“Blech, what the heck is it?”
Looks like vegetables and something that smells like death and feels like leather.
“Tofu and a crisp vegetable salad.”
“Oh, gross. Really? You can’t just let me have something that doesn’t look and taste like old sneakers?”
“No, because according to your results, you’re so full of sugar it’s a wonder you’re still capable of this piss and vinegar attitude, love. Honestly, they’re afraid of you developing gestational diabetes, among other things, so for the moment it’s healthy eating for you, unless you want to get sick.”
So reasonable, and yet I’m not even a little mollified by his matter of fact nonsense. I’d like to see him grow three little barbarians at once on a diet of carrot food and tasteless shoe leather.
“You can have a brownie after, if you’re a good girl and eat all your veggies, love,” he wheedles, and I grimace before nodding.
The cowardly foursome made their escape while I was being distracted, so the only face I have to glare at now is one I love too much to be angry with for long.
Handsome SOB.
The hallowed brownie turns out to be the sugar-free variety that looks like a brown cow pat instead of a brick of joy, and I snarl, choking down the first bite before tossing it at his head.
My husband, the ass, laughs so hard I have to wait for him to calm down, and then he kisses me to shut me up, giving me one of his rare, toe-curlingly sweet kisses.
“Just try to behave and keep them in there a little longer, love. We want our boys healthy, don’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess. Just do me a favor and don’t expect another kid anytime soon. I’m freakin’ exhausted, and knowing you, the next go round will be quads.”
***
I wake two weeks later with a steel spike trying to dig its way out of my body and scream to holy hell when I realize something’s up with the terrible trio.
“Lucian. Lucian! Wake up.”
When he jumps out of bed, ready to swing at God alone knows what, I can’t stifle a puff of mirth and end up laughing till my belly contracts and leaves me panting in a moan that I’m sure sounds like the lowing of a cow.
“Oh, Jesus, what… Love! Oh, shit. Fuck!”
The fact that he’s cursing calms me, and I take a deep breath, gritting my teeth against the pain streaking through my back, belly, and hips. I don’t say it, because I really don’t need him to lose his ever-loving mind yet, but the pain is nothing like the books describe labor to be.
I feel more like I’m being ripped open from the inside out, and the pain is constant, not contractions.
“Babe, wake Becky and get her to stay with the kids, and then I think you really need to get me to the hospital. Phone Doc Stephens and tell him I’m gonna need him there now.”
It’s accomplished in under five minutes, and then I’m being lowered into the car, and we’re speeding down the streets as I feel the first gush of sticky wetness pool between my thighs.
“I smell blood! Are you bleeding?” he yells, putting his foot flat and looking over at me at the same time.
“Let’s just say…I’m…pretty sure…your leather seats…are ruined,” I pant, grabbing hold of the dash when he takes a sharp right turn and floors it through the curve.
“Jesus Christ, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
By the time we get to the doors of the hospital I’m panicking and struggling not to cry. My crotch is covered in blood, along with his hands—he’d held my crotch the whole time, as if he could stem the flow—and I’m woozy.
“She’s bleeding! Fucking do something!” he yells, grabbing me from the seat to run through the doors.
“Put her here.”
I feel the solid gurney beneath my back and hear the doctor’s voice fading in and out as the enormity of the situation hits me. I’m bleeding, a lot, from the smell and feel of things, and I’m losing focus.
The only constant is the feel of his big, strong hands wrapped around one of mine, and the blue of his eyes as he runs beside the nurses to keep up, his breath sawing over my lips.
And then it hits me. I haven’t told him yet. I could die and I haven’t told him.
“Lucian.”
“Don’t talk, love. Just stay with me. You’ll be fine. You will be.”
I smile and feel tears cloud my eyes.
“I love you.”
“No! Don’t you fucking say it now. Say it when you’re holding our babies and counting their toes,” he snarls, glaring down at me.
My eyes are blurry and unfocused, but I see the tears nevertheless and find the strength to lift a hand to his stubble-covered jaw.