Cassian

My phone sits on the kitchen counter, and my hand itches to grab it as Gemma leans over the counter, clutching the edge so hard her knuckles are white. She inhales a slow, deep breath as a contraction passes. Beads of sweat glisten on her brow, so I turn around and grab a cloth from the drawer. Then I dampen it with cold water.

It's the only way to stop myself from calling Jake.

Stepping around the counter, I rest my hand on Gemma's lower back and help her adjust her posture. When I press the cool cloth to her forehead, she exhales a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Cas."

I eye her with caution. Although Gemma's given me a lecture on Braxton-Hicks contractions, I have a nagging feeling in my gut. Something tells me these aren't false labour pains. Gemma's stomach looks like it's ready to explode. This baby is coming today, whether she wants it to or not.

But the thing about Gemma is she's stubborn. She wants to have this baby with Jake present and without interrupting his meeting. No matter what I ask or say, she'll continue to deny. Still, that doesn't prevent me from asking: "Are you sure I can't take you to the hospital?"

Gemma takes the cloth from me and wipes her face, avoiding the area where she just applied a thin layer of concealer. I want to tell her not to bother. No matter how many layers she applies, she won't be able to hide those dark half-moons between her eyes. Jake warned me Gemma hasn't been sleeping well the past few nights, but I didn't think her sleeping patterns were this bad. Aside from the half-moons, Gemma continues to act lethargic. Her movements are exhausted. 

When she's not experiencing contractions, that is. Those make her slam her fist against the counter or curse like a sailor.

"No," she replies. "There's no need. My due date is tomorrow."

She emphasizes the word like she's trying to make herself believe it.

I rub my jaw, my bones still shaking with uncertainty. "Due dates are only estimates."

After tossing the cloth to the counter, Gemma turns to me. Her blue-green eyes are like daggers. "Fuck that. This baby is coming tomorrow."

My hands raise in a surrender motion. "Fine. Should we go watch TV? There's an afternoon hockey game on."

With her lips pursed, Gemma nods. She crosses her arms and takes a deep breath. Her arms then fall to her sides, and she leans across the counter to collect the takeout I brought over. It's from a local pub. The same one we were at the other day. Gemma was craving one of their vegan cauliflower sandwiches. She wanted salt, and the pickle juice and garlic aioli sauce soon to be dripping down her chin will provide her with enough. She just wanted some fucking salt.

Those are Gemma's words, not mine. I'm not judging Gemma or calling her a mad woman. It's not my place, as I have no clue how painful a contraction is. All I've been doing since I arrived is monitoring the situation for Jake, as well as trying to help Gemma calm down. She's stressed about the baby and Jake not being present, which I can understand.

Following Gemma's lead, I collect my plant-based burger and follow her into the living room. Gemma's house is quaint, but it holds a lot of character. Ever since Jake and Gemma moved in together, their themes have collided. While Gemma prefers the lighter colours, like white and light grey, Jake likes the darker colours. So while the living room is painted a soft white, the furniture is darker. A slate-grey that contrasts nicely with the beachy flooring.

I run a hand through my hair, my gaze flickering across the living room. Little knick-knacks decorate shelves and photos line the wall around the mounted TV. It'll be interesting to see how my place changes once Pen gets situated. Despite unpacking her boxes, Pen is still getting used to living with me. Just like I'm getting used to living with her. She can do whatever she wants with my place. Hell, I'd let her repaint the entire thing. But I know that's not how she rolls. She'll want a collaboration like Jake and Gemma have done.

Just then, I hear the sudden clashing of skates against the ice. The Canucks are warming up. My gaze flicks at the screen.

"Well?"

I glance at Gemma.

She cocks an eyebrow. "Are you going to sit down? I won't bite you."

No, but your water might break. If that happens, you're guaranteed a vomit fest. I have a weak stomach.

Those thoughts don't make it onto my tongue. I promised Jake I'd be strong for Gemma. Should her water break, she needs someone reliable to aid her and get her to the hospital. Which is why I sit down next to Gemma and take a large bite of my burger.

When I have the guts to look at Gemma again, I see she's picked apart her sandwich. The cardboard container is a mess of lettuce, tomatoes, fried cauliflower, aioli sauce, bread, vegan cheese, and pickles. Lots and lots of pickles because Gemma asked for extra pickles.

She picks one up and pops it in her mouth.

"Quit staring at me," she says. A dribble of pickle juice slips from the corner of her mouth. She wipes it away with a napkin.

I wrinkle my nose. "How many pickles do you think you've eaten?"

Gemma shoots me another glare.

Holy fuck, she needs to have this baby. I miss happy, positive Gemma.

Yet something inside me forces me to continue poking at her. "Fifty jars? One hundred? I'd place money on seventy-five jars."

She crumples the napkin into a ball and tosses it at me. It whacks me in the temple and falls into the crevice of the couch, never to be seen again. "Shut your mouth, Cassian. Testing me is not a good idea. It may lead to —"

A gasp of pain breaks her sentence. She squeezes her eyes shut and leans forward, knocking her food to the floor. Gemma stays hunched over for several seconds, panting and trembling in pain. All I do is rest my hand on her back, muttering encouraging words while anxiety seeps into my chest. Her breathing sounds forced and her posture is rigid. These are not false labour pains. Gemma's water is going to break soon. 

I set my food on the coffee table and grab my phone. Tapping the screen, I select the clock app and set the stopwatch. My gut says these aren't contractions that should be overlooked. They need to be monitored.

"What are you doing?"

I look at Gemma. "Timing the contractions. These don't feel false."

"What do you mean feel? You can't feel anything. You're not pregnant. I am."

"Fine. Poor choice of words on my part. These contractions don't seem false. My gut says so. Is that better?"

Despite her mood, she nods. "Fine. I'm telling you, though, I'm okay. There's no need to worry."

I snort. "Whatever, Gemma. My Spidey-Senses say otherwise."

She wrinkles her nose. "Really?"

"They'll come in handy if Pen ever decides she wants a baby." A smug grin appears on my face. "Watch me be right. Bet your water breaks soon."

Rolling her eyes, Gemma directs her attention elsewhere. To the food on the floor. Her bottom lip juts out, and she looks like she's going to cry. "I was enjoying those pickles."

Seeing Gemma sad makes me sad. I can only imagine how stressful a pregnancy is. And even if I'm wrong and these contractions are false, she deserves to be comfortable and happy.

I climb to my feet. "Are there pickles in the fridge? I can grab you some."

"That'd be great," she smiles. "Thank you."

Before exiting the living room, I grab my phone. Six minutes have passed since her last contraction. I swallow thickly, hoping she doesn't have another one soon. If she does, I'll need to convince her to let me drive her to the hospital, despite her water not breaking.

At the fridge, I notice several jars of pickles. There are sweet ones, garlic ones, spicy ones, dill ones—almost every flavour. Unsure of what to grab her, I decide to make a little plate of every kind. Like a pickle-themed charcuterie board.

The process is messy. Pickle juice drips everywhere, and I lose the goddamn fork several times. I'm unscrewing jars and then trying to match lids with the correct jar. God forbid if Pen and I ever have kids that her cravings include pickles. As much as I love pickles, I'm sick of them. Watching Gemma eat them for these past few months has put me over the edge. I'll need recovery time after this.

Gemma's voice breaks my thought pattern. It makes me drop the fork, causing it to clatter to the plate.

"Cassian," Gemma shouts. Her voice is two pitches higher.

I'm in the living room before she can say another word.

She's leaning over. Her hands are gripping the edge of the coffee table. Beneath her, there's a puddle. It's made the leather couch three shades darker. "My water just broke. You need to take me to the hospital. Now." She bites her lip as a wave of pain overtakes her. Tears are running down her cheeks. "Fuck. No. Not now. This can't be happening."

My face pales. I know nothing about babies being born. Okay, maybe the obvious, but I don't want to see any of that yet. What happens if Jake can't make it on time? Will I have to watch Gemma give birth? She's made it clear she doesn't want to be alone. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

After my mental cursing is done, I spring into action. Gemma's emergency bag is resting at the foot of the stairs. I grab that and sling it over my shoulder. Then I grab the keys to my car off of the coffee table, slipping them in my pocket beside my phone. Next, I gather Gemma's jacket and shoes.

By the time I return to her, the contraction has passed, but the panic has not faded from her face. "Cassian. This can't happen. Not now."

"I know, Gemma," I reply. She slides one arm into her jacket, and then the other. "But it's happening. Jake will make it. Remember? We have a plan."

I give her a nudge, urging her to sit down so I can put her shoes on. She obliges, and I'm aware I'm kneeling in a puddle that's soaking through my jeans. The thought and the feel makes my stomach queasy. I push both away. There'll be plenty of time for vomiting later. Right now, I have to help Gemma. Jake will kill me if I don't. Then I'll never get to be the funcle (fun uncle). 

"Plans never work!" she sobs. "I'm not ready for this."

Gemma's shoes are slip-ons, so they don't take long. When I'm done, I kneel before her and tip her chin up. "You are ready for this, Gemma. Yes, it's scary and my words mean nothing because I am I man, but I know you're strong enough to do this. Callan is a product of the love you and Jake share. Don't forget that. Don't forget the nursery upstairs. Or the name you chose. Or why you and Jake acted like horny teenagers and decided to have a baby." I run a hand through my hair. "And the epidural. Those are good, too."

Mentioning the epidural causes her to relax. "Right. Okay. Let's go."

Internally, I exhale a sigh of relief. Gemma's still crying, but she looks determined. I help her to her feet, and then we're off.

All I can do is hope we make it there one time. Because I know shit about birthing a baby in the passenger's seat of my vehicle. 

When Gemma is buckled in and I've started the vehicle, she glances at me. I glance at her. A smug grin sits on my lips.

She rolls her eyes. "Don't say a fucking word." 

Chuckling, I shift into reverse. Perhaps I can keep my mouth shut about being correct at the moment. After Callan is born? There will be no restraint. 

I pull out of the driveway, and push my foot against the pedal. 

It's time for Gemma to have a baby.