The car jerks to a stop just as Natalia’s cell phone rings.

“Paulo!” she exclaims as Solange runs around to open the door for her. “Where are you?” She and Paulo talk while I yank the electrodes off my body. Natalia, suddenly spry as hell, hoists herself out of the car, the phone at her ear. In the meantime, I’m still struggling to sit up.

The back door flies open, and Solange reaches for my arm. “C’mon, strapping young man. You were phenomenal, but I think your work here is done.”

“Don’t talk to me,” I say, dodging her hands. “And don’t snort either.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, backing away with a huge grin on her face, her hands up in the air in surrender. “I’m going to park the car.”

An orderly with a wheelchair greets us in the circular driveway of the hospital’s emergency entrance. I’m hunched over, a hand at my back and the birthing bag at my side as I try to support Natalia’s slow climb up the cement incline.

“Who’s the patient?” the jokester asks.

“Funny. She’s the mom-to-be,” I say.

The orderly helps Natalia into the wheelchair. Good thing, too, because I’m still catching my breath. With Natalia safely tucked away and ready for transport, her hands gripping the wheelchair’s armrests and her bag hanging from the handles, the orderly rolls her inside.

I scan the hospital grounds for any sign of Solange and easily spot her hair bouncing in the air as she trots across the visitors’ parking lot.

She’s panting when she reaches me, her cheeks slightly flushed. “You, my friend, have gone above and beyond. You can definitely call it a night.”

And miss this rare event? No way. I didn’t grow up in a big family. My mother has no siblings, and she burned her bridges with her own parents even before I was born. For obvious reasons, I’ve never even met my grandparents on my father’s side. Hell, I’m not even sure they know I exist. So this—mothers and aunts and cousins gathering around to celebrate the birth of their newest relative—is new to me. I’d like to experience this moment, even if it’s secondhand. Besides, I don’t want the night to be over just yet. I like Solange. As a person. And I can push aside my attraction if it means I get to spend more time with her. “Forget it, Pereira,” I say as I massage my belly. “I’m in it for the long haul. Waiting-room pacing and everything.”

She smiles, and it’s as though the joy of hearing my statement is illuminating her from the inside and spreading a burst of brightness in every direction. All that damn pain was worth it to get to see her like this.

“Okay, well, let’s go pace together,” she says.