REN
* * * * * *
2019
THE NEXT DAY, I was better equipped after my meltdown the night before.
I kissed Della good morning, showered away my sleeplessness and worry, and focused on being the strong one and not some nutcase who wished upon a star, asking for something as morbid as death before another.
That was my secret, and she would never know just how fundamental she was to me.
That sort of pressure wasn’t fair to anyone, and it was my fault I felt that way. My fault that she’d turned from my charge to my friend to my lover.
She didn’t have the luxury of entering my life when I was fully developed with other significant relationships to lean on. She was my significant relationship in every way, and that sort of connection wasn’t exactly easy.
Once I was dressed and Della comfortable with the TV on and painkillers in her system, I popped out like any normal city dweller, and bought her a chocolate croissant and coffee from the bakery two stores over, rather than eat with other guests.
At least, my body was back to being mine again with no breathlessness or palpitations. Stress had almost killed me last night and I refused to let it happen again. I would remain calm and reasonable, so I could provide the best possible care for Della.
When I returned, we ate breakfast in bed, laughed at some kid’s cartoon, and reminisced about the bad reception and street-salvaged TV at Polcart Farm.
It was simple and lovely and filled me with false belief that she was on the mend.
I’d hoped she’d be able to keep her breakfast down, but ten minutes after finishing, she rushed to the bathroom and retched it all back up.
My temper built, cursing myself all over again, begging for a way to fix this.
Once she’d purged her system and her skin was once again the colour of a corpse, she protested weakly as I stripped her and myself, and for the second time that morning, turned on the shower and dragged her into it with me.
Running hot water was a novelty, and I didn’t care how much we used if it granted Della some comfort.
I took my time washing her gently, massaging her scalp until she moaned, feathering my hands over her curves until her lethargy showed a spark of sexual interest.
When she plastered her naked, water-drenched body to mine and kissed me, I turned off the shower, bundled her in a towel, and helped her dress.
Sex was not something either of us should be indulging in right now.
By the time we sat back in the doctor’s office and he checked her temperature, took a blood sample, and asked how she was feeling, his face went from kind to guarded, and my worry went from simmering to roaring.
My lungs imitated tiny sickles again. My breath catching with pain.
So much for staying calm.
With professional silence, he scanned the readings of her blood test, smiled a little too brightly, then said he’d like to give her another injection as her hCG levels hadn’t changed and he’d expected at least a small drop.
It took everything I had to stay sitting and permit him to jab her with that needle. In a way, I wanted him to jab her with a thousand needles if it would make her better, but I also wanted to murder him for the bead of blood as he pulled the injection free and patted a Band-Aid over the puncture while Della kept her eyes tightly closed.
After another hour of monitoring, Della was cleared to return to bed.
Walking slowly, hand in hand, to the Bed and Breakfast, total strangers smiled at us seeing a couple in love, not a man distraught by his lover’s pain.
At least we had a room and a bed, and after I’d ensured she was safe and warm, lying down with a glass of water close by, a bucket just in case she vomited again, a hot water bottle courtesy of the landlady, and the TV remote, I left her for the afternoon, taking my phone and hooking into the free Wi-Fi of a coffee shop, searching the same site where Della had found our previous winter accommodation.
I’d reached my limit staying with other guests.
But I couldn’t go back to the forest.
Not now…maybe not ever.
Not after my epiphany last night.
I owed Della so much more, and I didn’t want to return to her until I had a solution to our unknown future.
It took longer than I wanted. I wasn’t nearly as adept with using a small screen with big thumbs and reading the descriptions as quickly, but just before dusk, I managed to narrow my search down to two suitable places that I wouldn’t be tempted to bulldoze or bolt from.
An old manor house that offered cheap rent in return for physical labour to do repairs and a one bedroom container house planted on a hilltop where a local farmer grazed his sheep.
The idea of being close to livestock appealed to me. But the fact that the owner would pop around often to check on them turned me off. Besides, if snow was heavy this year, getting up and down a hill might be tricky.
Leaving the coffee shop as the sun painted the sky in a swirl of reds and coppers, I called the manor house number and spoke to a gruff older woman who said her husband had died five years ago, and the house was falling apart.
I told her I was happy to renovate, that I had experience with tools and was a diligent worker, but only if she agreed not to pop by and check on us.
She’d grudgingly agreed, mentioned something about writing a long list so we wouldn’t have to be in constant contact, and gave me a time to meet the following day.
I spent yet another sleepless night in the Bed and Breakfast holding Della close, wincing when she winced and holding back her hair when she vomited. The sooner whatever drug the doctor had given her worked, the better, because I didn’t know how much longer I could stand seeing her like this.
* * * * *
“Isn’t it too big, Ren?” Della asked quietly as we drifted away from the grey-haired bat who’d met us at the manor house to give us the ‘grand tour.’ Not that there was anything grand about the place anymore.
The roof had partially caved in in the dining room, the eight bedrooms upstairs had a roost of pigeons sharing one and a nest of mice in another, and the kitchen was straight out of a time warp with a coal range to cook on and a sink that could fit an entire pig.
It was cold and drafty and frankly, I’d already made up my mind to say no. It wouldn’t be fair of me to expect Della to camp inside a house all winter because we’d literally have to pitch a tent inside to ward off the breeze and bird shit.
But that was until the owner caught us coming down the impressive winding stairs and said, “There is, of course, an annex next door where I’ve been living for the past couple of years. It’s got two bedrooms, warm and dry, which is where you can stay. I’m moving in with my daughter and just want to get this place sold but can’t afford a builder to do what’s needed.”
“So you thought you’d rent it out, get money, all while your tenant fixes it up for you?” Della asked sharply. Her patience hadn’t been the best, and I couldn’t blame her with feeling the way she did.
The old woman narrowed her eyes, her spectacles perched on the end of a hooked nose. “It’s a nice house. I was told people do this type of arrangement all the time.”
I jumped in before Della could piss her off. “Look, thank you for your time, Mrs Collins, but I think—”
The woman held up her hand. “You seem strong, and I don’t know about you, but winter can get awfully boring without a hobby or two.” She crossed her arms. “Tell you what. You can live here all winter for free, and we’ll work out what you owe me in rent once I know what sort of renovations you’re willing to tackle. Fair?”
I hadn’t let Della know how tight funds had become. What with her doctor’s bills and the Bed and Breakfast, we barely had enough to cover one month’s rent, let alone four or five.
At least, I could earn the roof over our heads. I could do enough work that ensured my labour ought to cover our stay. The place was far enough from the city limits not to be disturbed, and there was
somewhere warm to go to at night.
“Can you give us a moment?” I smiled politely at Mrs Collins.
“Of course.” She turned toward the large engraved front door. “Take your time.”
“Della?” Cupping her elbow, I pulled her into the large lounge, coughing at the dust swirling from the floor. The moment we were out of earshot, I told her the truth. “Money is running out. This might be our best hope at avoiding another winter with some coin left over to buy food.”
“But, Ren. Have you seen the amount of work required?”
“I know. It’s a lot but—”
“Do you really want to be working all winter?”
I laughed, running my thumb over her cheekbone, so damn happy there was some colour there for a change. We’d had another doctor’s appointment, and he said her levels were dropping, which was a good sign. He still insisted she should be in bed, and the fact that she’d argued until I’d brought her with me to see this house had added a bit of friction, but it wouldn’t be just me living here. She had every right to weigh in on the decision.
“Not sure if you remember, but I was happy working on Polcart Farm. Tinkering kept my mind off the short days and cold nights. I think this would be good for me.”
“Would you let me help?” She smiled, kissing my hand as it cascaded from her cheek.
“Of course. I’d adore your help.”
“Even up ladders and things?”
I frowned. “Within reason.”
“Fine. You do the hard yards, and I’ll paint and plaster and wallpaper and do whatever else you’ll deem safe enough for me.”
“So…you’re okay living here?”
“As long as there is somewhere with a working toilet and a warm bed, then yes.” She nodded. “Be kind of cool, actually.”
“Should we go tell Mrs Collins?”
Della clutched my hand and stood on her tiptoes, pressing her mouth to mine. A faint line of sweat appeared on her upper lip, revealing she needed to be back in bed and resting. “Make sure we can move in tomorrow. I’m sick of you not sleeping in that Bed and Breakfast.”
I chuckled, kissing her back. “Deal.”
* * * * *
We moved in the next day after Della’s doctor’s appointment. Her hCG levels had once again dropped, and Doctor Strand finally looked more relaxed than tense around her. The cramps in her stomach weren’t as bad, and the minor bleeding had stopped along with her vomiting.
The relief at seeing the cheeky spirit in her eyes and the sheer gratefulness at her quick kisses and sarcastic comments made my heart glow with happiness.
I didn’t even care we wouldn’t be returning to the forest.
Della was okay, and I wouldn’t ask for more than that.
While we wouldn’t be heading back into the trees we’d called home for so long, I did travel back to our campsite and collected our backpacks and belongings.
Della wanted to come, but I’d put my foot down before an argument could start.
Her hipbones stuck out and her flat stomach was concave from vomiting so much.
She was on the mend, and no way would I let her risk her health after the nightmare we’d just survived.
The return trip took me over eight hours, not to mention the pack up time. And I’d never admit—even under pain of death—but I had to stop a few times due to a frustrating case of breathlessness.
I feared by not having antibiotics to ward off the flu so long ago, I’d scarred my lungs a little. I kind of wanted to take Doctor Strand up on his offer to take a look at me, but our funds were strapped, and I wanted to keep what we had just in case Della needed more treatment.
Besides, I was used to long journeys, and had far too much to do than worry about an occasional cough.
* * * * *
One week turned to two, and we settled in.
In the cosy annex, we washed the curtains to remove any scent of its previous inhabitant, dusted the cute figurines of pumpkins and snow peas above the TV, and cleaned the tiny kitchen with its white countertop and wooden cupboards.
Della had a few more doctor visits, which ate into the final reserves of our cash, but she was finally given the all-clear along with a fresh prescription for the pill.
It’d been the longest we’d ever gone without having sex, and the night we celebrated her recovery—trying not to think about the fact that she’d actually been pregnant—we fell into bed together and finally gave in to how much we’d missed each other.
We made it last as long as we could, long and slow and deep.
And when it grew too much, we came together, hard and fast and wild.
Only to do it all over again a couple of hours later.
* * * * *
Two weeks melted into three, and I started working on the house.
By day, Della and I roamed the large corridors and bedrooms, making notes of what to tackle first, and reading through the list Mrs Collins had provided.
By night, we crossed the overgrown lawn, went past the weed-dotted tennis court, and hid in the small annex where the open fireplace crackled and popped, and I raided the terribly untended veggie garden by the old kitchen, pulling up long overdue broccoli and kale, leaving Della to use her internet trawling to turn them into a feast.
We’d become more adaptable—not just to outdoor living but to city living, too. When it was on our terms, neither of us felt trapped or ridiculed or afraid.
The town was nice enough with a couple of supermarkets, cheaper restaurants, and plenty of houses that looked like they kept their doors unlocked—if it came down to needing to ‘borrow’ a few things if our money ran out.
Mrs Collins was true to her word, and a week after moving in, she had three trucks deliver timber, paint, and fixings. The materials were stored in the old garage at the back, and that was one of the last interactions we had all winter.
She trusted us in her home and we trusted her to leave us alone.
Our bargain meant I had no intention of letting her down.
Her late husband’s tools, stored in the workshop behind the four-car garage, were a candy box of ancient cranks and rusty hammers—a history lesson in gadget evolution, but they did the job.
Six weeks flew by, and I tackled the roof first.
Before the weather turned entirely disgusting, I ripped off the broken tiles, removed the rotten joists and bearers, and began rebuilding the ancient girl to survive another century.
Those were some of my favourite days—working in the attic with Della perched on old trunks, reading me stories from ancient diaries and dusting off porcelain-faced dolls and patching up bug-chewed teddy bears.
It did something to me watching her cradle the toys so lovingly, almost as if imagining the kids who had once played with them before time turned them to adult, then to dust.
I didn’t have the guts to ask her how she felt about pregnancy after the pain she’d endured. Then again, I knew Della was a fighter and determined, and despite what had happened, she’d still want a kid…eventually.
And although I was still well acquainted with the terror of losing her, I couldn’t deny I already loved her for the mother she would become. The way she’d hold our son or daughter. The way she’d kiss them and read to them and introduce them to the world that we viewed as harsh but would be so fantastical to them as we’d ensure they’d forever be protected and cherished.
That winter was just as good as the previous one in our cottage.
As we grew familiar with the manor house, we’d run the halls, have paint fights that turned into tickle wars, chase up the rambling stairs and indulge in still-dressed sex, rutting against a wall or over the arm of a hundred-year-old chaise.
Della was my other half, and the magic that existed between us meant the sad old house slowly shed off her cobwebs and stood from her ruins, prouder, prettier, braver than she ever had before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DELLA
* * * * * *
2020
CHRISTMAS.
New Years.
Another year.
I wasn’t exactly sad to say goodbye to 2019, thanks to the still sharp memories of an ectopic pregnancy, but there was so much good about the year, too.
Ren skirted the topic of what happened in a way that made me suspect he took it a lot harder than I had. Respecting his fears of losing me, I never truly described the pain to him. Never told him that as he carried me from the forest, I felt as if my ovary was trying to claw its way free, determined to drag my entire uterus with it.
Thanks to him, I was still alive.
Thanks to him, we had a chance at a family in the future.
And that was another reason I never told him what I went through when Doctor Strand said the words ‘You’re pregnant.’
How could something so good be so excruciating?
How could something I wanted be so utterly terrifying?
And how could I admit to Ren, that even though I knew the termination had to happen, I felt as if I’d killed our child in cold blood? What sort of life did we end? Was it a girl like me or a boy like Ren?
Sometimes, in those first few weeks, I’d stroke my phone with the urge to message Cassie. She was the one who’d helped me during my first period, and the only girl who I’d confided in. I wanted to share my feelings. I wanted someone to understand that, even though I knew it had to be terminated, it still didn’t stop the occasional nightmares of some ghost-child condemning me for choosing my life over theirs.
But I couldn’t message Cassie because I hadn’t told her about me and Ren.
Sure, I’d spoken to her since we’d gotten together but I always directed the conversation away from her questions of my love life and if David was still in the picture.
What I really wanted to talk about was the shadow slowly building inside me about Ren.
A shadow full of worry.
He’d put on weight since we’d been back together. He laughed and joked and ran and played and worked.
But he still coughed.
Not often.
Not all the time.
Just occasionally.
Ren and Della: Boxed Set (Ribbon Duet Book 3) Page 65
