll.”