Chapter 18
Winnie
* * *
“What more could go wrong?” I say aloud to no one, instantly feeling guilty for putting that out in the universe.
A lot could go wrong. That’s been proven over the last few weeks.
Each week—hell, each day—something has, in fact, gone wrong. First, my car wouldn’t start. Turns out, my battery cables came (mysteriously) unhooked. My online order for a few last-minute Christmas gifts for Harrison was randomly canceled, ensuring they didn’t arrive for the holiday. And this morning at two, we were awoken by a call from the security company for the gyms. Two of the four alarms were going off, and the moment Harrison gave them his code to deactivate them, they informed him his number wasn’t correct.
I wanted to go with him, but he refused, not knowing what he was getting into and how long he’d be. The problem is that I’m now wide awake, just after four, with no sign of falling back asleep in my future. I’m pacing our living room, alternating between watching the clock and my phone. He was given explicit instructions to text me when he knew what was going on. I shot him a text message about ten minutes ago, but he hasn’t responded. I’m about ready to call Chase, since I’m certain Harrison would have called him the moment he got in his truck to head to the gym.
This is most definitely not the way I wanted to spend the final day before the New Year. I’m a week away from my due date and starting to get miserable. Not that I’m sharing that titbit of info with the overbearing alpha in the house. My stomach tightens with Braxton Hicks contractions all day long, but today, they’re worse. The walking seems to help, but that only makes my feet swell even more. I’m
drinking so much water that I could practically live in the bathroom, and that’s not to mention the times I pee by getting kicked in the bladder. Yes, it’s happened. Twice.
All in all, I’m ready for this baby to get here. I’m tired, cranky, and don’t even want to think about having sex. I’m anxious to get this thing out of my body, not put something in it. Harrison seems to understand, though I can tell by the way his erection presses against my leg that he’s suffering a little with my newly implemented no-sex policy. He hides it well, though, never once complaining. He’s amazing like that.
Just after five in the morning, the door between the garage and kitchen opens. I practically run (okay, waddle) to where he enters, throwing his keys down on the table and running his hand through his hair.
“What happened?” I ask, startling him with my sudden presence.
“Shit, Winnie, you scared the crap out of me. I thought you’d be sleeping,” he says in the darkened kitchen.
I go straight to his arms. “I couldn’t sleep,” I confess, nestling into his chest.
“You’ve been up this whole time?” he asks, rubbing my back as he holds me close.
“Yeah. After you left, there was just no way I was going back to sleep. How did it go at the gym?”
Harrison sighs deeply. He takes my face in his hands and places his lips against mine. The kiss is sweet, sensual, and just what we both need. “It was a mess. The security company is still trying to figure out why the alarms went off. Our members have 24-7 access to the gym with their membership cards to gain access, but no one had used their cards at either location during that time. Yet, somehow the panic was tripped at Dalton and Fair Lakes.”
“That’s weird, right? I mean, how does the panic get tripped at two locations?”
“At the same time?” he asks, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and guiding me into the living room. “Someone hacked the system.”
“Seriously?” I ask, stopping and making eye contact. I can see the worry in his eyes and the fatigue in the lines around them.
“Yeah. It’s the only thing we can come up with, especially after my access code was changed. Even Chase’s was changed. We had to reset the system in order to gain control on our end,” he states, taking a seat on the couch and pulling me down with him. I’m sitting on his lap and can’t help but instantly wonder if I’m about to squish him. “Stop it, baby. You’re fine.”
Leave it to Harrison to know exactly what I’m thinking without saying a word.
“Why don’t you come to bed and try to get a little sleep,” I tell him, cuddling into his arms and shoulder. Now that he’s here, the exhaustion is setting in.
“Can’t,” he mumbles, running his nose along my neck and inhaling deeply. “I have an early client, and then I’m meeting with Chase to go over security on all four buildings. We want to make sure this breach never happens again.”
“You can’t catch any sleep?”
“My client will be there at six. I have just enough time to shower and grab a bite to eat,” he whispers against my skin. “I want you to try to go back to sleep.”
“I’m not sure I can,” I tell him, even though I’m more than tired. My mind is racing a billion miles a minute. With everything that has been going on at the gym, the opening of the fourth location earlier this month, him firing Gina, and the baby coming in a week or so, I just can’t settle my brain. It’s working overtime, and I think that’s a big part of the reason I haven’t been feeling well lately.
“Promise me you’ll try.”
I run my fingers through his hair and lock my eyes on his. “I promise.”
“Good,” he agrees, picking me up in his arms and carrying me to our bedroom.
“What are you doing, you lunatic!” I holler, hanging on for dear life.
“I’m carrying the woman I love to bed so she can rest.” As he sets me down in the middle of the unmade blankets, he places a lingering kiss on my forehead.
“Don’t forget the appointment,” I mumble, as my eyes start to droop.
“I’ll be there. I love you,” he whispers.
“Love you too,” I reply, letting the sudden exhaustion consume me.
I’m in the waiting room for one of my final appointments, but do you know what I don’t see? My husband. Err… ex-husband. Anyway, you know that guy who was supposed to meet me here? Yeah, he’s not here.
And I’m irritated as hell.
Bad.
Angry, actually.
It’s gotta be these out-of-control hormones, but I’m on the verge of yelling and kicking and crying, all at the same time.
“Gwen.” I hear my name called from the hallway that leads to the patient rooms. Great, it’s Nurse McFlirts-A-Lot, the flirty nurse turned regular at All Fit. I can feel the flush sweep up my cheeks, and I just pray I have enough control over my tongue.
“Let’s get you weighed in,” she suggests, pointing to the horrible machine that’s going to tell me I’ve eaten too many things in the non-salad variety.
I step up on the scale, pleasantly surprised to see only a half-pound weight gain since last week’s appointment. I’ll call that progress. I head off to the bathroom to complete the next phase of the appointment, knowing full well the result will show a trace of sugars. They all have since my diagnosis. The key has been the stupid exercise plan my sadistic husband put me on, coupled with a healthier diet. I do admit I’ve felt good these last few months, but personally, I’m ready to be able to eat peanut M&M’s and Dairy Queen Blizzards again.
The nurse places the blood pressure cuff on my arm and starts to squeeze. She slowly lets it out, her eyes on the little ticker. “Uh-oh,” she mumbles.
“What?”
“Why don’t you go ahead and lie back for a few minutes. Relax,” she says calmly, making me anything but.
“Why?”
“Well, your blood pressure is a little high.”
“How high?”
“One sixty over one hundred,” she says, placing her index and middle finger on my pulse point on my wrist. “Relax.”
Right.
No one in the history of pregnant women has ever relaxed just because someone told them to. Ever.
Nurse Flirty waits a few minutes and takes my blood pressure a second time. The results must not be what she wanted because of the face she makes. She quickly writes down a few notes in my chart, hands me a gown to change into, and makes a quick exit, informing me the doctor would be in shortly.
Shortly is actually only a couple of minutes.
“Gwen?” Dr. Taylor asks as she enters the room. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I tell her, slightly annoyed she’d ask such a dumb question. I mean, can’t she tell how I’m doing? I’m thirty-nine weeks pregnant, have gained five hundred and ten pounds, and my husband slash ex-husband slash fiancé isn’t here. Why would I be anything other than fine?
She takes a seat. “Well, your blood pressure’s a tad on the high side.”
“I’ve been having those Braxton Hicks contractions all day,” I inform her, placing my hands on my abdomen.
“That’s a good sign, if not a little on the annoying side,” she says with a smile.
“No kidding. I get up fourteen times a night to pee, so sleeping isn’t going so great at the moment.”
She gives me a knowing grin. “They say that’s God’s way of preparing you for the sleepless nights you’re about to endure when the baby arrives, but I say that’s just cruel and unusual punishment. At least let the moms-to-be sleep the few weeks they have left before the baby comes. But the good news is you’re in the home stretch. We’ll measure your abdomen and check her heartbeat. Have you been feeling her kick ten times by noon?”
“Are you kidding me? She’s practicing for her career as a professional soccer player in there,” I reply with a laugh.
Dr. Taylor joins in my laughter. “Well, that’s a good sign.” She does her thing, taking the appropriate measurements, and uses the
Doppler to listen to Sophia’s heartbeat. “This is one of the last times you’ll hear it with this device. Soon, you’ll have her in your arms,” she says as she helps me clean up the gel. I watch as she grabs the blood pressure cuff once more and places it around my arm. She pulls out her stethoscope and squeezes the bulb, paying close attention to the reading. “Well, it’s down a little, but it still concerns me. If you start to feel lightheaded or not right, I want you to go to labor and delivery. Where’s Harrison?”
“Oh… he… well, something came up.” Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall now. I’m terrified that if they start, I won’t be able to stop them.
She nods. “Well, I want you to have him drive you to the hospital if you don’t feel right. High blood pressure at this point in your pregnancy isn’t a good sign, especially with gestational diabetes. It could be a sign of gestational hypertension or preeclampsia. I want to be proactive, all right? I’d like you to stop by tomorrow morning and have your blood pressure checked by one of the nurses.”
“Okay,” I reply, my heart hammering in my chest.
“I’m going to check and see if you’re dilating yet,” she informs me, pulling out the stirrups and helping me get comfortable. Comfortable. Sure. My doctor has her hand up my crotch.
“You’re starting to dilate. I’d say a comfortable two centimeters and thirty percent effaced,” she says with a smile as she removes her fingers and pulls off the gloves. “You’re progressing quite well. I just want to keep monitoring that blood pressure.”
What else could possibly go wrong?
After checking out, I make my way to the parking lot to my car. It’s the last day of the year and the snow is starting to fall. I’ve never really minded snow, but now that I’m waddling through the parking lot, trying to be careful, well, the snow is just a nuisance. As soon as I get inside my vehicle, I crank up the heat and feel the first tear fall.
He’s never missed an appointment.
He’s been late once or twice, but he always made it. What the hell happened? Angrily swiping away my tears, I check my phone once more to see if I missed a call or message. There’s nothing on my screen. A part of me wants to drive to the gym and let him have it, but a bigger part just wants a hug. And maybe some rocky road ice cream.