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Chapter 10
LUCAS
Thelastfewpeople filter out of the bar while Steve wipes down the bar. A couple girls dressed in black with matching black aprons put up the stools. A man stumbles in the shadows while a girl wraps her arms around his waist, helping him walk out the door without tripping over his own feet. The lights are already dim, and I help the staff by picking up the last few candles littering the tabletops. It was a good night. A few more people compared to the last time I was at a poetry reading. Steve has gotten better at advertising Poetry Night. Nearly every seat had been taken and there was even a line to the girl’s bathroom. Definitely a good sign.
“You were good up there,” Steve says while leaning against the counter. He throws his rag into a pile of towels on the floor resting near a bucket of brown, soapy water. “I think your stuff is getting better.”
“Thanks,” I say with an awkward chuckle. “Good to know. You just may get another book launch in this place next year.”
Steve perks up, his eyes twinkling with delight. “Oh? Sales are good, I take it?”
“My publisher is having me work on a sequel,” I say while bobbing my head. “Looks like all my hard work is finally paying off.” I grab my jacket from the counter and swing it over my shoulders. My hand immediately goes into the left pocket, finding my cell phone there.
“And how is Rachel? Everything good there?” Steve asks with a tilt of his head.
A flash of concern goes through his gaze. It’s fast, but I notice it. I wonder how he heard about her hospital trip. Maybe he overheard me speaking about Rachel at the last Poetry Night.
“Yeah,” I say shakily, my hand gripping my cell phone, tempted to call her now and see how she is. I don’t even know what time it is, but I’m sure Seth made it home a few minutes after I left. She’s probably sleeping. I shouldn’t call her when she should be sleeping. “She’s doing better.”
Steve nods and his gaze drops to the floor. “That’s good,” he says while turning away. “Well, I better not keep you. It’s pretty late. I’m sure it’s going to be a pain getting an Uber at this hour.”
“Until next time, Steve,” I say, turning around and heading toward the door.
“Good night,” I hear him call as the door shuts behind me.
I tense as the sudden November chill hits me. The wind whips right through me, freezing my bones and making me wish I’d brought a hat. I pull out my phone, preparing myself for a long search for an Uber to take me home, when my heart stills, seeing that I have ten missed calls—all from Seth. And one text message.
“Shit,” I mutter while opening the message. “What happened?”
But I know exactly what happened. My eyes widen as I read Seth’s message: Hey asshole. Rachel is giving birth. Just thought you would like to know!
“Fuck!” I shout while stomping my foot.
Of course she’s giving birth today, when I decide to leave her home alone. What the fuck is wrong with me? I should be there. How long ago was that message sent? I stifle a whimper, noticing Seth sent it two hours ago.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself while searching for my Uber app. “Seth didn’t send any other messages. Everything is probably fine.”
The closest driver I find is a good fifteen minutes away and costs twice as much as it should. I click on it anyway and pace back and forth, calling Seth all the while. That bastard doesn’t pick up. Just my luck.
Or maybe something happened, I think, making my heart beat faster and my steps sharpen. Shit, maybe it’s faster for me to walk to the hospital at this rate. For a few minutes, I stop and look around myself, in the darkness. No stars twinkle in the sky due to the lamp posts. Another gust of wind bursts through me as I ponder how long it will take for me to walk to the hospital, and in which direction, until finally my Uber miraculously shows one minute earlier than predicted and whisks me off to where I will hopefully find a healthy and safe Rachel.
When I arrive, I of course have no clue where to go or what to do. I burst through the hospital doors, looking around at the people waiting in seats pressed against the walls. The receptionist barely acknowledges me as I stalk toward her, feeling out of breath, like I’ve been running a marathon rather than waiting and sitting in the slowest Uber ride in the world. I watch her organize a stack of papers before I clear my throat. She flicks her shrewd gaze up to me, her nose wrinkling as if she smells something foul while she straightens herself.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a gravelly voice.
“Yes,” I say as sweetly as I can muster, although it comes out as strained and breathy. “I am looking for a Rachel Miller. I believe she was giving birth in this hospital. We had a c-section scheduled, but unfortunately…,” I give an awkward chuckle, “the baby decided to arrive early.”
The receptionist bobs her head. “That happens,” she mutters while sitting down and clacking at her computer.
I shift worriedly from foot to foot, wringing my hands while I wait for her to give me a room number, or any place to go. Nothing bad must have happened because she’s moving so slowly. Someone really needs to light a fire under her ass. I would like to know if the girl I am in love with is fine and our baby is healthy. Apparently, this receptionist didn’t get the memo.
“She’s on the fourth floor in 403,” the receptionist finally says.
“Thanks,” I say while rushing off, following a group of grannies toward the elevator.
The elevator ride feels like I’m riding an hour-long lift to the top of some tower and it doesn’t help that there are so many bodies pressed inside. When the elevator dings for the fourth floor, I push myself to the front, nearly falling out in the process. I stumble forward and rush down the hall, searching the room numbers. Of course, I had to take the elevator on the wrong side. The numbers are in the 450s.
“Walk,” a nurse admonishes while giving me a stern look.
