Life Support (The Breathe Series Book 2) (44 page)

As we walk back to the stand, I feel a lightness around us that wasn’t there before. I wonder how long Owen has been thinking about that situation with Molly, and I thank God that he was able to spill it today. One step further in our relationship, my hopeful heart growing every day.

I AM DAYS AWAY from my due date and I feel
enormous
. I swear to God, this child is going to be fifteen pounds, not the six pounds Dr. Evans says he’ll be. Owen packed my bag about two months ago and has had it by the front door since. Overkill? Yes. But my letting him do this when he wanted to saved me hours of listening to him worrying about it.

I slowly get myself out of bed. I practically have to roll off the side of the bed, terribly embarrassing when lying next to my super-sexy boyfriend.
Boyfriend...
I wonder for the hundredth time in the last months whether I will always refer to him as my boyfriend or my son’s father. Baby daddy? Eww. One day will I refer to him as my husband?

I’ve started to become embarrassed when I have to introduce him as my boyfriend at the various things we’ve attended when talking about the baby, like at Lamaze class and the hospital tour. I tear up a bit thinking about this. I tell myself that he is committed. I know he loves me. I know I should have patience with him and just be okay with the commitment he can give me. But I’m a girl deep down inside, and I want the fairytale.

Pushing these thoughts aside, I sit on the side of the bed, absently rubbing my belly. I am all baby. I think he’s dropped recently, and Owen agrees, which set off a whole new wave of anxiety for him. He’s still at the firehouse, having worked an overnight shift. He’s supposed to stop doing the overnights, but he offered to do one last one due to understaffing. It worries him to have me home alone all night, but I assured him that we were fine. That didn’t stop him from calling a couple of times through the night.

I take a look at the clock. It’s six thirty a.m. He’ll actually be home in about forty-five minutes. Sleeping is pretty much done for me and has been for months, but I chalk that up to getting ready for the little angel that’s coming. I have taken a leave of absence from work for six months. I’m lucky that, in the academic world, they allow that, and I waited until our last research project was done so I wouldn’t leave anyone hanging. I do eventually want to go back to work, but I’ll be happy to have some time home with the little guy.

Ahhh. Our little man.

As I wake myself up, I reminisce about the many discussions Owen and I have had about naming the baby. Name picking has been...entertaining…

Three months earlier:

“We are not naming my son Zane. That sounds like a...magician or something!” Owen protests. “The Amazing Zane!”

“Well I don’t like those boring names you like. Joshua, Joseph—those have all been done. Don’t you want him to stand out in a crowd?”

“Stand out in a crowd, yes. Be ridiculed in a crowd? Not so much. Olivia, the names I like are classic, standard, manly. This is my boy. He is the son of a fireman. He needs a studly name.”

Owen sounds like he’s kidding, but I assure you, he is one hundred percent serious. The names he’s chosen? Adam, Henry, Matthew, James. The names I’ve picked? Brody, Cash, Jax, Reed. He’s hated every single one.

While at a stalemate, my father calls. I sigh. The last person I feel like talking to is my equally overprotective father. I pick up my cell phone and answer the call anyway, knowing he’ll keep calling until I do.

“Hi, Daddy. How are you?” I ask, knowing I sound exasperated. Irritated, even.

“Hello there, pumpkin. How are you and my grandson feeling?” I can hear the proud grin coming from across the phone, and I can’t help but soften.

“We’re good, we’re good,” I say as usual. I’ve really had an easy pregnancy all things considered, so being constantly asked how I’m feeling annoys me to some extent. But it’s what makes people feel good to hear, so I oblige. “We’re just talking about baby names,” I tell him.

“Are you? I’ve been thinking about that too,” he says, shocking the hell out of me.

Are grandfathers supposed to think of baby names? Shit. Will he expect us to use whatever name he picks? I have no idea what the etiquette is here. I am suddenly in a cold panic.

“You, um... You, uh... Really, Dad? What were you thinking?” I have no idea where this is going to go. I look over to Owen, who is offering me his rapt attention and has one eyebrow cocked, equally interested in our conversation.

“Well, yes. I was wondering... What was Owen’s father’s name?”

My heart stills for just a second. I wasn’t expecting this question and I’m not sure how Owen will respond when I say it. “It was Andrew,” I whisper quietly.

Owen’s face falls. He turns away, and my heart breaks for him. No matter how many years pass, Owen is as devastated by the death of his father as he was the day it happened.

“Andrew. I like that. We, I mean Mom and I, we were thinking maybe you could use his name or incorporate it in some way. You know? We thought that would be nice for Owen.”

My voice is stuck in my throat. I never thought of that as an option, and it’s...brilliant. An idea suddenly formulates in my mind, and our son’s name appears from the ether, bold and highlighted in my mind.

“Daddy, that’s a great idea. I need to talk to Owen. Can I call you back in a bit?”

“Sure, pumpkin. Give that belly a rub from Grandma and Grandpa and send Owen our regards.”

We say our goodbyes before I set my phone down. Owen has since gotten up and moved to the kitchen, busying himself by pouring a glass of water. I come up behind him, bringing my hands around his waist, my body a good foot behind him thanks to my belly. He relaxes into me and eventually turns around to look at me. I gaze into his blazing, blue eyes. I love those eyes, and I pray every day that our son has those eyes.

“I have a name. I think it’s
the
name.”

He rolls his eyes, readying himself for one of my crazy names. “Go for it.”

“Andrew William Maxwell. We’ll call him Drew.”

Owen sucks in a breath and holds it in.

“It’s a proud name. A name that reflects two important men in our lives. A name that holds with it pride and masculinity. It’s...perfect,” I continue.

He raises one hand to cup my cheek and then lets it slide to the back of my neck, pulling me in hard for a kiss. A deep, gratifying, breath-stealing kiss. After a minute, he stares into my eyes.

“I can’t think of a more perfect name for our son. My mother will love it. My father would have loved it. I love it. I love you.”

He leans down and kisses me again.

The memory is a good one, and I smile as I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and pull on a robe. I’ve been sleeping naked lately because I’m hotter than hell at night, despite our air conditioning. Poor Owen sleeps in sweats most nights because I have the air cranked up and the ceiling fan going.

I walk down the hall to the baby’s room. It’s a few steps from our room, but the configuration of the hallway makes it feel far away for both of us, so we intend to have the baby in a bassinet in our room for a while. It’s already long since been put together, and it sits waiting for our son in the corner of the room.

I still like to spend time in the baby’s room though, and I find myself more and more often sitting in the rocking chair, admiring the room. Owen did all the work himself, and it’s amazing. The walls are a grey blue with simple modern decorations. Owen would have covered the walls with FDNY memorabilia, but I convinced him to go a little lower key. There are some fireman items throughout, but they blend in nicely. There is a daybed in one corner so we can still, on occasion, accommodate guests. It’s perfect.

I sit in the rocking chair for a few more minutes and decide that I should jump in the shower. I’ve let a half hour pass and Owen will be home soon.

Shedding my robe I go to the shower to turn it on. Super-hot showers soothe my aching back, and the bathroom steams up quickly. I grab my brush and raise my hand to start brushing my hair when I’m hit with a tight squeezing around my abdomen. And by tight squeeze, I mean it feels like an enormous vise has been applied around my belly and tightened to the max. It takes my breath away. The brush falls from my hand and clatters to the floor.

Leaning forward, my hands on the edge of the sink, trying to catch my breath, I try to calm myself down. I remember my breathing techniques from Lamaze, another interesting experience with my dear Owen, and use my skills to breathe through the pain. I’ve had Braxton Hicks contractions all through the pregnancy, but holy hell, these are way more painful.

When the pain starts to ease, I take a few more deep breaths before feeling safe enough to get in the shower. Dr. Evans told me, as did the Lamaze coach, that hot showers can help with contractions, so I’m hopeful that this will relax me. I step into the shower and wash my hair, getting so far as to rinse out the conditioner.

As I reach over for my face wash, another contraction hits me and I lean forward involuntarily, moaning loudly, bracing myself against the wall. I use my breathing techniques again, but this one feels stronger and the breathing is doing nothing to help the pain. I make it through the pain, and when it subsides, I take the opportunity to quickly wash my body and climb out of the shower. I wrap a towel around myself and another around my hair and make it as far as the bed before another contraction hits me. I brace myself, grabbing the bed and groaning louder than the last time, the pain becoming unbearable. I think I need to call the doctor.
Where is Owen?

I start to sidestep around the bed through the pain, trying to get to the phone. I’m almost halfway there when I hear the door open and the most glorious sounds of Owen’s keys dropping on to the side table, his boots hitting the floor, and the TV turning on. Part of me wants to whoop with glee that he’s home, but I’m still mid contraction and unable to make a sound. I know he won’t come looking for me because he thinks I’m asleep, so it’s up to me to go seek out my savior. When the pain finally starts to abate, I grab as much courage as I can and slowly make my way to the living room, steeling myself in case another hits en route.

When I make it out to the living room, Owen looks over at me, his face covered in a glowing smile.

“Hey, it’s my beautiful girl.” He pats his hand on the couch next to him, beckoning me to come sit with him. I try to smile despite the fact that I feel another contraction coming. They are just minutes apart. “Can’t sleep, baby?”

Panting, I say, “I’m glad you’re sitting down. I’m having contractions. A lot of them. Oh holy shit... God... Urgh... Fuck…” Another one starts.

Owen’s expression shifts from joy to panic. He bolts off the couch, running to me, rubbing my back and my belly simultaneously.

“Oh shit! Oh fuck! This is it! Oh fuck! Are you okay, baby? Shit. You look like you’re dying!”

There it is. The panic I knew was coming.

“Owen...baby... I need you—
hee hee
—to call—
whoo whoo
—Dr. Evans.” As I say this, I feel a rush of warm fluid between my legs. When I look down, I see a small puddle on the floor. “Aaaand that would be my water breaking...so calling him now would be a good idea.” I pant through the remainder of the contraction.

“Oh shit... We’re having a baby, Liv. A baby! Drew is coming!” He kisses me soundly on the mouth as the contraction finally wanes

I can see tears forming in his eyes. It makes me smile. Not that I’m happy that he’s crying, but...well, because I’m happy that he’s crying.

I drop my towel and clean up my mess, moving to the bedroom to pull on panties and a panty liner—as if that will help if I lose more fluid. Sweats and a T-shirt are next and Owen comes flying into the room as I slip on flip-flops.

“We’re all set. He thinks this is it. He said I have time to take a shower, and then he’ll meet us at the hospital. He said to breathe. I’m gonna try.”