Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Her breath catches at the back of her throat, making her jerk as I caress her cheek, my tear-filled eyes staring into hers. I can understand her fear though. I stormed off, unsure I could ever forgive her, and yet now I’m professing my undying devotion. But it’s true. I could never not love this woman. “We let these people tell us you’re going to be okay, and then we go home to be together.”
She nods jerkily, dislodging more tears.
“Tell me you love me,” I order, desperate to bring something familiar and comforting to this whole horror scene.
“I need you,” she sobs, hauling me into her and cuddling me hard.
She feels so fragile and weak in my arms. “I need you too.” And I need her to let me look after her. “Let me get you into this gown.”
The silence falls, but it’s an oddly easy silence, yet at the same time, a really fucking hard one. I wipe the insides of her thighs with a cloth and slowly get her into the gown, letting the nurse know when we’re ready. Even if we’re not.
She enters, that sympathetic smile still on her face, and a doctor follows her in. I try so hard to stop it, but my body tightens, dread for what’s to come gripping me. He nods at me as he sits on the side of the bed. “How are you feeling, Ava?”
What a stupid fucking question.
“Fine.”
And an even stupider answer.
“I’m okay,” she says again, sensing my despair, finding another word for fine. “Thank you.”
“Okay.” He looks across her gown-covered body. “No aches or pains, cuts or bruises?”
“No.” She shakes her head, her hands fiddling wildly. “Nothing.”
He reaches for the sheets and eases them down to below her stomach, and I shift in my chair, uncomfortable, bracing myself for the tragic news. “Let’s see what’s going on. Would you like to pull the gown up so I can feel your tummy?”
I can’t sit here and watch this stranger poke and prod at my wife, all with the sole purpose of telling us we’ve lost something so fucking precious. Always losing. This is painful enough. I feel Ava studying me, pensive, and all I can do is wonder how I make this better. I can’t even force a weak smile to try and reassure her. Fuck, I need some air. My lungs are burning with the effort to simply breathe. Loser. “I might step outside.” I feel like a ticking time bomb.
“Don’t you dare,” Ava blurts, stopping my backward steps to the door. “Don’t you dare leave me.” Her jaw is between quivering and tightening, her eyes steely but watery.
She needs me.
Fuck. It’s a lightning-bolt moment. I always wish for her vulnerability to shine through. But not like this. I pick up my feet and go to her, sitting and holding her hands with both of mine, my gaze low, my mind trying to block out the sounds of the doctor working.
“This will be a little chilly,” he says.
And a lot fucking painful. I laugh sardonically on the inside. I should be fucking used to it. Immune to it. But no. The universe wants to carry on fucking me over. And because I’m now married to this young, bright beauty, she will be fucked over too.
I breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
In.
Out.
I hear clicks, turns, whooshes, my breathing, Ava’s breathing. I notice her staring at the ceiling, her face painfully expressionless. My head drops heavily again, my hands squeezing tighter around hers. Time stands still for a while, my hearing heightened, the clock hands ticking in between the machinery and the thumps of my heartbeats. I blink my dry eyes, head still low, still clinging to her. Keeping me grounded.
I need a drink.
Vod—
“Everything is okay, Ava,” the doctor says.
I frown, not daring to look up, scared I’m hearing things. It wouldn’t be the first time. Hearing things, seeing things. Ava murmurs her confusion. I hear the doctor tell us light bleeding isn’t unusual during the early stages.
Everything is okay? My wife and my baby are okay? I blink, feeling the tickle of a tear rolling down my cheek. Is this a dream?
Ava sucks in air sharply, and I realize it’s a sound of pain. Then I realize I’m the one causing her pain, squeezing her hand to death. I quickly relax and look up in a state of utter shock. Our baby is okay.
She’s not been taken.
Ava doesn’t look all too present either. What the fuck is going on?
And is one of us going to ask for confirmation? Did Ava hear what was just said? My mouth opens and shuts. Ava’s mouth opens and shuts.
I stand, but my legs wobble, so I sit back down. Then get straight back up. “Ava’s still pregnant?” I murmur, staring at the doctor, watching his face so very closely, trying to read every slight move in his expression. He’s smiling. That has to be a good thing. No doctor would smile if the situation was dire. “She’s . . . she’s . . .” I can’t string a fucking sentence together. “There’s . . . we’re . . .” What am I trying to say?