The Right Kind of Wrong: A Brother's Best Friend Romance by Fabiola Francisco (open ebook .TXT) 📗

us find a house in Everton, sending me links or pictures of any places she comes across that she thinks would be great for our family. God bless my sister-in-law for all her help. It hasn’t been easy between my pregnancy, Camden’s work and preparing his clients for our move, and my stress that the baby will be here in just ten weeks.

The last thing I want is to be mid-move when our baby boy decides to make his entrance earth-side. I place my hand on my growing stomach and sigh, leaning back into the sofa. I look around the living room, and my heart begins to race as my anxiety peaks.

I haven’t unpacked all of my things since we’ll be moving at some point, but it’s made it difficult to find everything I need. Camden has made space in his closet and dresser for me, but it’s still all a pile of mess.

Taking a deep breath, I stand from the couch and continue sorting some of my belongings into one of my suitcases as I look for a clean pair of leggings. Groaning as I bend to grab the leggings, my hand flies to my stomach mid-reach when I feel a cramp press into me.

I cry out in pain, and my other hand slams against the wall, holding myself up. Then, I feel a warm liquid trail down my legs. My heart races as panic sets in, and tears burn my eyes. I whip around on autopilot, looking for my phone, and call an ambulance. I grab my purse, so I have my ID on me and scream out when another cramp takes over, my purse landing on the floor.

Please be okay, baby boy.

Crippling fear holds me in place as my arms cradle my belly as if I were holding my son. Tears soak my face as I try to catch my breath. I sigh when the door swings open. Camden halts when he sees me, his eyes widening.

“What’s wrong?” His words rush out, and he’s by my side immediately.

“The baby,” I choke out. “Called 911.” My face twists again, the pain coming stronger.

“He’s early.” Camden combs a hand through his hair. “Too fucking early.” He starts making his way around the apartment, grabbing my purse off the floor and other things that I can’t see. I don’t care about clean clothes, only that my baby is okay.

It’s all a blur when I hear Camden guide the paramedics into the apartment. I faintly hear what they say above the gushing sound in my ears. Thankfully, Camden is by my side

the entire time, holding my hand and promising me a future together with our son. I hope to God he’s right.

In the ambulance, I explain what happened and how I felt like my water broke in between asking how the baby is doing and if we’ll be okay. Once we arrive at the hospital, I’m wheeled into the emergency room with Camden walking beside me, his face marred with worry and fear. I reach for his hand with my IV-clad one and squeeze his fingers.

I’ve never been so scared in my life.

Everything happens so fast. Checking my vitals, the baby’s vitals, questions thrown at Camden and me. The next thing I know, I’m in labor, and our son will be born prematurely.

Throughout it all, my heart slams in my chest as nausea threatens to rear its ugly head. I’m terrified of what this all means, even if the doctor has assured me that women have premature babies often.

I look over at Camden, talking to the doctor, and my eyes mist over. I want this family with him. My eyes squeeze shut when my stomach contracts again in a painful cramp. Camden is by my side in a rush, and the doctor is checking on me, doing whatever her responsibility is, which I count includes keeping my baby and me alive and well.

“I’m scared, Cam,” I whisper as his hand brushes my hair away from my forehead, and his lips smooth over my skin there. I was supposed to have more time. My baby boy is supposed to have more time to get stronger.

“I’m with you, Kiwi. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

A sob rips through me, and Camden holds me in his arms. He can’t keep promises that are out of his control.

- - - - -

Camden

I’ve never, in my fucking life, felt so terrified, angry, and useless. There’s nothing I can do but hold Ally and keep empty promises that hold no weight. If I were God, I’d promise her the world, but right now, I’m questioning where the fuck God even is.

The doctor told me that a baby born at thirty weeks has a ninety-five percent chance of surviving if there are no complications. The fact that I don’t have a one-hundred percent statistic makes me anxious and stressed.

“I’ll be right back,” I whisper in Ally’s hair when she gets her emotions under control. She nods silently, but I see the fear in her eyes.

I step out of the hospital room and run a hand down my face. I’m trying to be strong for her, so she doesn’t see my cracks, but I’m only human. I’m scared like she is—that I’ll lose our son and the woman I love. I need a moment to compose myself and continue being strong for her.

If I hadn’t gone to a meeting today, if I would’ve stayed home like I wanted, I could’ve been there for her. I would’ve kept an eye on her, making sure nothing was off, and we wouldn’t be here now. I could’ve prevented it.

I drop to my knees in the stark hallway and clasp my hands.

God, I know I haven’t been the best example of a Christian life, and I have no right to ask you this, but keep Ally and our son safe. Fuck, I’m even too selfish to offer my life for hers because I’m not done living by her side. I’m not