Good Boy (WAGs #1)(70)

The other Rileys swarm Charlie to congratulate him. But not me. I need to sit down, like, yesterday. I slide into a chair, relief washing over me. The room is too bright all of a sudden and there’s not enough air. Brenna could’ve died. The blood pressure the doctor had rattled off in the waiting room downstairs was scarily high. And when I’d Googled preeclampsia during my sister’s pregnancy, I’d been greeted by a lengthy list of horror stories involving seizures and both maternal and fetal death.

I put my elbows on my knees and curl up around myself, quietly freaking out while the Riley family rejoices.

“Jessie?” Blake sits beside me. When he takes my hand, his is cool where mine is clammy. “Hey…” He kisses my palm. “What’s the matter? Everything is fine.”

“I know.” My voice shakes. “It’s just…” My whole body shudders as I imagine other outcomes. “That was scary,” I croak.

“Oh, baby.” Blake pulls me onto his lap and kisses my neck. “You were amazing. You knew exactly what was wrong and lit a fire under everyone to get to the hospital.”

“I was just guessing.”

“Naw,” he scoffs. “You saw some things. You had a gut feeling. You went with it. That’s all everyone does. That’s how I win hockey games. That’s how your man Hozier writes those songs that make the girls throw their panties at the stage.” He runs a comforting hand down my hair, and I lean back into his touch. “You know what? I have a gut feeling right now, too. It says, my girl hasn’t eaten all day, and she’s fried. We’re gonna take a peek at the baby, and then we’ll go fix that, okay?”

Someone brings us some pretzels and soda from the vending machines, and a bit later we’re summoned to the nursery window. There, behind the glass, in a little bassinet, is the newest Riley. She’s a teeny peanut-shaped person swaddled like a burrito in a blanket, wearing a pink and white striped hat. All that’s visible is her round cheek and a shock of brown hair poking from beneath the edges of the hat. Her eyes are scrunched tightly shut, as if her slumber requires great determination.

“Awwwwwwww!” the Riley clan choruses.

“That’s…she…” Blake sputters. “I’m an uncle! She looks just like me.”

I assume he’s kidding, but when I look up at Blake’s face, it’s rapt, and his eyes are shiny. I press myself against his great bulk and push my face into his chest. One hand clamps around me, and I have a moment of complete happiness. What’s more, I no longer feel as though this was the weirdest day ever. Standing here in the circle of Blake’s arms, witness to this amazing family moment? It feels absolutely right. Maybe I am suffering from low blood sugar. And there must be reproductive hormones off-gassing throughout the maternity ward.

“LOOK!” Mama Riley crows. “Here comes the name!”

A nurse in teddy bear-patterned scrubs walks over, flashing a smile to everyone on our side of the glass. She affixes a small sign to the bassinet. In black Sharpie, someone has written:

Annalise Jessica Daly, born November 2, 4:36 p.m.





“Oh man!” Blake chuckles. “The middle name was supposed to be Blake! You’ve stolen my honor, J-Babe.” He picks me right up off the floor and kisses my cheek, laughing.

“Omigod.” I’m staring at that card in astonishment. Maybe “Jessica” was already one of the names they’d been kicking around? “There’s no way your sister named that baby after me.”

“Yes, she fucking did!” He swings me around in a circle like a rag doll. “You’re stuck with us. Deal with it.”

After more baby-ogling and several rib-cracking hugs from Mama Riley, Blake and I find the hastily parked Hummer in the hospital lot and speed away. He drives with a hand on my knee, singing along with Mick Jagger on “Play with Fire.” And I’m so peaced-out that when he butchers the lyrics I don’t even have the urge to correct him. Much.

We pull through the drive-thru of a McDonald’s, and I feed him French fries as the lights of downtown Toronto approach.

The food shores me up. So when Blake parks his car beneath his apartment building and turns to me, saying, “Thank you for saving my sister and my niece,” the words nestle comfortably in my chest.

“I’m glad to have helped,” I say, instead of arguing with his logic.

For the first time since I got here, I feel certain that nursing is something I’m going to excel in. Maybe my grades won’t be as good as Violet’s. Maybe I’m going to panic once in a while. But I’ll just keep paying attention like I did today, and I’ll learn to get more things right than I get wrong.

That’s all any of us needs to do.

“Will you stay the night?” Blake asks.

“Yeah,” I say immediately. “And thank you for asking. Instead of, well, just assuming.”

His face softens. “I’m sorry. I’m just used to…” He looks oddly embarrassed.

“Women throwing themselves at you,” I supply.

He clears his throat. “Well, yeah. Bossy works for me. On most girls.”

“I’m not most girls,” I argue instinctively.

Blake grins. “I know. That’s why I want to kiss you so bad. Can I?”