Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Today, Sable is slumped over at the counter, her stomach so swollen she has to get help when she gets up. She doesn’t sleep anymore, just kind of dozes in thirty-minute intervals and yells at anyone who breathes too loud. She’s had Braxton Hicks contractions for a week, swears every cramp is the real deal, and every time it’s not, she threatens to kill someone, mostly Kael. I try not to laugh every time she does it, but it’s actually pretty funny.
Today, though, they have been regular and are slowly getting worse.
I think it’s baby time.
So we have spent the entire day here, counting every contraction and timing them.
Mera licks whipped cream off her thumb, then points the can at Sable. “Maybe if you just let Gage watch, it’d scare the baby out.”
Sable flips her off. “If I see Gage within a hundred feet of my vagina before six weeks postpartum, I’m putting him in the ground. It’s his damn fault I’m here.”
I am setting the table, lips twisting not to grin. “Pretty sure that’s called a hate crime, Sable.”
Nia pours more coffee and slides it down. Sable groans, rubbing her belly in slow, frustrated circles. “You ever feel like someone’s running a cheese grater up your spine?”
We giggle.
There is a low, familiar rumble outside. Kael’s truck. The second it screeches to a stop, Sable winces and clutches her stomach, then bares her teeth in a snarl. “This better be the real thing or I am going to rip this kid out myself and sell it on the black market.”
Kael comes in with a hurricane of boots and nerves, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted by anxiety. “It better be real this time, I’m not doing this again.”
Sable glares. “You aren’t doing it again?”
He looks at me for help. I shrug and hand him her overnight bag. “She’s been practicing the linebacker squat all morning. Might want to bring a towel for the car seat. Or two.”
Sable slides off the stool, grunting. We follow her out, Mera and Nia both sniffling already, and she flips us the bird as she waddles, full waddle, to the door.
“Don’t you dare name the baby after yourself, you narcissist!” Nia yells after her, waving a sticky spatula.
Sable turns at the door. “Screw you, my mother’s name was that, too. It’s not all about me, bitches.”
“Wait, is it a boy or a girl?” I ask. Genuinely, we don’t know. Sable has forbidden all discussion. She wants to meet the kid first, then decide.
“Hopefully a damn girl, because if it’s a boy, I’m going to scream. I can’t live with a miniature Gage getting around. He causes enough problems for me as it is.”
Sable takes another step, then freezes and clutches the wall. For a second, I think she’s going to pass out. Instead, she bares her teeth and lets out this guttural, animal sound I’m pretty sure will haunt me until I die. Kael keeps her moving, but he looks as terrified as we all feel.
She gets to the truck and manages to get herself in. Then we all watch the truck bounce down the drive, Sable’s curses audible even over the radio Kael has blasting. Nia stares after them, still sniffling, then slumps onto the step and bursts into full tears.
Mera squeals, “Oh my god, what if it’s twins?” Her delight is genuine and unholy, and I love it.
I flop next to Nia on the stoop, press my head against her shoulder. “Bet you twenty bucks it’s a girl,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “No way. Sable’s all power, but this kid’s going to be a sweet little boy. I think that will be Zane’s way of haunting us all.”
I laugh. “If it’s a boy, she’ll eat him before kindergarten.”
We sit there, watching the dust trail fade into the distance, until the air grows thick with summer heat. Inside, the world is all clatter and hum; the club’s patched together again, maybe not the way it was before, but still holding.
“Should we do something?” Mera asks, after a while.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Paint a banner. Make a cake. Something baby-themed. A welcome-to-the-misery present.” She’s already pacing, hands flapping. “What do babies like?”
“Crying and food,” Nia says, grimly. “You can get both from Callie’s cooking.”
I flip her off from the porch.
But it gives us something to do, which is what we all crave. We throw together a half-assed cake—lopsided, too much frosting, a box of sparklers stuck on top for “flare.” Mera scrawls “Welcome to Hell” on a scrap of cardboard and tapes it to the kitchen door. Nia strings a row of empty tequila bottles across a window.
An odd touch.
There’s something about the chaos that makes the hours pass faster. We wait for word, phones clutched like lifelines. Mera refreshes the group text every ten minutes and gives us reports: Sable checked in. Sable cussed out a nurse. Sable threatened to leave if they didn’t bring her the “juice.”