I grabbed his hand. We would go through this together, just like we’d done everything else . . . united as a team.
The enormous curtain dropped over the stage after the lifetime achievement award presentation ended.
“The camera is going to pan to us when they announce the names,” he leaned over and whispered in my ear, inconspicuously wiping the bead of sweat trickling down my neck. “Just so you know.”
“I know. The camera has panned to us before. I can see when the red light goes on. I’ll be wearing this same smile, I promise.” My smile was permanently glued in place. “But it will be bigger.”
“Are you sure you want to wait?”
“Yes, just shut up already.” I grinned at him. “I wouldn’t miss this moment for anything in the world.
Well, you know what I mean.”
His shiny leather shoe slid across the floor and tapped gently into my low heels.
The music started.
“Please welcome two-time Best Lead Actor Academy Award winners Daniel Day-Lewis, Tom Hanks, Sean Penn, Jack Nicholson, and Dustin Hoffman.”
Ryan squeezed my hand and I could see he was holding his breath, too. He took my elbow in his hand and helped me stand up to applaud the actors walking out onto the stage. The five amazing and talented men each announced one of the five actors who were nominated for this year’s Best Lead Actor award.
I smiled so proudly as Ryan’s name was announced. Jack then joked that he was willing to share the sex symbol status if he had to. We all laughed when he said that if you didn’t know who Ryan Christensen was, just ask any female between the ages of six and ninety-six and they would surely tell you all about him.
Ryan, of course, rubbed his forehead while smiling.
I was so proud of him—it made enduring the pain worth it.
No matter what happened with his career from this moment forward, Ryan was now—officially—an Academy Award nominee.
He squeezed my hand tightly, holding our hands to his lips. We both stared off at the floor while each second seemed to last minutes.
“And the Oscar goes to . . .”
I held my breath while the excitement and contractions rippled through me.
Ryan was holding my hand so tightly my fingers were starting to tingle from lack of circulation.
“Ryan Christensen—Isletin.”
I think I screamed.
Everyone stood up to applaud—everyone. Famous directors, famous celebrities, famous musicians—the entire audience rose to applaud for him.
Ryan looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He leaned over and kissed me. I couldn’t stop smiling; I was giggling with excitement. He kissed me again, rubbing his hand over my stomach before heading toward the steps to the stage. Tears of happiness slipped from the corner of my eyes.
You could see in his priceless expression that he was shocked to have won. I hoped this overwhelming moment wouldn’t render him speechless. He was visibly shaken; at least, visibly to me. His mouth hung open in disbelief and his hand nervously rubbed his forehead as he climbed the steps.
I stood and clapped for him, enduring each painful contraction bravely as my body readied itself to give birth to our child.
I watched in awe as five of the most iconic actors of our time each shook Ryan’s hand and gave him congratulatory pats and hugs. His heroes, his mentors, the men he had admired and respected and strived to be like all welcomed him into their ranks.
Ryan stood at the podium with his beautiful gold statue clutched in his hands, still completely blown away that his dream had come true. He had finally achieved his greatest desire. His career as an artist had reached its highest peak.
“Thank you,” Ryan said repeatedly into the microphone. His eyes were locked on mine.
Everyone sat down in anticipation of his acceptance speech.
He had been dragging his feet about preparing until finally last night I made him write down what he would say if this moment were his.
“Thank you,” he said again. “I am so very humbled to be standing here in front of you all.” He scratched his forehead. He was so nervous.
Breathe, honey, just breathe.
“I didn’t think this goal would ever be obtainable, until someone convinced me otherwise and told me that dreams do come true if you point yourself in their direction.” He winked at me.
“That person is my lovely wife, Taryn, to whom I owe everything for this moment. She said two years ago that this script was Oscar-worthy and I’m so glad I listened to her.” He breathed out and chuckled nervously, shaking his award as proof.
I blew him a kiss from my hand and rubbed my stomach, pushing a tiny foot back down. Our child was anxious to have his birthday.
He reached for the little piece of paper that he had tucked away in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Written on it were the names of people he wanted to thank. I was glad he wore the silver tie and white shirt with his black tuxedo. He looked absolutely dashing.
Another powerful contraction hit. I grasped the armrest of my seat and locked my arms to help me ride out the pain. This one was difficult to smile through.
He looked out over the crowd. “I promise to make this quick as my wife just informed me several minutes ago that she’s been in labor for the last five hours, and I really don’t want her to give birth to our first child down there in the front row.”
The audience clapped and laughed.
He continued to fumble with the paper, nervously trying to unfold it. “Tell him to hang on, honey, I’ll be done in a minute.”
The audience laughed again.
He scratched his eyebrow. “I just let it slip,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but everyone heard him.
He shrugged, looking back at the five men still standing on the stage with him.
“Oh well, now the tabloids don’t have to speculate any longer and the paparazzi can stop asking. It’s a boy!” He looked out at the audience and grinned proudly.
The audience roared and applauded.
“I don’t know which moment of my evening tonight will be bigger, receiving this award or the arrival of my son, but I am grateful that they are happening on the same day so I can truly say that today is the best day of my life.” He took in a few quick breaths, trying to calm himself down.
“I’d like to thank my mom and dad, who are also here somewhere. Dad, yell so I know where you are.”
I heard his father yell “here” from somewhere in the back right corner of the grand theater and couldn’t help but smile.
Ryan continued his acceptance speech, thanking the amazing director, the crew, his co-stars, and expressing gratitude for being recognized among the other four nominees.
I was relieved when he finished, and I smiled when several of the superstars who flanked him patted him on the shoulders as he made his way to the side of the stage.
“Mrs. Christensen, are you in need of an ambulance?” a female stagehand asked, helping me as I tried to stand up.
“No,” I breathed in between contractions. “Just my husband, his parents, and our limo.”
Four hours later, on March 9, at 11:40 P.M., Mitchell Ryan Christensen made his debut. Seven pounds, ten ounces; twenty inches long—a perfect miniature version of his father, blue eyes and everything.
“Oh it’s good to be home,” Ryan sighed when we walked through the front doors of our six-thousand-square-foot, completely pretentious log home. Our five-day-old son was bundled up in his cozy blue fleece outfit with little puppy dog appliqués on the toes. He was strapped securely in his car seat carrier and slept the whole way from the airport to his home.
I immediately started unbuckling him so I could hold him again.
“Call the crew, let ’em know we’re back. I’m sure Pete and Tammy will rush right over to see him,” he chuckled, dragging our suitcases into the entryway.
“I will in a bit. After we get settled.”
Ryan took his Oscar out of the felt pouch that it was wrapped in. “I’m going to put this in the office.”