Page 232 of Perfect Pitch
“I swear to fucking God, Mitch, if you try to move me, I’m going to stab you with this pen,” I lash out.
“Beats, we have to get you to the hospital. He’s coming!”
“I know he’s coming. He’s coming faster than you think!” The last part is screeched so loud, I’m certain it breaks the soundproofing in my music room which is where we happen to be sitting. I start with the he he he breathing exercises they taught me in Lamaze class. I grind out, “I need to push.”
Mitch pales. “No. That part isn’t supposed to happen for hours.”
“Not. Hours. Now.” He he he.
I pull my knees to my chest as best as I can before letting out a long, low moan.
“Let me check how far... Jesus, Austyn. We are not in sixty-four time! I should not see him crowning!”
“Call. Mama,” is all I get out, before I slowly roll over to lie on my back.
Mitch is already whipping his wrist to his lips and yelling at Siri. “Call Paige. No, do pay someone, you stupid piece of shit. I said, Call...”
Apparently, I not only have to give birth to our son, I have to be the sane one amid the chaos. I lift my own watch to my lips in between pants and press the stem of my watch. “Call Mama Cell.”
A second later, it’s ringing. Seeing the wild fear on my husband’s face, I’m certain Mitch’s eyes are dilated as much as my cervix is. As soon as my mother’s voice comes on the line, he bellows, “Paige, baby! Right now! There’s a head!”
God bless my mother. She calmly tells Kane to call an ambulance while trying to rein in my father’s palpable excitement.
Mitch snarls, “Shut the hell up, Beckett. Your kids were born in a hospital.”
Within minutes, our place is flooded with the sound of people and—no surprise to anyone who we told the story to later—’80s music. “Got to start my grandson off right.”
Which is how my son ended up being named Westly Halen Clifton.
Per our new family tradition, my first-born son was named where he was born—inside the Westly.
And I kept my promise. I let York choose his middle name.
“His name is kind of badass,” Mitch murmurs when it’s just the two of us in my hospital room later that night.
I kiss the top of Wes’s head before I press my lips to Mitch’s. “Be grateful York loves ’80s music.”
Mitch shudders. “Why’s that?”
“His middle name could be Barney.”
I grin when Mitch says, "Maybe he'll have his chance next time."
Nuzzling the crown of Wes's head, his tiny heart adding another harmony to our family's often chaotic music, I know at this moment nothing is more perfect than this.
Not even music.
* * *
THE END
