Chapter 21
Now
Tears streak my face as the memories blur and fade around me.
At some point while I was speaking, my knees buckled beneath me and I sank onto the couch, my legs no longer sturdy enough to hold me up.
Ryder joined me on the sofa, only he kept his distance, settling on the far end.
I brave a glance at him now. He looks shell-shocked, his face ashen.
He hasn’t said a word since I started talking.
“You left,” I say brokenly, the tears I’ve kept bottled up for a decade pouring out, an ocean of grief in every drop. “And I lost our baby in a hotel bathroom.”
It’s the line I’ve rehearsed in my head a million times, the one I’ve practiced delivering more than any other.
For years I imagined all the ways I would whip the words at him, wielded like a weapon and designed to inflict maximum pain, so he’d feel just a fraction of the hurt I’ve carried by myself.
But now, there’s no satisfaction to be found.
Of course there isn’t. There’s only pain piled on top of more pain.
How foolish, to think that sharing this awful secret with him would be anything but excruciating.
I realize now that I’d needed that anger—it was a shield, a suit of armor protecting me from succumbing to the heartbreak of everything I’d lost. As long as I was angry, I couldn’t be sad.
Now, looking into his devastated eyes, all I feel is a bone-deep sorrow.
Sorrow for the two struggling kids who lost their innocence that night in the hotel room.
Sorrow that I’d been so consumed by grief that I couldn’t find it within myself to reach out to him for comfort.
Sorrow that I wasn’t there for him when he needed me the most. Sorrow for the love we’d squandered, and the years we’d wasted.
“I was out of my mind with grief, and so angry with you. I thought…” My voice falters, the words lodging in my throat.
It feels cruel to say this part out loud, but it’s the only way I know how to explain myself.
“I thought our fight caused the miscarriage, and I hated you for it. I spent half the time blaming you, and the other half blaming myself.”
I exhale and squeeze my eyes closed. It’s agony, forcing myself to relive something I spent years trying to forget. My heart aches with the weight of it, that old familiar pain swelling in my chest, heavy and suffocating.
I take a deep breath and meet his eyes again. “Neither of us caused it. I know that now. These things just happen. But it took me a long time to accept that.”
He still hasn’t spoken a word, the only sign he’s even heard me in the steady rise and fall of his chest and his shallow breaths, like he’s bracing himself with each inhale.
“At first I didn’t tell you because I was angry, and I felt so betrayed.
I couldn’t forgive you for leaving me alone.
” I swipe at my tears, falling faster now.
“And then as time went on, I convinced myself I’d made the right decision not telling you, that you weren’t ready for it, that our terrible fight that night proved we were in over our heads.
I told myself that our breakup was for the best, that I was saving you from the grief I was drowning in.
It was ruining my life; why let it ruin yours too? ” I shook my head.
“But I think…” My pulse pounds in my ears as I draw an unsteady breath.
It’s a fear I’ve kept buried deep, a truth I’ve never admitted out loud.
“Deep down, I was afraid you’d be relieved.
That you’d feel the pregnancy was a mistake.
That we were a mistake. I was already so fragile, I don’t think I would have survived it. ”
He’s shaking his head before I’ve even finished speaking, though I can’t decide if it’s from disbelief or if he’s so upset, he can’t form words.
I wish I knew what he was thinking, but he’s gone quiet in a way that feels ominous.
He’s still keeping his distance at the opposite end of the couch.
I’m desperate to close the gap, to hold his hand as I unravel the secrets between us, but I can’t decide if it’s a selfish impulse, if I should give him his space instead.
“Please say something,” I whisper.
“I don’t understand.” The words scrape out of him like they hurt to say, like they’re wrapped in barbed wire. “When I came back, you were gone. I called you over and over. You didn’t answer your phone.”
I let out a slow breath, steeling myself against the traumatic memories. I know what it’s like, to fixate on the details when the big picture is too much to take in. I try to remind myself that I’ve had ten years to process this, while he’s had ten minutes.
“When it…started, I went to the hospital.” He looks stricken.
His features twist with guilt, before he folds forward and buries his face in his hands.
I can’t stand the distance anymore, so I slide closer before I can second-guess myself, resting a hand between his shoulder blades.
“There was a nurse there who held my hand through it. She knew I was alone, and she stayed with me even after her shift ended.” I pause. “Her name was Violet.”
At the mention of the name, he lifts his head, and I offer him a soft, bittersweet smile.
“Later on I saw a therapist who told me that people who are grieving a loss often find comfort in signs, like hearing their loved one’s favorite song on the radio, catching the scent of their perfume, or spotting a certain bird or butterfly.
They take it as proof their person is still with them, looking out for them.
I remember feeling cheated because I didn’t have anything like that.
No little reminders. No memories to hold on to. ”
I reach over to grab his bouquet from the coffee table, softly fingering the petals.
“And then when I left her office that day, the first thing I saw was a bunch of violets, growing in a weedy patch beside the parking lot. Just sitting there, like they’d been waiting for me.
It stopped me in my tracks. It felt like a sign.
” I bring the bouquet to my nose and breathe in, the sweet scent wafting in the air between us, and a quiet peace settles over me.
“And then I started seeing them everywhere. It used to make me sad, but now it makes me happy. I think of them as a good luck charm, like our baby’s still with me. Like she’s watching over me.”
He goes still. “She?”
I smile wistfully. “I don’t actually know if it was a boy or girl, I just always thought of her as a girl.
” My heart drums in my ears as I reach into my pocket and pull out the ultrasound photo, my hand trembling slightly as I offer it to him.
“This is for you. I’m sorry it took me so long to share it with you. ”
He takes the thin piece of paper like he’s in a trance, his fingers closing around it gingerly.
It’s worn now, softened by age and curled at the edges, the ink faded, but he regards it reverently, his gaze fixed on it with unwavering intensity.
For a long moment he just stares, his throat working, before he pinches the corners of his eyes, and his shoulders begin to shake.
It’s startling, seeing him break down like this.
It reminds me of the night he found out his mom was sick, only that was a cruel twist of fate, no one’s fault.
This time, his devastation is mine to own.
I could have prevented this. I could have been honest with him all those years ago, could have stayed and walked through the fire together.
Instead I ran away, making him a casualty of my grief.
I know how betrayed I would feel if the roles were reversed, the resentment I’d harbor if he’d kept something this monumental from me, if he’d disappeared with no explanation.
I’m not sure I’d ever be able to look at him the same way, let alone open my heart to him again.
Maybe the damage is done. Maybe I’m looking at someone who will never forgive me.
“Yesterday you told me how much you regret walking out the door of that hotel room,” I force out, urgency tightening my chest. “Well, my biggest regret is not calling you from the hospital. That’s my what-if, Ry.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered where we’d be if I had.
I’d do anything to go back and make a different choice. ”
His eyes are red-rimmed when he finally turns to look at me. “I wish you had.”
“I almost reached out to you once,” I say softly, the memory surfacing with a heavy tug in my chest, “when your mom passed.” I remember the indecision that had gripped me, how frozen I’d felt, and goose bumps prickle my arms beneath the sleeves of my sweatshirt.
“But it felt like I’d waited too long. I didn’t know if you’d even want to hear from me, or if it would just make things worse.
” I pause, choosing my next words carefully.
It’s the part of our history I’ve always tried to block out, and I don’t want to rub salt in his wounds.
“Stories about you had started popping up in the news by then, and I wasn’t sure which version of you I’d find.
I didn’t feel strong enough to find out. ”
His shoulders stiffen, bunching tight under my hand.
“I hate that I let your mom down,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. “I promised her I’d take care of you, and then I left you to face everything alone. I hate that I wasn’t there when you needed me. It makes me sick to think about.”
He stays motionless beneath my hand, trapped in a heaviness I can’t lift, and desperation takes hold inside me.