I didn’t need her to offer me any words. The only thing I had hoped for was realistic expectations and our eyes to be open to the truth.
We sat together in the bathroom, her between my legs on the floor holding the stick in both hands, willing the second line to appear. Annie’s tiny frame tensed in front of me, but I tried to relax her during the wait. Three minutes became an eternity. When the line didn’t appear, I waited for her to fall apart, ready to catch her to keep her from breaking. To my surprise, she leaned her head against my arm for a brief moment before turning slightly to face me.
“It’s just the first month. We knew it was unlikely.” There was disappointment in her words, but not despair. “It would’ve been cool but pretty unrealistic.”
Before I could respond, she leaned in to kiss me, opening her mouth to further invade my space. I welcomed her intrusion with open arms, pulling her toward my body.
Just as things started to heat up, she pulled back. Her eyes were heavy with lust. “More time to practice.” It was all she said before rising from the floor, pulling me up by my hand, and leading me to our bed. Her erotic dance was short lived as we dove into each other’s bodies, and I tried to remind her that making the baby was half the fun.
After that day, we seemed to have made a quiet commitment to each other. The calendar wasn’t just a guide; it became a bible. We read it daily but fixated on the green days. Sex consumed our free time. It had become a game. With only a handful of go days, we made the most of them. I didn’t want to see that look on my wife’s face again at the end of the month. There was nothing more I craved giving her than a baby. I dreamed about what our children would look like—whether they’d favor me or her, boys or girls. I thought about holidays and birthdays, family gatherings, time with our friends. Every vision had multiple children and my wife blissfully happy, and every ounce of me believed I could give that to her.
Until the second month came, and we only saw one line. Then the third. And the fourth. Fifth. Six. The seventh month brought the tears—unrelenting streams of sadness washed my precious wife’s face. She shook in my arms on the floor of the bathroom after having thrown the plastic test against the wall when it hadn’t given us the answer we’d wanted. I just held her to my chest and wondered how people did this for years. I wondered if couples reached a point where they quit tracking it and just kept hoping one day they’d wake up and realize she hadn’t had her period or she had morning sickness. Because we tracked this like a storm that threatened to take over our lives. Every day, we followed that calendar. We planned our sex lives—no our entire lives—around a piece of paper on the fridge. Relentlessly we pursued a family, to the point sex became a chore—an obligation to get where we wanted to be. Long gone were the days we had engaged in foreplay because we were turned on—there was always an agenda.
But then. Month eight. The eighth time we sat on the floor, with her between my legs, and the little plastic stick between her dainty fingers. Number eight was magical. I must have seen it before she did, or maybe her eyes closed anticipating sadness because I leaned in to get a better look over her shoulder. And that—that’s when she gasped. Her left hand let go of the pregnancy test in favor of covering her mouth just before she turned to me. Her eyes glimmered with tears, but the edges danced with joy as a smile consumed her face.
“Did you see it?” she questioned needing confirmation.
Overcome with emotion, I couldn’t respond with words. My mouth captured hers in an emotional kiss before breaking away to hug her. She kneeled in front of me, sobbing tears of joy on my shoulder.
And just like that, the world turned back around, and the tension went away, and like any other couple, we started planning. We were baby obsessed. Everything we did, and said, was all in excitement and preparation for a little bundle of joy. Our friends were thrilled, our parents were over the moon, but nothing compared to Annie’s elation.
I loved watching her—from the moment we found out, she talked to her tummy, read books out loud, played music constantly. There were books about what to expect and magazines coming out the wazoo. Everywhere I turned, our house was being taken over by all things baby. We hadn’t talked about it, but I wondered how long she’d pretend like she wanted to keep working. With each passing day, I wanted her home. All I cared about was her happiness, the baby’s healthiness, and caring for them both. Providing for that made me bubble over with pride.
Her anticipation made the entire experience that much more fun.
“Will you still find me attractive when I look like I’ve swallowed a watermelon?” she asked lying in bed.
My laughter echoed off the walls in the darkness. “Sweetheart, there’s not even a hint of a bump on your belly. Why are you worried about that?”
She pushed up from beside me, tossed her leg over my waist, and straddled my abdomen. The light from the moon peeking through the blinds provided just enough illumination to see the smirk on her face. “I’m just wondering if you’ll be one of those men who realizes he prefers his wife perpetually pregnant.” The grin lingering on her lips had a maniacal twist to it in the faulty light. “I could see you going all caveman on me and insisting I have baby after baby.”
My hands rested on her thighs as she spoke. The tips of my fingers edging below the hem of her tank top and under the tiny scraps of fabric on her sides she called panties. While she continued to fantasize about my going barbaric on her, I rid her of the clothing that stood between my hard cock and her wet pussy. She’d missed this part entirely—if she could get pregnant while she was pregnant, she’d always be pregnant because the idea of her carrying my child was erotic as all fuck. Envisioning her hot body, six, seven months from now, fully showing the world I’d knocked her up—that would be my undoing. Never in my life had I thought pregnancy would turn me on, but Annie being pregnant had my attention.
My wife teased me with words while my hands roamed her perfect body. In just a few weeks, her tits had become fuller, and she had softened just a bit. She had probably only put on two or three pounds, but on her frame, it took the edge off her angular hip bones. I had quit listening to her taunting in favor of lifting her hips up to impale her. The warmth of her soft inside caused my eyes to roll back, and I let go of a long, low moan. When she laughed, the muscles in her pussy tightened around me, and she started to move. I let her have control until she teased me with an agonizingly slow pace.
“Annie,” I drew out her name in a soft warning she promptly ignored.
When I flipped her over in the blink of an eye, her giggling stopped, and her gaze grew hot. I’d never hurt her, but I would certainly claim her. She played with me for far too long tonight, and now it was time for me to take the lead. With long, deep strokes, I rolled into her with a slow grind, pulled out and pushed back in. Holding my weight off her chest, my arms fully extended, I had an impeccable view of my wife’s naked torso. It was perfection seeing her dark hair like a halo around her, strands of it lingering between her breasts. Her arms above her head forming a triangle, leaving her completely exposed. The trust she placed in me daily nearly stole my breath. I didn’t deserve her or the faith she gave me, but I knew I’d live every day trying to prove to her I would cherish the gifts she bestowed upon me.
Her thigh rested on mine as I moved my knee higher for deeper penetration. The slow roll of the hips in and back out. When her eyes tried to close, and all I could see were the whites, I knew I’d found the spot—the one that sent her over the edge. The one I would nudge until she begged for release. It hadn’t taken long for my name to appear breathlessly on her lips. Her cry for mercy lingered in the air. When she whimpered one last plea, I gave in and satisfied her need and mine.
The sheets were cold on my knee, wet even. I woke not knowing what the odd sensation was, but the dawn hadn’t broken through the clouds, so I couldn’t see without turning on a light. Not wanting to wake Annie, I fumbled with my phone. There had to be an easier damn way to turn on a flashligh
t than trying to swipe up. Couldn’t there just be a button on the side. When I finally managed to quit touching apps and got the light on, I maneuvered myself beneath the sheets making sure not to wake Annie.
The spot was about the size of an orange, but on the dark sheets, it just looked wet. I couldn’t help but smile thinking one of the two of us had a dirty dream…but it wasn’t me. Just as I was about to turn the flashlight off, I dropped the phone and when I picked it up the light flashed on Annie’s leg. My heart dropped at the sight of blood lingering on her thigh. The tightness in my throat threatened to strangle me as I gulped for air, desperate to hold on to my composure. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her.
Instead of waking her, I eased out of bed and took my phone with me. It was shortly after six in the morning, and Dan would be pissed, but I needed backup. Moral support.
I called three times before he answered, groggily. “Hello?”
I’d gone downstairs to the living room to keep from being overheard. “Dan, I need your help.”
“Call me back after ten, and I’ll be happy to do whatever you need, Brett.”
“No, no, no. Don’t hang up. Seriously, I’m fucked, man.”
The rustling in the background indicated he was moving to get up, so I waited for him. Needing my best friend to act as my brain for a moment. “What’s wrong?” He finally croaked into the phone followed by a yawn.
There was no good way to say this, no easy way to fill my best friend in, and in guy terms, this type of thing just wasn’t spoken of. “She’s bleeding.”
“Why are you calling me if she’s bleeding, dude? Put a Band-Aid on it and go back to sleep. Seriously, Brett. Are you kidding me with this right now? Do you have any idea how late I was out last night?”
“No, Dan.” I was shouting at this point, making my trip downstairs almost pointless. “She’s fucking bleeding! From places a pregnant woman shouldn’t bleed. Are you fucking hearing me?”
There was silence on the other end. It went on longer than I was comfortable with but hell, seconds seemed like hours. I shouldn’t have called him. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do, and I was likely wasting precious time. But I couldn’t be the one to tell her.
“Brett, you have to go get her up and take her to the hospital. It may be nothing but every second counts.”
My best friend had never seen me cry, never heard it either, but I needed to break in front of him to be strong for her. The words caught in my throat as I thought about how this would kill another piece of her she’d fought so hard to recover. “Dan—” the sob came out as a hiccup on top of broken words—“that’s my baby. My wife.”
“I know. And we both know, you need to get this out, and then go handle business. Do you want me to come pick you up?”
He waited. I sank into the chair I’d found comfort in so many times, holding the phone with one hand, and the back of my neck with the other. I sobbed knowing our fate. Dan allowed me to cry without interruption or condemnation. He listened as I lost a piece of myself, and I was sure there would be more lost before the day was over. Once I’d gained my composure, I finally answered him. “Nah, this is something I have to do. Just keep your phone on you. Please.”
“I’m here if you need me, anytime, Brett.”
“I know.”
“Take care of your wife.”
“Yeah.” And I hung up the phone.
There was no way to prepare myself to tell my wife she was having a miscarriage, and I’ll be damned if there was a way to soften the blow or lessen the impact of the words. I’d give anything not to have to climb those stairs and wake her. Anything.
Unable to procrastinate any further, I went to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on my face. After drying my skin with a dish towel, I swallowed hard and made the toughest climb I would ever make in my life. Those fourteen steps might as well have led to the top of Everest because it took the same determination to make the hike.
Standing in the doorway, the sun began to sneak in through the clouds, casting an ethereal glow around her. The dust danced in the air, the particles oblivious to the morbid destruction just beneath the sheets. The rays of light clear as day cut through the room as though Heaven itself had opened the doors to escort our unborn child directly to our Maker.
My bare feet were cold on the hardwood floor, and suddenly I was aware of every ounce of discomfort in my body, from the lump in my throat to the pain in my chest to the ache in my frigid feet. Eleven steps. That’s how many strides I took to get from the hall to her side. I had kneeled sometime before I had the courage to wake her. Instead of jolting her up, my hand smoothed her hair on her head and softly put it behind her shoulder and out of her face. The pad of my thumb grazed her high cheekbone, and my lips kissed her forehead. My body seemed to act on its own while I sat watching my wife slowly come to. Her face was so gentle and sweet until her eyes met mine—bloodshot and puffy from crying. Worry instantly marred her beautiful features, and her hand shot out to cup my jaw.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was deeper than usual, sleep hung heavy and lowered it a quarter of an octave. That typically turned me on, but I was just barely hanging on to sanity at the moment.
“Sweetheart.” I stroked her cheek again on autopilot.
Her eyes frantically searched my face, and she pushed against the mattress to sit up. She must have felt the moisture, the thick stickiness that came with the crimson aftermath. There was nothing to hide her body with, there was no shield of clothing—when she lifted the blankets and simultaneously her thigh, the evidence was there between her legs.
I watched the realization wash over her, not just her facial features but her entire body. The way her shoulders slumped and her eyes drooped crushed my spirit. I’d never witnessed something so emotionally agonizing as my wife realizing she was losing another baby. I hadn’t been around for the first, but if it was as bad as this, I was lucky. Without a word, she pushed the covers back and swung her feet off the edge of the mattress. My knees hurt from the pressure on the floor, but I remained rooted, waiting for her instruction. My eyes searched her face frantically for any sign of emotion other than utter despair, but there was nothing.
One lone tear left a salty trail down her cheek and clung to her jaw, hanging on, desperately trying to maintain residence on her face. When it fell, I watched it splash on her bare knee, before she got up and walked into the bathroom. Rising to my feet, I stood helplessly and watched her close the door behind her. The shower started, and I wondered what I was supposed to do. It made sense to get dressed, to be ready when she came out of the bathroom, but standing there in jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, idle—my mind wandered and that was a threat in itself.
The blood stains on the sheets caught my eye and somehow seemed to become more important than anything around me. My wife was washing the war wounds down the drain in our bathroom, and I needed to dispose of the evidence it ever existed. I didn’t want her to have to face the proof we’d lost our child while we slept. Furiously, I ripped at the sheets, tearing them from the mattress, and then the mattress pad. I wasn’t sure whether to wash them or burn them, but for now, I hid them in the laundry room, opting for clean sheets on the bed.
When the shower stopped running, I decided to stuff the sheets in the washing machine after spraying them with Shout. Somehow it seemed important, but in the scheme of things, I’m sure it was wasted energy. I needed to be with her, feel her in my arms. My heart felt like someone had just put it through a shredder, so I could only imagine her anguish. For some reason, standing in front of the bathroom door, I didn’t remember walking in there, nor could I bring myself to knock on the door. Instead, my hand turned the knob, slowly cracking the space between my wife and me. As I eased open the gap, she came into view.
Wrapped in a towel, she sat on top of the toilet seat, staring at the wall in front of her. Emotionless. Her right leg shook, no bounced, rapidly, as though she had a tick or involuntary twitch. I wonder
ed if she was on the verge of a panic attack, but instead, she seemed eerily calm.
“Sweetheart?” She hadn’t acknowledged my entrance, and I wasn’t sure she was even aware of my presence.
I watched her blink, almost in slow motion, twice—and then she turned her head to face me. “Yes?”
If I hadn’t heard the word come from her mouth, I wouldn’t have recognized her voice. “Tell me what to do. Do we need to go to the hospital?” My feet kept taking me toward her although I wasn’t sure she wanted me near.
Once I was next to her, she stood voluntarily, wrapped her arms around my waist, and the waterworks started. All I could do was hold on, my cheek pressed to the top of her head. I whispered words I wouldn’t recall and confessed my love more times than I could count. Annie hadn’t stopped crying, but she pulled back and set herself into motion—the way she always had.
Through the tears, she started working. Getting dressed. Drying her hair. Telling me to get the car so we could go to the hospital. She was on autopilot, but I wasn’t sure who’d programmed her.
This was the Annie I’d heard Gray talk so much about, the one who pushed through, suffered silently, the one who never let life take her down—at least not publicly.
She grabbed her purse off the counter and looked at me as if to ask, “Are you ready?”
But I wasn’t.
I wasn’t ready for any of this.
I wasn’t prepared to say goodbye to our pregnancy or to pretend nothing had happened. I wasn’t prepared to drive to the hospital and leave only to never talk about this again. But mostly, I wasn’t prepared for my wife to think I was unaffected by our loss. And if she was being strong for me, we both needed to end the charade here. Gathering Annie in my arms, her hands folded in front of her, her purse fell to the ground. I cried, sobbed for the child I knew we’d lost. I hurt for the love of my life, who was dying inside, harboring guilt for something she couldn’t control. I wasn’t ashamed for her to see how important all of this was to me. Annie was the end all and be all in my world—the sun rose and set with her—she was everything. And together, we were devastated.
Freed (Bound Duet Book 2) Page 7
