The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Chapter 217: The Wheels of Chaos (and Labor) Begin

Max’s POV:

Oh God. Ohh God. OH. GOD.

Ella’s water just broke. At the mall. I repeat—THE MALL.

And Jason? Yeah. He didn’t know we’d taken his nine-months-pregnant, ready-to-pop, borderline-murderous wife shopping. He told us—very clearly, I might add—to keep her company. Not to wheel her around the damn mall like we were in some deranged stroller derby.

But we did it anyway. Because we’re idiots. And now, she was screaming. Loudly. In front of a bedazzled sunglasses kiosk and a confused elderly couple eating frozen yogurt.

Dylan stood next to me, frozen, his face paler than a vampire with anemia. I could hear the gears in his brain trying to reboot like an ancient Windows PC.

"I’m NOT having my baby at the mall—GET ME TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL!" Ella screamed so loudly a passing toddler burst into tears. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling like an opera singer with a vendetta.

That scream was the slap we both needed to get moving.

"Wheelchair, wheelchair, WHEELCHAIR!" I yelped like it was a code red evacuation.

I lunged at the wheelchair, spun it around so fast I nearly knocked over a stack of yoga pants, and guided Ella down into the seat like she was the queen of contractions and this was her throne of panic. She barely sat before another contraction gripped her, her face contorting in pain.

"Ohmygodbreathebreathebreathe," I chanted while pushing her through the mall like I was running from the cops. "In! Out! In! Out! Like yoga!"

"MAX, I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU TELL ME TO BREATHE AGAIN I WILL RIP OUT YOUR TONGUE," Ella shrieked, gripping the armrests like she was about to launch into orbit.

Noted. No more yoga breathing advice.

Dylan was running beside us, nearly dropping his phone as he dialed Justin. His hands were shaking so bad I’m not even sure he pressed the right contact.

People were staring. A LOT of people. Phones were out. I’m pretty sure we were about to go viral. Some poor grandma gasped as we tore past a fountain, nearly decapitating a cardboard cutout of a mall Easter Bunny.

"MOVE!" I shouted at a group of teenagers blocking the exit like it was a casual field trip. "Pregnant woman in labor! OUT OF THE WAY!"

They scattered like pigeons. Victory.

Once outside, I nearly rammed the wheelchair into the car, fumbling to open the door. Dylan yanked it open just in time and helped me lift Ella from the chair to the backseat. Which was not smooth. She kicked, she yelled, she may have punched me in the kidney.

"Why is this car so damn small?!" she bellowed.

"It’s a Range Rover!" I cried.

"It’s a SARDINE CAN!"

I dove into the backseat with her, holding her hand—which she promptly used to squeeze with the force of a thousand suns—and Dylan raced around to the driver’s seat just as his phone started ringing again.

He put it on speaker.

"Hello?" Dylan said, breathless.

It was jason.

"Where the fuck are you?" Jason’s voice boomed through the car like a pissed-off god.

Ella screamed just then, a sound that came from deep in her soul and possibly beyond the realms of mortal comprehension.

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" Justin shouted over the phone. "IS SHE OKAY?! WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"

"Ella’s water just broke! We’re rushing her to the hospital!" Dylan replied, swerving out of the parking lot so hard I slammed into the door. My skull may never be the same.

"I’m gonna KILL you both," Justin growled. frёewebnoѵēl.com

"THE BAG!" Ella screamed between contractions. "MY LABOR BAG! IT’S IN THE HOUSE! CALL HIM BACK! TELL HIM TO GET THE BAG!"

"WHAT BAG?!" Jason yelled.

"THE. FUCKING. BAG. JASONN," Ella growled like a demon. "IT’S IN THE CLOSET NEXT TO MY SHOES. THE PINK ONE. WITH THE STUFF!"

There was silence.

Then Jasonn, his voice dangerously low: "Where the fuck did you take her?"

Dylan, in a tiny whisper like he hoped the phone would die mid-sentence: "...the mall."

Yep. We were dead. Completely, utterly, permanently dead. I could already hear the shovel scraping against the dirt of our graves.

"I’LL MEET YOU AT THE HOSPITAL. AND PRAY TO FUCKING GOD SHE GETS THERE QUICK AND SAFE," Jason said, the kind of cold fury that makes your intestines do backflips.

Click.

He hung up.

"HE HUNG UP. DYLAN. HE HUNG UP."

"MAX I’M DRIVING 90 MILES AN HOUR I CAN’T PROCESS EMOTIONS RIGHT NOW."

Ella let out another shriek, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked like she was trying to summon a genie.

"OWWW!"

"I TOLD YOU TO DRIVE FASTER, DYLAN!" she screamed at the front.

"I’M ALREADY SPEEDING!"

"I DON’T CARE! DRIVE LIKE IT’S THE FAST AND FURIOUS: PREGNANCY EDITION!"

She grabbed my shirt, pulled me close, and said, very seriously, "If I give birth in this car, I will name this child Maxwell Rage and I will tell him every day that it was your fault."

"I—THAT’S A TERRIBLE NAME!"

"I’M IN LABOR, BITCH, I MAKE THE RULES!"

I could only nod and hold her hand and occasionally dodge the random hair tugs when the pain hit again.

We were twenty minutes into what felt like the longest, most cursed Uber ride of my life. Dylan missed a turn and Ella let out a guttural growl like she was about to climb into the front seat and drive herself.

"USE THE HORN, DYLAN, SCARE THEM OUT OF THE WAY!" she screamed as a minivan stalled at a green light.

"THE HORN DOESN’T MAKE TRAFFIC DISAPPEAR, ELLA!"

"BEEP IT ANYWAY!"

He beeped. It did nothing.

Ella cursed the minivan driver’s entire family line.

I tried to soothe her with calming words but ended up just crying with her.

"Everything’s okay, we’re fine, we’re doing amazing, this is a beautiful moment of li—OW—OKAY OKAY OKAY NO MORE HAIR PULLING!"

We finally saw the glowing red sign of the hospital emergency entrance, and I’ve never been more grateful in my life.

Dylan screeched into the drop-off like a man possessed, jumped out, and ran around to the back to help me get Ella out.

"DON’T TOUCH ME UNLESS YOU’RE A DOCTOR!" she screamed.

We both paused.

"...Okay," Dylan said, holding his hands up like a hostage negotiator.

"I’ll go get help," I offered meekly, backing away.

"No—YOU’RE STAYING WITH ME!" she growled. "YOU’RE THE IDIOT WHO GOT ME HERE."

I looked at Dylan. "You heard the woman."

Together, we helped her out of the car as a team of nurses came rushing with a gurney. Ella collapsed onto it dramatically, screaming something about the contractions being made of knives.

As they wheeled her away, one nurse asked, "Who’s the father?"

Dylan and I both said, "Not it," at the same time.

And that was the moment I realized two things:

One, I never want to be anywhere near childbirth again.

And two... we were so fucking dead.

If we lived.