Alyssa

"Nina, can I get another drink over here?" Ashley shouts from across the table like we're at a rowdy dive bar instead of my impromptu baby shower.

I groan, bracing one hand on the table while the other rubs over the tight dome of my belly, trying—and failing—to ride out the contraction ripping through me like molten steel.

It's been like this for two goddamn weeks now.

Nonstop.

Prodromal labor. That's what Dr. Summers called it.

Basically, it ...