PEYTON drove Raji’s pale silver Honda sedan out of the underground parking garage. When they had left her apartment, he had put that silly Santa hat back on his head.
Raji clung to the door handle as Peyton drove the car up the ramp far too fast. They blew past the reporters and photographers lurking outside her building.
Flashes brighter than the sun splayed across her vision, blinding her even through her sunglasses.
Filling out the paperwork and paying for a marriage license at the county clerk’s office took an hour. The clerk eyed Raji’s burgeoning belly the whole time, her eyes wide.
On the way back to Raji’s apartment, Peyton stopped the car by a jeweler and bought two thick, gold wedding rings to symbolize, he said, his under-delivery on every promise from there on out.
Raji laughed at him.
When they got back to the car, her body squeezed, and her stomach turned hard.
Raji told Peyton, “Must be stress contractions.”
“Is that a thing?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re the doctor.”
“You say that like you don’t believe it,” she said. Peyton pressed the button to start the engine and flipped the air conditioning on full blast. Blessed cool air washed over Raji’s face and arms.
Peyton said, “I’ve seen three women have babies in the last couple of years, and two of them were in the last few months. Elfie had her baby just last week. Tryp finally got a son and named him Neil.”
“Neil? A rock star named his baby Neil?”
“Pretty sure it was after Neil Peart, the drummer for Rush. You look like Georgie and Elfie did just before they went to the hospital. Maybe right before they went.”
“Which is? And you need to consider how you phrase this very carefully.”
“Glowing?” he ventured, his eyebrows raised. “Don’t hurt me.”
“So, sweaty. I’ve been dripping sweat for the last two months even though it’s supposedly winter here in Los Angeles. That’s nothing new.”
He sighed. “It’s the way you’re moving, the way you’re walking.”
“Waddling? Again, I’ve been doing that for months.” Her stomach clenched again, and she sucked air afterward.
“And there’s that other thing,” he said, “the contractions. You’re at about five minutes apart. I think we should progress calmly to the hospital.”
“But it’s not time yet. I just had a doctor’s appointment this morning, and they said I’m not effaced at all, less than ten percent. I shouldn’t go into labor for at least a week.” Panic lifted her chin and her voice. “I’ve got at least a week left.”
“I don’t think you have that long,” Peyton said.
A vise grabbed Raji around her stomach, and she panted through it.
When she looked up, Peyton reached over and took her hand. “Raji-lee, it’s time to go to the hospital.”