Jax
It’s been twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours since Allie has left the bed, eaten anything, or uttered a single word—to me or to Ana.
We keep trying. Pushing water, crackers, soup, anything we think she might take in. But every time we set something down in front of her, she just looks up with the saddest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen, and it kills me.
I know I’m just a guy, and maybe I don’t understand all of it, but when Dr. Lavoie said it wasn’t completely hopeless, I held onto that. A chance that this baby could still make it. That in nine months, we’d be holding our son or daughter, looking down at a little carbon copy of ourselves.
But Allie looks like the fight is already over.
Do I push her to talk? Do I back off and give her space? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I just need someone—anyone—to tell me how to fix this. Because watching her disappear like this is slowly killing me.
Witnessing someone you love with your entire being retreat into themselves is a special kind of torture. And it’s not like I blame her. I get it, really, I do. It’s like Dr. Lavoie said, she’s been through the wringer lately.
The wringer.
A fucking fire.
The nine circles of hell.
Whatever you want to call it.
One person can only take so much pain, and she’s just bracing for the worst. But if this baby is going to make it, if we’re ever going to meet them, she has to hold onto whatever scraps of hope are left. We both do.
I tiptoe into her bedroom, balancing a tray with freshly brewed coffee, French toast I made after digging up the recipe from her favorite breakfast spot, and even a few handpicked wildflowers from around her postbox.
I’m barely inside the room and can already tell she hasn’t moved an inch since I last checked on her an hour ago. She’s still curled up into a ball under her wine colored duvet bunched up under her nose, her eyes swollen and red.
I set the tray gently on the nightstand and sit beside her, slipping an arm around her back and pressing a kiss to her temple—the closest I can get.
She peeks at me through one half-lidded eye, then closes it again.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice still raw and hoarse from crying. “But I’m still not hungry.”
I start rubbing her back gently, leaning closer to her ear. “I know, Al. But you have to try and eat something. The baby—”
Her head snaps toward me so fast it almost startles me. Her eyes, swollen and bloodshot, now suddenly wide with something more than just sadness.
Now it’s anger.
“Don’t,” she states firmly, then slowly shakes her head. “Don’t say it. Please, Jax.”
I press my lips into a tight line, carefully mulling over what I have to say—what I need to say.
My fingers find the bottom of her chin, and I hold it gently. “Remember what Dr. Lavoie said? She said we have to keep the stress to a minimum. You staying in bed all day? That’s fine. That’s great, even. But you’ve gotta eat, drink your water, and take your supplements. As long as you relax—”
“Relax?” she snaps, cutting me off. “How exactly am I supposed to relax, Jax? Just sit here and wait for the appointment where she tells me the baby is gone? Pretend everything’s fine while my two daughters move in with Trevor on top of it?
I’m supposed to relax while everything around me keeps falling apart? ”
Tears start pouring down her cheeks so fast it knocks the air from my lungs.
I do my best to wipe them away, but they’re falling too fast, each swipe cracking my heart in a new place. Then she plants both hands over mine and forces me to look into her puffy, broken eyes.
That’s when it shatters completely.
“Please, Jax,” she pleads. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do that doesn’t involve me pretending everything’s okay. I think I’ve done that enough. Don’t you?”
I tilt my head, words caught in my throat as my eyes trail over her now drenched face. “I know, Al. But—”
She cuts me off by forcing my hands off her face, resting them firmly on the bed with a tap. “Go back to Boston, Jax. Please,” she says, with so much finality it feels like a slap to the face.
My eyebrows pinch together so tight they almost touch. “What do you mean? Why would I—”
“Because I can’t do this right now, Jax.” She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, looking defeated in a way that seriously worries me. “I can’t have you hovering over me with those sad eyes. You’re just... just a reminder that my body is failing the one thing it’s supposed to do.”
Before I even realize it’s happening, a tear rolls down my cheek, and she shakes her head the second she catches it.
“Don’t do that,” she says quietly. “Please, don’t cry.”
She wipes my tear away softly, brushing it away with the pad of her thumb.
I blink hard, grabbing her hands that still rest on my cheeks and push into them. “I just want to help you, Al. I can’t watch you go through this—”
“So don’t,” she whispers. I almost flinch, the words slicing through me like a knife. “Go back to Boston, Jax. Just for a few days… until the doctor’s appointment. I need time to be able to fall apart without you looking at me like I’m fragile.”
“I’m not trying to look at you like you’re fragile, Allie. Of course it’s tearing me apart to see you in this much pain, it always will—”
“So do this for me,” she pleads, eyes glossing over with fresh tears, ready to spill. “Watching you in just as much pain… I can’t handle it, Jax. So please, go to Boston, and then come back to me.”
Her voice is so small, so desperate it doesn’t even sound like my Allie anymore.
I open my mouth, then close it again. There’s a million different things I want to say. All of them jumping out at me at the same exact time.
That I’m not leaving.
That we’re in this together.
That I made promises, and I meant them.
But none of that matters if she can’t breathe with me in the same room as her.
So, instead, I nod. One small, heavy, unwanted nod.
“Okay,” I breathe. I place my hands on her cheeks, pulling her toward me so I can pepper her wet face in as many soft kisses as I can, wishing that they would heal her soul in some way.
But I know they won’t.
The second I let go, she turns away from me, burying herself again in her duvet I’m starting to hate. Because I wish it were me. I wish it were my shirt she wanted to bury herself into.
I wish I could take her pain away and absorb every ounce of it into myself.
And more than anything, I wish she would just let me take care of her.
But I guess the way I do that is doing the one fucking thing I don’t want to do.
And that’s leaving.