Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
MATT
By day three, I don’t recognize myself.
The numbers on the monitor refuse to cooperate—blood pressure still too low, alarms chirping like they’re mocking us.
The doctors have tried medication after medication, adjusting doses until my body feels like a chemistry experiment gone wrong.
My veins burn, my head swims, and they’ve switched IV bags more times than I can count, since I’m asleep more than I’m awake.
No, that’s not right.
It feels like I’m suspended between consciousness and sleep, never fully in either one. And I’m afraid if I let my mind relax and stop fighting to stay present—I won’t be strong enough to come back.
The doctors speak in careful voices just outside the curtain, as if whispering will keep the truth from being true. They have no idea how to help me. They’re out of meds to try. Doc has called in the top cardiologist in Texas, and still, I’m dying.
I feel it in my bones.
The weakness.
The fading.
Noelle sits beside me, her body curled into the hospital chair that isn’t made for a pregnant woman. She’s afraid to leave even for a second. Her hair is pulled back, with dark circles under her eyes, one hand always on my arm, my chest—anywhere she can remind herself I’m still warm.
Alive.
I hate that I’m doing this to her.
“Butterfly?” When I speak, my voice sounds smaller than I expect, like it’s already leaving me. She turns, only half awake herself. Her lids open sluggishly, searching for my face. “You need to listen to me,” I say.
Her head snaps up, suddenly fully present. “Don’t.”
“I mean it,” I push, even though it takes more effort than it should. “You don’t get to pretend this isn’t happening.”
Her eyes are veiled with tears, defiant and broken all at once. “I’m not pretending. You’ll be okay.”
I shake my head slowly. “That’s the problem. You’re not allowing yourself to see what is happening. I’m… dying.”
She stands so fast the chair scrapes loudly. “You are not. Do not say that.”
I look at her—really look. The woman carrying my child. The woman I love more than my own heartbeat. The woman who deserves mornings and decades and a man who can stand beside her without monitors and nurses and fear.
I lie quietly as my own tears roll down my nose and over my lips. “Noelle, loving you was a forbidden play I wasn’t supposed to make,” I say quietly. “But I’d call that play again. Every time. But I won’t let it cost you your life, waiting for me to die, or cause stress on our baby.”
She shakes her head, tears spilling. “Stop talking like this.” Her words are broken and weak.
“I love you,” I say. “God, Noelle, I love you. But you don’t deserve a dying man. You deserve someone who can lift you when you’re tired. Someone who can chase our son through the yard. Who won’t make you count pills or watch numbers on a screen.”
Her hand presses over her mouth, a sob breaking free, an ugly cry that shows her soul.
Her love.
Her beauty.
“I wanted forever,” I admit. “I wanted to be your husband. I wanted to be in the delivery room when our son was born. I wanted to throw touchdowns with him and have birthday parties for him. Drench you in whipped cream and… but wanting doesn’t change biology.
Or fate. Or the fact that my body keeps failing me. ”
She leans over me, forehead pressed to mine, tears falling onto my skin. “You’re not allowed to leave,” she whispers. “You promised.”
I close my eyes because if I don’t, I won’t be strong enough to finish this.
“I’m not leaving you because I don’t love you,” I say. “I’m leaving because I do.”
And when she finally breaks—when the sound she makes rips through me deeper than any pain—I know I’ve shattered both our hearts.
But loving her was never a mistake.