Is Andrew blushing?
His brow tightens–jaw, too–as he keeps his eyes on a spot at the hollow of my throat.
“We'll figure it out. That's the least of our worries,” he says firmly, making the doctor smile slightly.
“Good to hear. Not all partners are as understanding.”
“I'm not all partners, Doctor.”
He definitely is not.
In so many more ways than this one.
“Amanda, it's been twelve minutes since the last one.”
“It has?”
She nods. “How do you feel?”
“Deflated. Scared. Embarrassed.”
Andrew recoils. “Embarrassed?”
She pats my shoulder. “Never feel embarrassed. You're at thirty weeks with twin boys, who have underdeveloped lungs. You woke up to contractions coming close together. You did the right thing to come in.”
“But–”
“And you need to come back tomorrow. Just because I'm sending you home with strict bed rest orders doesn't mean this isn't serious.”
“Strict bed rest?”
“You need to be in bed or in a chair with the exception of bathroom breaks.”
“That's it?”
“That's it. Car rides to doctor's appointments are fine. But no dining out, no travel, nothing.”
“That sounds horrible!” I grumble. “But I'll do it.”
“Of course you will.” Andrew kisses my cheek.
“And no sex?” I ask again, struggling to process it all.
“We'll do it.” He frowns. “Or won't do it.” His hand rubs my shoulder. “We'll figure it out.”
I lean toward him and whisper in his ear. “I can still blow–”
Dr. Armaji clears her throat. “I'm sure you're capable of figuring out details. Just make sure nothing foreign enters your vagina, Amanda. And no orgasms.”
Andrew starts choking.
“None?” I squeak.
“I'm sorry. They increase blood flow to the uterus and cause contractions. We're trying to prevent contractions, so none.” She glances at Andrew. “The orgasm restriction only applies to Amanda, obviously.”
Did he just drop his shoulders in relief?
I nod. “I'll be fine. I understand. The babies are worth it.”
“Of course they are,” Andrew jumps in.
My breathing slows, the band above my pubic bone going taut again, but this time, it's light. A discomfort, but not pain-filled. Dr. Armaji watches me, observant but non-judgmental, as I take three deep, slow breaths.
The tightness fades.
“If the contractions intensify, or come closer together, come right in.”
We nod. She leaves.
I go numb.
Climbing off the exam table is an engineering feat, but Andrew helps me. Each step I take feels like I'm a Marvel movie monster made of stones aligned together to approximate a human form. We make it to the main entrance, and Gerald appears as if conjured by Andrew's telepathy.
He emerges from the black SUV, concern etched into his hardened, scarred face. “Everything okay?”
“For now,” Andrew says tersely.
I stare at the SUV. Lifting my leg high enough to climb in feels like being asked to summit Mount Everest.
“We need a sedan from now on,” I tell him.
“Noted,” Gerald says, frowning. “Should have thought of it. Suzanne's struggling with our SUV, too.”
Andrew says nothing, one strong arm going to my hip as I lift my foot up and leverage my way into the seat. He climbs in after. Twisting to grab the seat belt is an act of faith, but I do it, clicking in, then resting the back of my head against the seat.
Tears fall, fast, silent, and uncontrolled.
Andrew's arm is around me as Gerald pulls away from the neon glow of the hospital sign. My belly is loose.
But my heart is tight with fear.
“This is all my fault,” Andrew whispers, his tone making my eyes fly open.
“What?”
Gerald turns up the radio in the front seat, clearly signaling he's trying to give us privacy.
“I... I made a pass at you. Initiated sex. And that clearly triggered the labor.” His jaw is tight, hand in a fist as he punches his right thigh. “I won't be so selfish again.”
“Andrew.”
“It's different now. I can't just assume that if I want something, I can find a way to get it.”
“Andrew.”
“If I hadn't reached out for you, if we hadn't done that position, if I–”
My fingers fly to cover his mouth. His chin is scratchy from not shaving.
“Stop. You did nothing wrong. We didn’t know.” My whisper is low, too, lips against the curve of his ear.
“I'm a fool.”
“Maybe. But not because of this.” I smile.
“And now I'm making this all about me when it should be all about you.” His hand goes to my belly. “And them.”
“We're fine.” I swallow hard. “Or, at least, we will be.”
Andrew looks down at his crotch. “You are dead last in terms of priorities now,” he chides.
“What? No! You can still orgasm.”
“That's not a priority.”
“Since when?”
“Since three hours ago when you woke me up in bed and told me something was wrong and you and the babies were in danger,” he says softly.
I can't breathe.
“Are in danger,” he adds, squeezing my hand. “I'm not putting anything–not Anterdec, not my body, not my libido–nothing–at a higher priority than you and our babies.”
I want to argue, counter his words with something that takes the urgency away, that soothes the burden of terror I share with him. I hate being the center of attention like this, and knowing he's so deeply affected makes this all feel even bigger.
Andrew tends to underreact because he has a big-picture perspective of life that comes from a place of deep certainty.
In every way but the safety of people he deeply loves. Losing his mother to a random, freak event he had no control over is something he's had to overcome,
He has.
But I can feel how shaken that foundation is right now.
And I hate it.
“Drink,” he urges, handing me yet another water bottle. The cool, sweet water tastes good, and my bladder twinges. By the time we get home, I won't make it upstairs to our bathroom. I'll have to use the downstairs powder room.
Stairs.
My heart sinks. “The discharge directions say no stairs.”
“Then we can sleep in the guest room on the first floor.” He sighs. “Or you can sleep there alone, if you prefer.”
“Why would I prefer that?”
“Because...” His Adam's apple jumps with emotion, but he says nothing more.
“You'll sleep with me,” I say firmly. “And we'll use the guest bedroom. We're doing this together, Andrew. Together. I won't let you pull away from me now. I need you more than ever.”
“You don't need my morning wood poking your ass.”
“I sure do! It's how I know you didn't die in your sleep.”
Surprised laughter fills my ear. “What?”