Chapter 31 Melanie
MELANIE
NOW
I can hardly wait to get home from work and see Josh.
Things with us have felt like magic lately—the connection, the music, the intimacy.
It feels like a piece of me that has been missing for years has finally found its way back.
I’m trying desperately to cling to it, even as the weight of everything I haven’t told him presses harder on my chest with each passing day.
I park next to his car in the back alley to my apartment. My neighbor is still out of town, so everything is quiet—too quiet. Most days when I get home, I hear Josh rehearsing from outside through the open windows. Today, there’s only silence. Maybe he went out for a walk. Maybe he’s napping.
But as soon as I push open the door, I know that something is terribly wrong.
The air is too thick, too still. The shades are drawn.
And there on the couch sits Josh, staring down a single glass of amber liquor and a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the coffee table.
Panic surges through me and I immediately feel like I’m going to be sick.
That’s when I see it. Next to the glass…
my note. My stomach drops. I wondered if he had seen it in my drawer that day. I guess he had.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even flinch at the sound of the door.
“H-hi,” I manage but my voice breaks, and I sound as if I have laryngitis. “Everything okay?”
Josh turns to me then and the moment our eyes meet, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. His eyes are rimmed red and puffy—not just tired. Wrecked. My pulse quickens and my heart sinks. Regret settles in my bones.
“You were pregnant?” he asks, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
The knot in my throat rises fast, choking back the words before I can say them.
And then I’m back in the hospital, remembering the sterile blue of the hospital walls, the coolness of the sheets, and that fleeting feeling of hope when I saw the ultrasound.
And then staring at the doctor’s shoes as she said, “I’m so sorry, there’s no heartbeat. ”
“Yes, but—”
“And you never told me?” His voice cracks. “How could you?” His eyes look back at the glass of bronze liquid. “How could you keep something like that from me?” Josh’s voice is thick with something I’ve never heard before. Hurt, yes, but also bitterness. Disgust.
My chest tightens.
He’s never directed his anger at me before. It startles me.
“Josh…I was—we were so young.” I move to sit beside him, but he stands abruptly, shaking me off without even touching me.
“No,” he snaps. “That’s not an excuse. We were young? So what? You could have told me. Called me. Anything.” He moves away from me, emptiness in his eyes.
“You could have called me,” I shoot back, my voice rising. “You left me with a letter. A fucking letter. Remember that?” I fold my arms defensively.
“I didn’t have a choice!” he yells, pacing now, hands tangled in his hair. “And this—this is something I should have known. God, Melanie.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I follow him, even though he keeps pulling away. “Track you down with my broken leg and say, ‘I was pregnant but not anymore’? You think that would have helped you back then? With everything else you were going through?”
He spins around to face me, chest heaving. “And what about now? All this time you’ve kept this from me. How am I supposed to—” He swallows hard, then his voice thick, “How am I supposed to trust you now?”
“Trust me?” The accusation hits harder than I expect. I wrap my arms around myself. “Josh, it was a teenage miscarriage. It happened a lifetime ago. It wasn’t about trust—I was barely surviving. I was seventeen and broken and alone,” I croak.
Josh stares at me, eyes glassy. “I’m trying to make a life with you, Melanie.” His voice is quieter now but somehow that makes it worse. “I let you in. I let you see me. But somehow you didn’t think I deserved to know this?”
I blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, barely able to stand under the weight of this pain. “I just—I didn’t know how.” I reach for his hand, and for a second his fingers twitch, like they might take mine. But then he backs away and the air between us closes like a door.
Josh nods once. The motion is stiff. Final.
He rakes a hand through his hair and settles his gaze on mine. We’re at a standoff, neither able to rationally discuss the past without our emotions getting the better of us. His jaw ticks and he sucks in a breath. “I think—I think I need some time.”
I can’t breathe. It’s like the room is closing in on me, and all I can think is, please don’t let this be the moment that ends us.
He walks into the bedroom, and I don’t follow. My legs won’t move. A minute later, he returns with his black duffle bag in one hand and guitar slung over his shoulder. His jaw is clenched, his eyes distant. Cold.
“You’re leaving?” My voice breaks. “But…you’ve been drinking.” I gesture at the untouched glass.
“I didn’t touch it,” he says, flatly. Then he moves toward the door.
“What about the concert?” It comes out as a whisper, a final plea.
Josh pauses, his back to me and his hand resting on the knob. Then he turns back to me. His jaw ticks for a beat. “I’ll be there.”
And then he’s gone.
* * *
The door clicks shut and the silence that follows is deafening.
I stand there, frozen, watching the door as if he might turn around and whisk back through it, apologizing for losing his cool.
That doesn’t happen though. I wrap my arms around myself as if they might hold me together, keep me from breaking open. But they don’t. Not this time.
I sink into the couch, staring at the glass he left behind. The Jack Daniels glows in the dim light, still untouched. Still full of all the things we didn’t say.
I reach for the glass, my hands trembling, and bring it to my lips. I smell it and it stings my nose, sharp and warm, and dangerous.
Josh didn’t drink it.
But I do.
One sip and the liquid scorches its way down, my throat tightening in protest. My eyes sting and I cough, setting the glass down quickly. And yet, I feel closer to him somehow. I pick it up again and toss the rest of it back in one large gulp.
And then I unravel.
Curling into the corner of the couch, I cry into the silence, sobbing until my chest aches and my whole body feels hot and puffy.
Sobbing for Josh. Sobbing for losing him and Cara and our baby all those years ago.
Sobbing for losing him now, the weight of it all too heavy to carry.
I don’t even try to hold it back. There’s no one here to see me crack open. That’s the worst part of all.
Eventually, I drag myself to my feet, my body feeling like stone.
I forgo dinner and move on autopilot to my room, to Josh’s drawer.
He didn’t take everything and that somehow gives me hope.
I take one of his T-shirts from the drawer, and it smells like him, laundry detergent and sandalwood.
I press it to my face for a long moment before slipping out of my work clothes and pulling it on.
Swapping my pillow for Josh’s, I climb into bed and clutch the fabric close to me, taking comfort in his scent like a lifeline. Then, after what feels like hours of blinking into the darkness, my tears slow.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
But eventually, it comes.