Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“I felt like I was the only one who cared about him. Who cared that he had once lived and then died.”
“I care,” he said fiercely, his voice harsh with the strength of his emotions.
“That means a lot. Thank you,” she said, and he nearly swore. How could she thank him? The selfish, arrogant prick who had ruined her life in a single night? Her gratitude killed him because he didn’t fucking deserve it. Not one bit.
He swiped a hand over his face, barely able to meet her eyes. His beautiful Tina, whom he had so utterly and irrevocably fallen in love with. How could he ever expect her to forgive him for this? To love him even a little?
“I’ve been having some difficulty,” she continued unbidden, and he locked his gaze on hers once more, “being around babies. I know it’s stupid . . . and makes no sense. I love babies. I love Clara. But I can’t hold her. I’m terrified of holding her. And I so desperately want to.”
“Have you . . .” His voice failed him, cracking and fading before he could complete the sentence. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Did you see someone? After?”
She nodded, her fingers restlessly toying with the drawstring on her hoodie.
“For a little while. The hospital arranged a social worker; she was very kind.” The words damn near killed him. Who else had been kind to her during that time? The parents who had tried to force her to give the baby up? Her brothers, who had never displayed one iota of patience with her in the entire time that Harris had known them? He should have been there. He should have known. But at the same time, the young, irresponsible fool he had been would have been ill equipped to deal with such an overwhelmingly adult situation.
“What about a therapist?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle, not wanting to spook her when she was in such a fragile emotional state.
“Not immediately. After I returned home and found myself unable to continue with medical school, I saw someone for a little while. I was having panic attacks and night terrors. The therapist taught me a few breathing techniques, coping mechanisms. I recovered physically and—eventually—emotionally.”
Emotionally? When she couldn’t so much as hold a baby? That wasn’t a recovery; that was a festering wound. He didn’t argue. She had been staring at the wall somewhere beyond his left shoulder and suddenly shifted her gaze to meet his. Those wide green eyes still drenched in tears and red rimmed. She wasn’t a pretty crier, yet somehow the raw, honest emotion made her even more beautiful to him.
“Would you . . .” Her fingers curled into the string of the hoodie. So tightly they went white where it pushed into her flesh. “Would you like to see a picture of him? Of Fletcher?”
God.
The half-hopeful, half-terrified note in her voice precisely echoed what he was feeling after that question. He wanted to see a picture, needed to see it, but he wasn’t sure he was emotionally fortified to deal with the pain he knew was just waiting to be unleashed once he did see it.
“Yes, please.” He kept his voice firm, not allowing a single ounce of hesitation or uncertainty to creep into those two words. She wanted to share their son with him. He needed to let her do that.
She untwisted her fingers from the drawstring, and they went pink as blood rushed back into them. She reached for her phone, swiping the screen while she spoke. The rush of nervous words barely registering with Harris as he watched her hands anxiously.
“I took so many pictures of him during the short time I had him,” she was saying. “I printed all of them—they’re in a photo album in the living room. But I also keep them in a folder on my phone. I’m terrified of losing them. Then I’d have nothing left of him. Of my beautiful little Fletcher.”
She stopped swiping and stared down at her screen for a long moment before inhaling deeply and holding the device out to him. Harris stared at her hand for an equally long moment, terrified of looking. But at the same time equally terrified of not seeing. Harris knew that if he waited too long, she’d change her mind and snatch her phone back. He slowly and reluctantly reached out to take the phone from her and flipped it around. He shut his eyes and held his breath for a long moment before exhaling once he opened his eyes again.
He stared at the image on the screen for what seemed like hours and felt a piece of his heart break off, lost forever. The damage was irreparable, the loss irreplaceable. And Harris knew that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.