Page 86 of His Obsession
Six Months Later
Val threatens to divorce me three times before noon, which would probably scare me more if we were married. The first time is when I offer her more ice chips. The second is when I adjust her pillow because she keeps shifting like she’s uncomfortable, which is a stupid thought, because of course she’s uncomfortable. She’s been in labor for almost thirty hours by then, and I have never felt more useless in my life.
The third time is when another contraction hits and I tell her she’s doing well. She turns her head very slowly and looks at me with murder in her eyes. Hair piled on top of her head, face flushed, dark circles carved under her eyes. She has never looked less interested in being comforted, which is unfortunate because comfort is the only thing I have to offer.
“Do not tell me I’m doing well,” she says through her teeth.
I tighten my hand around hers because she’s squeezing hard enough to crush bone.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Understood.”
She closes her eyes and breathes the way the nurse keeps coaching her to breathe. I hate the nurse for having useful information and a calm voice. I hate the monitor for beeping. Mostly, I hate that I can’t do this for her.
I can fix most problems. Not all, but enough that I’ve grown used to being the man people look to when something needs handling. Money, violence, pressure, favors, security—all of it has a use somewhere. None of it matters in this room. In here, I’m just a man holding the hand of the woman I love while she does the hardest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.
Val opens her eyes again and catches me staring. “If you look at me like I’m brave,” she says, “I’m going to throw up on you.”
I nod once.
Nico has been pacing the waiting room most of the day. Gia asks for near constant updates. Matteo brought coffee at dawn, took one look at Val, and left without saying a word, which means he has stronger survival instincts than most people give him credit for. My mother called twice. Val told me if I put her on speaker, she’d name the baby after a dictator out of spite.
So I keep everyone outside. This room is hers. Ours, maybe, but hers first. Her pain, her body, her choice, and I am smart enough now to understand that being allowed in the room is not the same thing as owning any part of what happens inside it.
Hour thirty-four is the worst. The epidural helps, then doesn’t. The doctor comes in more often. The nurses move with a littlemore purpose. Val gets quieter, which scares me more than the threats did. She stops insulting me and starts gripping my hand with both of hers, head tilted back against the pillows, eyes fixed somewhere beyond me.
I brush damp hair back from her forehead. “Look at me.”
She does, and there’s fear there. Real fear.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispers.
I lean closer so she doesn’t have to hear me over the machines or the nurses or the movement around us.
“You can.”
“I’m so tired.”
Her face crumples, and for a second I think she’s going to cry. Then the doctor tells her to push again, and Val turns all that fear into focus so fast it nearly takes my breath.
She pushes.
She curses.
She screams at the doctor that “a little pressure” is a criminal understatement.
She tells me if I ever touch her again, it better be with a signed apology and a vasectomy.
Thirty-six hours in, the doctor tells her one more push.
Val does it with a sound I will hear for the rest of my life. Then a sharp, furious cry cuts through everything else.
Our son is born angry. That seems right. The nurse places him on Val’s chest, and I forget how to breathe.
He’s small. Impossibly small, even though the doctor says he’s perfect. Dark hair plastered to his head, face red, mouth open in a scream. His tiny hand opens and closes against Val’s skin, and she cries harder, one arm curling around him like her body knows what to do before the rest of her catches up.
