Page 5 of The Golden Hour

“God, baby, it was just… what a rush,” Mason had breathed later that night in bed, her head on his chest, his hand trailing up and down her back in that soothing motion she loved. “It was… unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.”

“So, this is it?” Honey asked.

Mason smiled and pressed a long kiss to her hair. “This is it.”

And for the last four years, it has felt like St. Mary’s Trauma Center is the other woman in their relationship. Mason spends most of his time there, with his twelve-hour shifts sometimes stretching to sixteen or eighteen. Date nights have faded to nothing. She’s lucky if she gets a text saying he’ll be late and not to wait up. There’s always another crisis that needs him. Another trauma that he’s the only one who can fix.

In fact, Honey has started feeling like the mistress in their relationship. The pregnant mistress, who is inconveniencing him by asking him to spend more time with her at their home, and come to the ultrasound appointments, and hold her hair back while she vomits anything she puts into her stomach.

It’s getting to the point where she’s considering boiling a bunny just to get some damn attention from her husband—I will not be ignored, Mason—but then that thought makes her sad. For the metaphorical adorable bunny and for herself.

She used to be better at waiting.

Or maybe she's just tired of lying to herself.

She used to have distractions that helped her feel less lonely. She worked at Little Acorns Daycare and adored it. She always loved being around children. She was the responsible teenager that parents in the neighborhood called to babysit. One day, she wanted to start her own daycare from her house. Mason never made her feel less than because of her dreams, even compared to his.

He said if anyone could do it, she could.

But for now, she loved working at the daycare. She loved singing the same cleanup song until she sang it at home while doing chores. She loved remembering that Presley loved the pink cup; not the purple one, because, for some reason, that color was offensive (who was she to question the mind of a brilliant little four-year-old). She loved snuggling the babies and feeling baby fever take over.

But that was before the hyperemesis got so severe that she couldn't work. She couldn’t even make it through a morning without vomiting into the staff bathroom while her kids knocked on the door asking if Miss Honey was okay. Her director had been kind about it. Everyone had been kind about it. But even then she knew she wasn’t reliable. Her bosses were so understanding when she said she needed to quit, and the parents and kids missed her. They always tell her that she has a position there when she’s ready and better.

She misses that version of herself. Not locked away in this house out of fear that she’ll catch a scent that will make her sick. Not resting the entire day because the world keeps tilting every time she stands up. She misses being a person outside of this house.

But Mason had told her not to worry about working, only worry about growing their baby.

She just wishes he was there more to be with her through this pregnancy.

She needs him.

But his patients need him more.

Her mother has been the one accompanying her to her doctor’s appointments, including the last one, when they found out they were having a girl. Mason was only three floors down in the ED and had promised earlier he would pop up for the appointment.

They waited twenty minutes, Honey texting him, before Dr. Mortimer kindly sent one of his nurses down to find Mason in the middle of a trauma he jumped on. Honey had already felt bad staying longer than their allotted appointment and told Dr. Mortimer to just tell her what they were having. She would bring the ultrasound home and tell Mason later.

And then he didn’t come home that night before Honey fell asleep.

He found out they were having a girl through a brusque phone call on his break the next day.

“It’s a girl,” Honey said, her throat tight.

“What’s a girl?” Mason asked, and her stomach dropped, tightened, and she pressed a hand to her belly—to Daisy. She didn’t know if she was soothing herself or her daughter. Maybe both.

“Our daughter,” Honey choked. “We’re having a girl.”

Mason was silent for a long moment before his voice was soft, “A girl? A little girl? Our little girl?”

Honey closed her eyes against the tears stinging them. “Yes. A little girl.”

“A little you,” Mason mused, sounding amazed. Honey smiled. That sounded more like her Mason—the one she fell in love with, her sweet husband. “Oh, baby⁠⁠—”

“Carpenter! MVC inbound⁠⁠—”

“Baby, I gotta go,” Mason said, his voice clipped. The moment crashed abruptly, wilted and died in a blink. “We’ll celebrate tonight! I love you!”

“I love⁠⁠—”