Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
MYA
W e’re halfway through a movie neither of us is really watching. Fletch is behind me, one arm looped around my waist, the other trailing slow, lazy circles over my thigh like he has all the time in the world to touch me. There’s an untouched bowl of popcorn on the table, a baby monitor blinking quietly on the couch arm, and that rare, impossible calm that only comes when the twins are sleeping and we remember how to breathe.
Then—
“REESE! STAY WITH ME, BABY!”
The scream shreds the air, sharp and raw and laced with something that makes my stomach plummet.
We’re on our feet in seconds. Fletch’s hand grabs mine as we bolt for the door, but even before we’re outside, I know.
Something’s wrong.
Terribly, terribly wrong.
Thorin is sprinting toward his truck, carrying Reese like she weighs nothing—like she’s already slipping through his fingers. Her head lolls, and that’s when I see it.
Blood.
So much blood.
Down her legs. On Thorin’s shirt. Smearing her hands, her thighs, her clothes. The kind of blood that says something irreversible is happening. The kind that says too late even when you’re not sure what you’re late for.
My breath lodges in my throat. “Oh my God.”
Benji and Carson come flying around the corner of the barn, skidding to a halt when they see her.
“No,” Benji breathes, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“She didn’t tell anyone,” Carson says, stunned. “Reese—she was—she’s?—”
“Pregnant,” I finish, the word foreign in my mouth. A secret none of us knew. A baby none of us knew existed. And now?—
Thorin throws the truck door open and climbs inside, barking over his shoulder, “I’m taking her to the hospital. I think she’s—she’s having a miscarriage. She started bleeding and—fuck, she collapsed?—”
“We’ll get Eli,” Carson cuts in quickly, already turning toward the main house.
Benji nods. “We’ll meet you there. Just go.”
Fletch grips my waist, steadying me like he knows I’m about to drop. I turn toward him, panic lighting every nerve.
“I need to?—”
“I’ve got the boys,” he says, jaw set. “I’ll dress them and be right behind you. Go with them, Mya. She needs you.”
I nod, already moving.
I’m already climbing into the back seat, heart in my throat and hands shaking, eyes locked on the girl who feels like a part of my soul. My best friend. My other half. Not by blood or by years—but by everything that ever mattered.
And she’s fading.
Reese is slumped against the seat, her face bone-white, lips tinged blue and trembling. Her breaths are shallow, uneven, like her body’s trying to shut down while her heart fights to hold on. There’s blood everywhere—on her thighs, soaked into her jeans, smeared across Thorin’s chest like a warning.
“Reese,” I choke out, reaching for her hand. It’s ice-cold. Limp.
Terror claws its way up my spine.
“I’m here,” I whisper, grabbing her hand. “You’re not alone.”
Thorin peels out of the driveway like the devil’s chasing him, gravel spitting under the tires, headlights carving a path through the dark. Reese lets out a broken sob as another wave of pain crashes through her.
And I hold her tighter, praying that this isn’t the end of something we didn’t even get the chance to celebrate.
The tires scream as Thorin whips into the emergency bay, headlights bouncing off white walls and red signs and the unforgiving glass of the ER doors. The truck hasn’t even come to a full stop before he’s out—driver’s side door thrown open, boots pounding asphalt.
“HELP!” His voice cracks like thunder. “I NEED HELP!”
I fumble with the handle, heart battering my ribs so hard it might break free. The second I’m out, I’m rounding the truck just as Thorin pulls Reese into his arms again, cradling her like she’s made of paper and the wind’s already trying to steal her.
Her head lolls. Her eyes flutter, unfocused.
I don’t let go of her hand.
I can’t.
We rush through the sliding doors, and the world explodes in noise and light and motion. A nurse yells something. A gurney appears. The smell of antiseptic hits like a punch to the lungs. Thorin’s voice is hoarse and frantic as he tries to explain what happened—blood loss, pregnancy, she collapsed, she’s not waking up, please just do something—but it all blurs together under the roar in my ears.
I stay beside her. Step for step. Her fingers still curled in mine.
“Mya,” one of the nurses says gently, trying to peel me back as they wheel Reese away. “We need you to wait here?—”
“No.” The word rips from my throat, jagged and raw. “I’m not letting go.”
“Please.” She softens. “Just until we stabilize her. We’ll come get you, I promise.”
And then they’re gone.
Gone behind a wall of pale blue scrubs and automatic doors, swallowed whole by the blinking lights and beeping machines and sterile, clinical distance that has no space for panic or love or the fact that I’m standing here with blood on my hands that isn’t mine.
I stare at the doors.
My hand is still shaking.
She wasn’t supposed to be pregnant. None of us knew. Not even me. And I know her—I know her. Every corner of her brain. Every crease in her smile. Every scar she never talks about. She’s the one person in this world who’s seen all of me and stayed. She’s the constant. The anchor. My person.
And now she’s in a room I can’t reach, bleeding from a secret she never told.
I press my fists to my chest and fold forward onto the nearest chair, trying to hold myself together with nothing but oxygen and sheer will. Thorin is pacing like a caged animal, hands in his hair, muttering curses between panicked breaths.
Fletch. The boys. I don’t even know if he’s here yet.
But right now?
Right now all I can think is?—
Please, God. Not her.
Not my best friend.
Not my sister in everything but blood.
Not Reese.
I don’t know how long I sit there.
Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour. Time’s slippery in trauma, dripping through the cracks of my fear like it knows better than to stay still. I just keep staring at those cold, automatic doors like maybe if I look hard enough, Reese will walk back through them. Whole. Smiling. Making a joke about how dramatic we all are.
But they stay closed.
And I stay shaking.
Then I hear it—rushed footsteps, the familiar rumble of Fletch’s voice cutting through the chaos. “Where is she—? Mya?—”
I stand just as he rounds the corner, both twins strapped to his chest and back like some desperate, sleep-deprived superhero. His eyes land on me, wide and frantic—and the second he sees the blood on my shirt, he freezes.
“Baby,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
I don’t even try to hold it together. I launch myself at him, burying my face in his neck the moment his arms wrap around me. He smells like formula and cold air and comfort, and the minute I feel his hands splay over my back?—
I break.
Not in pieces. Not in slow, quiet shatters.
I collapse.
Every ounce of fear, grief, confusion and raw, unfiltered panic I’ve been choking back tears free from my chest in one violent, ragged sob.
“She was—she’s—Fletch, she didn’t even tell me,” I whisper through the tears. “She was pregnant and I didn’t know. How did I not know?”
He holds me tighter, his chin resting in my hair. “You couldn’t have known, Mya. She didn’t tell anyone. This isn’t your fault.”
“But I should have known.” My voice breaks again. “She’s my best friend.”
Fletch doesn’t say anything. He just rocks us slowly, the twins somehow sleeping through it all, their tiny breaths the only steady rhythm in a world that suddenly feels tilted.
A second later, Benji and Carson come jogging in, with Eli in his stroller, panic carved into every line of their faces.
“Anything?” Carson asks, breathless.
I shake my head.
“Jesus,” Benji mutters, running a hand down his face. “She didn’t tell any of us.”
“She told Thorin, though,” Carson says quietly. “Which means… it was real. This wasn’t just a scare.”
And God, that shatters something deeper.
Because if Reese had told him—if she let Thorin back in far enough to share that truth—it means she was hoping. It means she was ready to try. It means she wanted this.
And now?
Now we’re all just sitting here, waiting to find out if she lost something she never even let us see.
* * *
It was late.
One of those rare still nights on the ranch when everything feels suspended—no wind, no horses stirring in the paddocks, just the hum of the fridge and the soft creak of the porch swing beneath us.
Reese sat beside me, legs tucked under her, her head resting against the worn wooden slats like she belonged to the silence. The sky stretched out in front of us, endless and velvet-black, and the only light came from the soft halo of the porch bulb and the flicker of stars above the barn roof.
I had a blanket around my shoulders. My body still ached in ways I didn’t always understand—muscles that hadn’t moved in months, skin that felt too thin for the air—but my head had finally stopped spinning. Mostly.
She handed me a cup of tea and didn’t say anything for a long time.
Just sat with me.
Just me.
And that’s always been her way. Reese doesn’t press. She doesn’t pry. She just waits. For words. For breath. For whatever I have to give.
But that night… she spoke first.
“We’ve been trying.”
I blinked, looking over at her.
“For a baby,” she clarified, gaze still fixed on the horizon. “Since you got home from the hospital. Thorin and I… we talked about it before you went in. But after, it just felt… clearer.”
“Clearer?” I echoed.
She nodded, her smile soft and a little sad. “You almost died, Mya. You did, in every way that counts. And then you came back. You came back and held your boys and started moving forward again like nothing could stop you. And I guess I looked at all of it and thought… what are we waiting for?”
My throat went tight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want to jinx it. I didn’t want anyone hoping for me. Or… expecting.”
She turned to face me then, her eyes shining in the low light.
“I just wanted to want it for myself. Quietly. Fiercely.”
I nodded, fingers tightening around the mug in my hands. “I would’ve hoped for you.”
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I didn’t say it until now.”
And she reached for my hand.
And we sat there, two women carrying different kinds of grief and hope, linked by something bigger than either of us could name.
* * *
The memory hits like a wave I don’t see coming.
That night on the porch. The tea gone cold between our hands. The quiet confession I didn’t understand the weight of—We’ve been trying. The soft curve of her smile. The way she’d held that hope like something sacred. Fragile. Hers.
And now I’m here.
Staring at a set of double doors like they might open and take it all back.
“Please,” I whisper, not sure who I’m talking to. God. Fate. The void.
Fletch squeezes my hand tighter, one arm around my shoulder, the twins sleeping obliviously in the stroller beside us. Benji paces. Carson hasn’t stopped bouncing his leg. Eli hasn’t said a word since we arrived, just stares down the hallway with fists clenched like if he stays angry enough, he can fix this with rage alone.
Then the doors swing open.
And the doctor steps out.
We all stand at once. Every breath held. Every heartbeat suspended.
She’s in blue scrubs, hair tucked back, a mask hanging around her neck. There’s blood on her sleeve. She doesn’t sugarcoat it—not with her eyes. Not with the gentle steel in her voice.
“Are you here for Reese Decker?”
“Yes,” I croak. “I’m—she’s my best friend. Please, is she?—?”
“She’s stable,” the doctor says quickly, holding her hands out like she knows we’re one wrong word away from unraveling. “We were able to stop the bleeding. She’s sedated now and resting. She lost a lot of blood, but we’ve started a transfusion.
I stagger a little. Fletch steadies me.
“What happened?” Benji asks, voice hoarse while he tries to soothe an agitated Eli.
The doctor exhales slowly. “From what her husband told us, she began cramping earlier today. The pain escalated quickly, and then she collapsed. It appears she suffered a placental abruption—when the placenta detaches from the uterine wall before delivery. It’s rare, but it can be life-threatening.”
Benji curses softly behind me.
“She was sixteen weeks along,” the doctor continues gently. “And unfortunately… the baby didn’t survive.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Like the world just fell out from under us.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No. She wanted this. She—she didn’t even tell us, but she wanted it.”
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor says. “She’s going to need rest. Monitoring. Support. She’s in recovery now, and you can see her shortly—but only two at a time.”
Fletch’s arm curls around me again, and I lean into him, body trembling, throat closing.
“She wanted this,” I say again, voice cracking open. “She tried.”
“I know,” he murmurs, his lips against my temple. “I know, baby.”
The tears don’t wait for privacy.
They come hot and fast, slipping down my cheeks like water over broken stone.
And all I can think about is her voice on that porch, the way she looked when she said it.
I just wanted to want it for myself.
She’d been brave. Quietly. Fiercely. And now she’s somewhere behind those doors, unconscious and broken in a way I don’t know how to reach.
The hallway feels colder now. Too bright. Too still.
Then the doors open again—and it’s not the doctor this time.
It’s Thorin.
He looks… wrecked.
Like someone took a sledgehammer to the strongest man I know and left him holding the pieces with blood on his hands and no instructions on how to fix it. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw tight, and his eyes—God, his eyes are empty in a way that terrifies me.
“Mya,” he says softly, voice worn and frayed.
I step toward him, not caring that I’m still crying, not caring that I don’t have the right words—just knowing I have to move. To be there. Because that’s what Reese would do for me. And that’s what Thorin needs right now.
He doesn’t wait.
He wraps his arms around me before I even get a chance, pulling me in like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth. And I hold him right back, clinging to him, both of us trembling, both of us bleeding in different ways.
“I couldn’t stop it,” he chokes out, voice ragged in my ear. “I tried. I—I drove like hell and I still?—”
“It’s not your fault,” I whisper. “You were there. You got her here. You saved her, Thorin.”
He nods against my shoulder, but I don’t know if he hears me. His arms stay locked around me like letting go might split him down the middle. So I stay. I let him hold on. Because maybe that’s all either of us can do right now.
“She’s asking for you,” he finally says, his voice barely a whisper. “They’ve got her on something strong. She’s in and out. But… she said your name.”
My breath hitches.
I pull back slowly, my hands still on his arms, his eyes bloodshot and glassy and full of everything he’s trying not to feel.
“Go,” he says, clearing his throat and swiping at his face. “She’ll want to know you’re here.”
I nod, my heart cracking open with every step as I move toward the door.
Because I know what’s waiting on the other side.
And I’m scared she won’t be Reese anymore.
The door creaks open with a whisper-soft groan, the kind that feels too loud in a room where everything else is fighting to stay still. Machines beep gently. Monitors blink in slow, steady rhythm. The air smells like antiseptic and metal and something sadder than I know how to name.
And there she is.
Small. Pale. Still.
Her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks, her lips parted on a shallow breath. She looks like she’s been scraped raw and then stitched back together by shaking hands. There’s an IV in her arm and a line of dried blood around her wrist, like even her skin didn’t want to let go.
I walk in slowly, every step thick with ache. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t even know if she’s fully conscious. But I pull the chair closer to her bed and sit, careful not to disturb the peace—or whatever fragile thing is holding her together right now.
Then she shifts.
Just the tiniest flutter of her fingers. A twitch of her mouth.
And then?—
“Mya?” Her voice is paper-thin, like it had to claw its way up from the bottom of a well. “Are you?—?”
“I’m here.” I lean forward, clutching her hand gently like it might disintegrate if I hold too tight. “I’m right here.”
Her eyes crack open, red-rimmed and glassy. The second she sees me, they fill with something so sharp it makes my chest cave in.
“I lost her,” she whispers.
My heart fractures clean down the middle.
“She was mine,” she says again, her voice breaking. “She was mine and I didn’t even get to meet her.”
“Oh, Reese…” My tears fall freely now, quiet and hot and unrelenting as I brush her hair off her forehead. “You did everything right. You tried so hard. You carried her with so much love.”
“I wanted it to be different,” she chokes out. “I wanted—God, I wanted her so bad.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”
She turns her face into the pillow like she’s trying to hide from the truth. Or from me. But I don’t let go. I stay right there, anchored to her bedside, stroking her hand and whispering her name like a prayer.
Because I can’t give her answers.
I can’t bring her baby back.
But I can stay.
And I will.
For as long as it takes.