“We need to adjust the plan.”

Dr. Wagner’s words are not the ones I wanted to hear. It feels like the plan is already adjusted enough since we’re delivering a month earlier than we’re supposed to.

“She doesn’t want a C-section.” I keep my voice low enough for just the doctor to hear. “You know how important that is to her.”

I hazard a glance to where Bristol rests between contractions. She scraped her hair back from her face, but tendrils have insisted on loosening from the restraint and cling to her face. Her hospital gown is drenched, and her head flops to the side in exhaustion. I’ve lost track of how long she’s been in labor, but apparently, Dr. Wagner thinks it’s been long enough.

“Her labor isn’t progressing.” Dr. Wagner’s eyes soften with compassion, but her jaw sets with resolve. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping. Given that you wanted as easy a passage for Zoe and as much time with her as possible, we need to adjust, and now. I can tell Bristol or—”

“No.” I shake my head decisively. “It needs to be me. I’ll tell her.”

“Good.” She signals to a nurse hovering nearby. “We need to start prepping her for surgery. I’ll give you a minute to explain the situation.”

Dr. Wagner, in a rare lowering of her professional guard, grabs my hand and squeezes.

“You’ve come this far, Grip,” she says, her eyes sympathetic and grave. “You and Bristol set this course that most can’t or don’t follow. It’s time to see it through to the end.”

I rein in fear and frustration and rage and helplessness, trying not to panic while a propeller spins out of control in my chest. I never had a father to teach me what it means to be a man, how to lead a household, support a family, love a wife. Most of what I know about love and about leading, a woman taught me. My mother taught me, and every lesson, every bit of advice, everything she tried to impart to me, I’m grappling for, struggling to remember as I approach the hardest thing I’ve ever done and will probably ever do.

“Bris,” I whisper, brushing the wet strands from her forehead. “Hey babe.”

Her eyes open and roll a little with fatigue and the medication she’s been given for pain before she focuses on my face.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice thinned by the long hours. “The baby—”

“She’s fine. You’re doing great, but we . . .”

I hate to do this knowing how badly Bristol wanted to deliver naturally. It’s one more thing from this experience that won’t be as we wanted it, one more thing I have to take away from her.

“We need to do a C-section, Bris.” I watch her face, and my heart contracts when a solitary tear streaks over her cheekbone.

“No, Grip, I . . .” She swipes at the tear impatiently and compresses her lips. “Why?”

“Your labor isn’t progressing. It’s been too long. We were hoping it would happen quickly, naturally, but if we want Zoe to have the easiest passage, want time with her, we need to do it now.”

“Now?” Her eyes widen and she saws at her lip with her teeth. “I . . . now.”

“Yeah.” I glance over my shoulder as Dr. Wagner and her team enter the room. “They want to start prepping you.”

She grabs my hand, squeezing it hard enough to draw blood.

“Grip, I’m scared.” Tears swim over the terror in her silvery eyes. “I . . . I can’t do this.”

I can count on one hand the number of times Bristol has told me she feared anything. We hadn’t really talked about surgery much because we weren’t planning on it, but I know enough to ease her mind, and anything I don’t know, Dr. Wagner can fill in.

“It’s a simple surgery,” I reassure her. “They’ll just—”

“No, not the surgery.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I mean . . . what comes after the surgery.”

She looks back at me, fear obscuring the confidence, the fearlessness I’m used to seeing.

“I can’t do this.” Her lips tremble as her nails slice into my skin. “I don’t think I can let her go.”

Fuck.

I don’t think I can do this either, but we have to. The team is hovering, and Dr. Wagner’s urgency is quickly becoming impatience, breathing down the back of my neck.

“Bris, it’s gonna be . . .” The word “okay” congeals in my mouth. Bristol and I don’t lie, not to each other. Our relationship is built on uncomfortable conversations, shitty odds and, in Bristol’s words, love without walls. I’m not erecting walls between us now with anything less than the truth.

“I don’t know if it’s gonna be okay,” I admit quietly.

Her weary eyes spark and latch onto my confession, to my unexpected honesty.

“I’ve never made you promises I can’t keep, Bris, and I’m not gonna start bullshitting you now.”

I gulp back the trepidation that would keep me from saying what has to be said before they make the cut that will bring Zoe to us, for minutes, hours, or days.

“Shit’s about to get real,” I say. “And the only thing I can promise you is that I will love you for the rest of my life, and I truly believe we can survive anything together. Do you believe that?”

I’ll never forget this moment when, through the abject fear and despair and exhaustion saturating her eyes, I glimpse her trust in me. It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received.

“Yes.” Her voice comes out frail, but that steel that reinforces her character. It’s there. It defies the shit-storm we’re flying into. I like to think it defies it because we are flying into it together. I’m not God—I can’t promise her miracles, and as badly as I wish I could, I can’t save Zoe. When it’s time to let her go, I’ll be as shredded as Bristol. I am her husband, though, and she’s the only woman I’ve ever loved. All I can promise is that through everything, we’ll have each other.