Page 135 of The Man I Hate

She opened the door and helped me into the seat. “You look…uncomfortable.”

“It feels weird,” I said, lightly touching my stomach. “There’s lots of pressure.”

She rushed to her side of the SUV and got in.

With my legs spread as wide as I could get them and my belly between my thighs, I tried to extract the seatbelt to buckle it. No matter where I reached, either my tits or my belly was in my way.

After my third failed attempt, she helped me get it fastened. My failure to complete the task on my own reminded me of the day I met Braxton, and the issues I had with the seatbelt in his car in the diner’s parking lot.

The ride to the hospital was horrific. Surprised that I made it without going into labor, I commented on her poor driving skills as she screeched to a stop at the entrance.

Braxton snatched the door open. “Are you okay?”

I was sprawled out in the seat like a beached Manatee. “I feel like a toad.”

He helped me from the car. “You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re a liar.”

He peered beyond me, toward the other side of the car. “Thank you.”

“You helped me once,” she said. “Now, I’ve helped you.”

“It’d mean the world to her if you could stay,” he said. “She idolizes you.”

“Hell-o.” I gave him a look. “I’m standing right here.”

“Sure,” she muttered. “I can stay for a little while.”

Excited that Lady Gaga was joining us, but more excited to meet my new babies, I waddled toward the birthing center’s entrance with Lady Gaga on my left, and Braxton on my right.

Thirty minutes later, the excitement had been replaced with anger and disappointment.

Giving birth—or attempting to give birth—was a nightmare. There was nothing easy about it. If everyone knew how mind-numbingly difficult it was to push a child out of their twat, nobody would be having unprotected sex.

I gazed mindlessly at the television on the far wall. I was exhausted. I was drenched in sweat. My legs were numb. I felt like I’d pissed myself. Enough was enough.

I was on the cusp of throwing in the towel.

“I really need you to push this time,” Braxton said. “Come on, Baby.”

“I have been pushing,” I complained. “It’s hard.”

“You don’t want them to cut you, Anna. Believe me, I’ve been cut, and it’s not fun. You’ll be embarrassed every time you wear your bikini.”

He was right. I didn’t want to be cut. The unsightly scar would haunt me in my dreams.

I let out a long sigh. “Okay.”

“We’ll try one more time,” the doctor warned. “After this, we may have to do the cesarean.”

I shifted my gaze from the television to Braxton. “Give me your hand,” I said. “We can do this.”

Braxton gripped my right hand in his. I scanned the room. There were two nurses, a doctor, and Hap, all waiting for me to perform.

I looked at Hap. “Grab my other hand, Dad.”

“You’ve got it, Kiddo,” he replied.