Page 152 of The Wrong Monster

“Matty!”

“I said no.” I close my eyes. And beneath the fear, another thought surfaces.

Lake Placid. I haven’t told Isla. And suddenly, I feel a little guilty for keeping one more thing from the people I love. Especially when I’m calling her asking for help disguised as a casual favor.

“Where are you?” Isla’s voice is already edged with panic.

“I’m downtown. I⁠—”

Another cramp hits, and I gasp, folding over as my hand clamps around my stomach.

“Matty?”

“I think something is wrong.” Now I can’t pretend anymore. This definitely is not Braxton Hicks. The pain is so deep, so visceral, that for a second it drowns out the sound of the city around me.

“Are you having contractions?”

“I don’t know.” A part of me is scared to say, Yes.

“Okay. I’m coming to you. Stay exactly where you are; I’ll be there in two minutes.”

The cramp eases, and my brain does math as a distraction, putting the facts together. “Isla, you’re driving?” There’s no way the restaurant is a two-minute walk away.

“Yes.”

“When the hell did you get a license?”

“Recently.”

“Recently?”

“I’m trying to be my own person now that I’m single,” Isla grumbles, the sound of a shop bell chiming in the background. Despite the pain, I almost laugh.

“You’ve been driving for how long?”

“Long enough.”

“That is not an answer. I’m supposed to trust you in a car?”

“I’m on my way!”

The call ends. I stare at my phone. Isla was always adamant that living in NYC meant not having to own a car or agonize over parking and traffic. And now she’s driving? Apparently, I have absolutely no idea who my best friend is anymore.

A moment later, the pain builds again. This time, I know what it is, and as it crests, I press my palm against the wall and breathe through it, counting slowly in my head.

Thirty-five weeks.

The number keeps repeating.

Thirty-five weeks pregnant. My due date isn’t until the middle of January. It is only the middle of December.

Five weeks too early.

The contraction finally releases, leaving my entire body trembling. I pull out my phone and open the stopwatch.

Start.

I watch the seconds tick by. A beat-up Toyota pulls up, and Isla shoves open the passenger door. “In,” she commands, ignoring the guy laying on a horn behind her.