Chapter 23 The Broken Cage
THE brOKEN CAGE
QUINTON
My eyes glaze over, red and bloodshot as I attempt to focus on the plethora of medical journal articles sprawled across my desk.
She’s made up her mind, and it’s her decision to make.
I understand that. I accept that. But, Christ, the risks are so high.
Every time she coughs, every time she fucking sneezes, my heart drops to the pit of my stomach with fear.
It’s been four weeks. Four weeks and the worry doesn’t fade.
It doesn’t vanish, only grows. We’re past the first trimester now.
I should be able to relax. I should channel Damon’s confidence, Damon’s joy. But I can’t.
Guilt washes over me as a knock sounds from my office door, and Gretchen pokes her head in, clearing her throat. “Dr. Marquis?”
I tilt my weary head up, sighing. “Yes?”
“Miss Jones is here to see you. Apparently, you have a lunch date?”
I check the clock. It’s already 1 p.m. I’ve let the day get away from me again.
I stir in the chair, inwardly wincing. I should’ve gone home last night.
But I couldn’t. There are too many studies to read.
There are too many proposals for treatment plans, care plans.
Preventative measure proposals. So many theories.
So many hypotheses. I won’t let her be a guinea pig.
But the options… They’re limited. Wait and hope. That’s all we can do.
“You can tell her I’ll be right out,” I say, standing up and stretching.
Before Gretchen can respond, Emery appears in the doorway, ducking around my receptionist.
“Thanks, Gretchen,” she says, subtly nodding for her to depart. Gretchen scurries away, and Emery shuts the door behind her as she stands before me, arms crossed, expression sympathetic. She shakes her head, sighing as she gives a slow, pitiful once-over. “When’s the last time you slept, Quin?”
I clear my throat. “I took a nap earlier.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Quin. I’m bloated, emotional, and hungry.”
I expel a deep breath, my body visibly shrinking under her scrutiny. “Fine. Maybe a day ago. But I don’t need—”
She drops her arms, flapping them to her side.
“Quinton, I’m okay.” Her tone is fierce, confident in its resolve.
She spins around. “See?” I avert my gaze, my gut twisting with hunger and dread.
She raises her voice. “Look at me, Quin. Look at me.” And then she’s by my side, hands cupping my cheeks, tender and desperate.
“Look at me!” Tears prick at the corner of my eyes as I force myself to meet her determined stare.
“I’m fine, Quin. I feel fine. My tests are normal. Everything is fine.”
I’ve tried to be strong for her. I’ve tried to keep my fears and emotions locked up, caged behind ironclad bars.
I forced down my opinions, my thoughts, and the terror I felt every time I looked at her, every time I held her, knowing that one day, she could slip away from me.
Knowing that one day, she could turn to dust in my grasp.
It’s been four weeks, and I’m on the precipice of being released. The sentence was too short. I can’t leave now. I don’t want to leave now. But the bars are rusting. The cage is falling apart, screws and nuts and hinges disintegrating into a puddle of my deepest worries.
And then, when she whispers that she loves me, the cage breaks, and I crumble with it.
“I’m so scared.” Hot, uncontrollable tears roll down my face, my shoulders shaking, my breaths shallow and strained.
I hold her, my arms wrapped around her growing body, hoping that my embrace will shield her from chance, from statistics, from harm.
“I can’t lose you, Emery. I can’t lose you. I can’t—”
“You won’t, baby.” Her soft fingers thread through the back of my hair as she soothes me with hushed whispers, my forehead resting on the slope of her neck.
My tears stain her jacket, soaking through the thick fabric.
“I’m right here, Quin. Right here. I’m not going anywhere.
I won’t leave you. I promise I won’t leave you. ”
“I’m sorry.” The words come out weak, shaken. “I’m so sorry I’ve been—”
“Don’t.” She pulls away, searching my face as I fight against shame and look up at her.
“Don’t you dare apologize for caring about me, Quin.
I get it. I understand how you feel. But I…
” She swallows, glancing down at her belly.
She places a hand over her stomach, a warm, magical smile clipping her lips.
“We’re fine. We’re healthy, Quin. We’re…
” She tilts her head. “We’re happy.” With the pad of her thumb, she wipes a stream of tears from my cheek.
“Be happy with us, Quin.” She pauses, almost pleading.
“Please be happy with us. I-I miss you. Damon, believe it not, he misses you too.”
Her words break my heart. I didn’t mean to shut them out.
Shut her out. Most days, I’ve been physically present.
I’ve slept in our bed. I’ve eaten food at our dining room table.
I’ve watched movies. I’ve given her baths.
But I was only there physically. She noticed.
Of course, she noticed. She’s an expert in patterns. I should’ve known she would solve me.
“I’ll try harder,” I whisper, bringing my lips to her forehead. She melts under my kiss, and I soak in her love. “I promise I’ll try.”
“And I promise to tell you the minute I don’t feel good,” she says.
“I promise not to hide any symptoms, okay? Dr. Yang told me what to look for, and I read all the literature you sent me, every single word, Quin, I’ve read it.
” She pauses for a brief moment, closing her eyes.
“I’m scared too.” I frown. “I know I don’t talk about it, but I am.
” She gently places her hands on my arms, dragging down the length of them until her fingers lace with mine.
She brings my palm to her stomach, and she smiles.
“But I’m also excited. There’s a baby growing in there.
Our baby. It might not have my eyes, it might not have your lips or Damon’s hair, but it’s ours.
We made it. The three of us. And we’ll raise him together. ”
My lips tremble as I snap my gaze at her. “Him?”
She shrugs, smiling. “I think it’s a boy. Don’t ask me why. But I do.” She tilts her head as I stare at her belly, imagining playgrounds and diapers and graduations and first dates. “You’re going to be a dad, Quin. Let’s focus on that.”
I swallow. “He’ll need a crib.”
She smiles. “So, let’s go buy him one.” She casts me a weak scowl. “And then you go home and sleep, okay? No more work today, got it?”
I nod. “Got it.”
She takes my hand and leads me out of the darkness.
“You should go see the guest room,” Emery suggests as we get home. “I need to check some work emails, but Damon’s been in there the past couple of days.”
I frown. “I thought you were taking a step back from your role.”
She rolls her eyes as we hang our coats up in the hall closet. “I am, but I’m still training my replacement. Who, might I add, is somewhat of an idiot.”
I cock my head. “You think most people are idiots.”
“Because they are.” She nods upstairs. “Go. I’ll be up later.”
With a soft kiss, I head upstairs, following the sounds of muttered grunts and sighs.
As I reach the landing and turn the corner, I’m met with the scent of paint, the guest room in utter disarray.
Plastic wrap covers the floor, a ladder tossed off to the side, and there's Damon, clad in a paint-splattered long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants. He’s painting. Priming the walls.
“You missed a spot.” I lean casually on the door frame and rein in a grin as Damon jerks around, a smudge of paint on his cheek. “I never thought I'd see the day that Damon Cavanaugh gets his hands dirty.”
A ghost of a smile cracks across Damon's face. "You're here." He nods to a brush. "Care to lend a hand?"
I eye him warily. Our relationship has been somewhat strained since LA.
Whereas Damon jumped head first into preparations, I retreated.
A part of me thought he resented me. That he blamed me for what happened to Emery.
But he hasn’t brought it up. Neither has she.
Toni’s plea for insanity worked. It helped there was no record of her existing.
She’s in a facility in upstate New York now.
She’ll stay there for life. She’s gone, and the world keeps on spinning. Despite whether we’re ready or not.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I could use a break.” Damon stretches out his back. “Apparently, my body is allergic to physical labor."
"Could be.” Rolling up the sleeves of my button-down shirt, I pick up a paintbrush and dip it into the primer. I glance over at Damon with a cheeky grin. “Or you're just getting old.”
He scoffs, rotating his shoulder. “I may not be in my 20s anymore, but I’ve still got the stamina of a stallion.”
“Yeah?” I snort. “And how’s the stallion doing cooped up in the stables? Itching to run free again?”
Damon casts me a half-hearted scowl. “As if you’re not.”
Emery’s unable to…be intimate for two more weeks.
While her gunshot wound is healing nicely, and her stitches have been taken out, the doctors all agree that it’s safer to wait.
Especially given…our preferences in the bedroom—Damon’s been warned that he’ll have to tone it down for several months.
I’m surprised he hasn’t spontaneously combusted from all the pent-up sexual energy.
But I can see where he’s been putting his energy.
"Has she picked a color?" I ask, painting inside the crevices.
Damon leans against the wall, watching me intently, almost as if he’s afraid I'll disappear again. "Not yet. I suggested a mint green but she said it reminded her of toothpaste, so I’m guessing that’s not going to be an option.”
I chuckle lightly, my gaze drifting to the children's books scattered on the floor nearby. "Homework?"
Damon glowers at me. "Research.”
I smirk. “Are we finally deciding to learn our ABCs?”
Damon rolls his eyes, ignoring my attempt at humor. My attempt to get back to where we were. In the before. “I think I...” He clears his throat, looking away sheepishly. “I think I want to paint a mural." His gaze flicks up to the empty far wall. "Right there. Maybe animals or birds or something."
“Emery would love that.”
“Listen…” Damon rubs his hands together, his expression uneasy.
“I know the two of us haven’t really been on the same page this past month, but I-I just wanted to say thank you.
” I frown. “All that material you found for Emery, about her…condition. I… Thank you. I know you have your reservations about this pregnancy, and I know it’s going to be tough, during and after, but I…
” He expels a long breath. “I think we’ll get through it. ”
I scan his face, easily picking up his shielded sadness.
During and after. He’s not talking about Emery’s condition, he’s talking about us, our relationship, our dynamics.
I haven't even thought about it. I’ve been so hyper-focused on research, on solutions, that I didn’t stop and think about what this means.
For the three of us. Our arrangement still stands.
We haven’t changed it. We haven’t amended the rules.
To the public, Emery and I are in a relationship.
When she starts showing, when the papers pick up this news, it’ll be my name that appears next to the word father.
“Damon…” I stop painting and drop my hand, facing him. “Are you… Are you still okay with our…arrangement? With me being…”
He swallows. “As long as they’re both healthy, I don’t care.”
I frown as my phone rings. “Damon, you need to tell me if—”
“Answer your phone, Q.” Damon gives me his most manufactured smile. “I’m fine.”
With a resigned sigh, I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Kelsey from Monument Designs. I’m calling to inform you that your headstone is ready for installation.”
My blood runs cold. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” And I hang up.
“What is it?” Damon asks. “Is something wrong?”
“No, that was…” I pocket the phone, sighing. What horrid timing. “Alison’s headstone is ready.”
The color drains from Damon’s face. “Oh.”
“We can schedule a service for next weekend if you’re ready.”
He expels a low, weak laugh. “I’ll never be ready, Q. But sure, next weekend is fine.”
“Are you okay, Damon?” I tilt my head. “You can talk to me.”
“I'm fine,” he says, continuing to hide behind fabricated healing. “Let’s keep painting.”
I’m not the only one caged.
At least mine is breaking.
Will his?