Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Stevie
When Angel leaves later that afternoon, the house doesn’t feel empty in the same way.
He doesn’t say goodbye like it’s a crack forming.
Doesn’t hesitate in the doorway or look back like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks too long.
He just kisses my forehead, rests his warm palm against my cheek, and tells me to text him when I’m ready.
Then he walks out like this isn’t an ending. It’s a pause. That difference matters more than I expect it to.
I sit on the couch for a long time after, fingers wrapped around a mug that’s gone cold, staring at nothing in particular. My chest still aches from crying. My eyes burn. My head feels heavy and hollow at the same time.
But the tight, panicked knot that’s been living just under my ribs for weeks… It’s quieter now, not gone but just quieter. The silence in the room doesn’t feel like an accusation anymore. It feels… neutral. Like it’s waiting to see what I do next.
My sister moves around the kitchen, giving me space the way she always has, close enough to catch me if I fall, far enough not to crowd me. She sets a plate of toast down beside me like it’s no big deal.
“You want butter or jam?” she asks casually.
“Butter,” I say, surprised to hear myself answer at all.
She nods, slides the butter dish closer, and leaves it at that.
No comments about calories, no questions about macros, and not a single raised eyebrow about supplements.
Just toast. I pick up a piece and spread butter on it.
My hands don’t shake this time. The smell is warm and ordinary.
I take a bite. It tastes like nothing and everything all at once.
Food feels foreign lately. Like my body doesn’t know what to do with it unless it’s measured and counted and logged. But the toast settles warm in my stomach, and I don’t immediately think about progesterone levels or inflammation or anything else that’s been living in my head rent-free.
I glance at my phone on the coffee table. No charts open, no forums glowing, not a single alarm set for temperature checks. Just Angel’s last message sitting there, unread because I don’t need to open it to know what it says.
I love you.
I pick up the phone. Flip it face down. Not because I don’t want to see it. But because I want to sit in this moment without reaching for control. That feels… dangerous. Like walking across a tightrope without checking the rope first.
We talk about counseling like it’s a fragile thing. Like if we say it too loud, it might shatter. My sister doesn’t push. She just listens while I circle the idea, my words looping and doubling back on themselves.
“I don’t want someone telling me what to do,” I say.
“They shouldn’t,” she replies. “They should help you figure out what you need.”
“I don’t want to be told to relax.”
She snorts softly. “If they say that, you’re allowed to walk out.”
That earns a small smile. The first one in days.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “What if they tell me to stop trying?”
She considers that, not dismissing it.
“What if they help you find a way to try without destroying yourself?” she asks.
The idea lands softly. Doesn’t bruise like the others have. A way to try without destroying myself. Is that even possible?
I nod once, slowly. “I don’t want to go alone.”
“You won’t,” she says. “Angel made that pretty clear.”
He did.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t treat the word "help" like a weakness.
And that matters more than I want to admit.
That night, alone in the spare room, sleep doesn’t come easy. But it’s different than before. I’m not wired or frantic. Just… tender. Like my insides have been sanded raw.
I lie on my side, knees drawn up, listening to the familiar creak of the house settling around me. I don’t take my temperature. The thermometer sits in my bag on the dresser. Untouched. That alone feels monumental. I don’t reach for the notebook. I don’t open the apps.
My fingers twitch once, out of habit. Then go still. The fan hums overhead. I let myself just exist. No tracking. No planning. Just breathing.
My phone buzzes softly on the nightstand.
Angel ??: You, okay?
I stare at it for a moment. Then type back before I can overthink it.
Me: Yeah. Tired. But okay.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Angel ??: Proud of you.
My throat tightens. I stare at the words like they’re something precious and dangerous.
Proud of you.
Not, "You'll be fine, we’ll fix this, or we’ll try harder.” Just pride.
For what?
For not running?
For admitting I’m scared.
For not opening the app?
For staying?
Tears slip down my temples into my hair. Quiet ones this time. The kind that don’t steal your breath. Maybe this is what letting someone in feels like.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Just steady and warm.
We make the call the next morning. Angel drives over early. He doesn’t make it a big deal. Doesn’t bring coffee or jokes or distraction. He just sits beside me at the kitchen table. His knee bounces slightly. I can see the tension in his jaw.
He’s nervous too. That makes me feel less alone. I put the therapist’s number on speaker. My hands shake when I dial. A woman answers. Her voice is calm. Kind. Professional without being distant.
“How can I help?”
I swallow.
“My name is Stevie,” I say. My voice wobbles but doesn’t break. “My husband and I… we’ve experienced recurrent pregnancy loss.”
There. Said. Out loud.
Angel’s hand finds mine under the table. He squeezes once. Grounding me without thought. The receptionist doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fill the silence with platitudes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says gently. “You’re not alone in that.”
The words don’t feel hollow. She offers an appointment for the following week.
I almost say no.
Almost tell her we need more time.
More preparation.
More… something.
But Angel’s hand tightens around mine again.
Steady.
Present.
“That works,” I hear myself say.
She gives us details. Time. Location. What to expect. When the call ends, I sit there staring at the phone like it might explode.
“Well,” Angel says softly.
My chest feels tight and light at the same time.
“We did it.”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped for months.
“I feel like I just jumped off a cliff.”
He smiles, small and gentle. “I’ll jump with you.”
Something inside me loosens at that.
Driving home later, the road feels different. Not lighter. Not magically healed. But not endless, either. The Texas sky stretches wide above us. The sun is high now. Wind brushing through the open window.
I watch Angel’s hands on the wheel. The familiar curve of his shoulders. The quiet strength in the way he drives. This man has faced things that would’ve broken others. Gunfire. Loss. Betrayal. And here he is, choosing to sit in my mess instead of riding away from it.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Always.”
“Were you scared I wouldn’t come back?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works once.
Then, quietly, “Yeah.”
The honesty of his answer hits harder than reassurance ever could.
“I was scared too,” I admit. “That if I stayed, I’d lose myself completely.”
He glances at me briefly before turning back to the road.
“You don’t have to choose between us and yourself,” he says.
“I didn’t know that until now.”
He reaches over and squeezes my knee.
“You’re allowed to be hurt and still be mine.”
The simplicity of that makes my eyes sting.
That night, back in our bed, things are different again.
Not fixed, nothing has been magically healed, but it feels softer.
The house doesn’t feel like a battlefield.
The bed doesn’t feel like a clinic. Angel doesn’t touch me like he’s afraid to break me or like he needs something from me.
He just wraps an arm around my waist and presses a kiss into my hair. We lie there in the dark.
“We don’t have to have sex tonight,” he says quietly.
There’s no accusation in it. No disappointment, just understanding. Relief floods me so fast it almost makes me cry again.
“I know,” I whisper.
We don’t. And for the first time in a long time, that doesn’t feel like failure. I lie there listening to his breathing. Steady. Solid. I let myself imagine a future that isn’t mapped out in days and temperatures and rules. A future that includes grief. And love, some uncertainty. But also, choice.
I don’t know what counseling will bring. I definitely don’t know if I’m ready to stop trying or if I ever will be or if my body will ever cooperate the way I want it to. But for the first time since the hospital… I know this:
I don’t have to fight my body alone.
I don’t have to fight my fear alone.
And I don’t have to sacrifice myself to prove I’m worthy of motherhood.
Angel’s arm tightens around me slightly as he drifts toward sleep. I press my hand over his. And for the first time in weeks, when I close my eyes… I’m not counting anything. I’m just resting. And that feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in a long time.