Page 83

I try to pull in a breath, but it feels like my throat is suddenly closed and I can’t reach the air my lungs so desperately need. Pretty sure I’m on the verge of having a panic attack.

“River.” Lyric’s voice cuts through the fog and my gaze snaps to hers, understanding staring back at me.

“Did he say it’s because of her tumor? Is that why this happened?”

“You know about that?” She seems surprised, and maybe a little hurt. “The doctor just told me. I had no idea.”

“She doesn’t want people to know,” I force the words out past the sudden dryness of my mouth. “Can I see her?” I ask, pushing to a stand. I ignore the way my legs scream beneath my weight, my knees wobbling slightly.

“You can. But just one at a time for now. She’s understandably upset, and we don’t want to overwhelm her any more than she already is. Maybe I should go first,” she offers.

“It should be me.” I step past her. “What room is she in?” I ask once I reach the door, my back to the room.

“Just down the hall. Room 102B.”

I nod curtly, stepping out of the room without another word. I feel my sister’s gaze follow me long after I leave the waiting room and head down the hallway.

Chapter Nineteen

Charlotte

I swipe at a tear that trickles its way down my cheek, my gaze focused out the window, to the parking lot beyond, to all the people coming and going with no clue of the pain that’s currently ripping me open from the inside out.

Miscarriage.

The word bounces around in my head.

How did I get pregnant with no period, while on birth control? It doesn’t make any sense. Then again, if I’m honest with myself, I’m not always the best about taking my pills. Not that I don’t take them, but I do miss a day here and there. Even still, I thought I couldn’t get pregnant. Turns out, I can. I just can’t support a pregnancy, which I already knew.

Although knowing it to be true and actually experiencing it as a reality are two very different things. And honestly, I just wasn’t ready to feel this... sad. Hidden underneath my grief is also relief. I’m only nineteen and in no way ready to have a child, but that emotion is hard to grasp through the stark reminder that it won’t matter if I’m ready or not—my body will never allow it.

“Red.” I startle, my gaze crossing the room to find a disheveled River standing in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the doorframe, watching me with dark eyes.

“Hey.” I squirm under his intense gaze, guilt filling me so full it’s a wonder I don’t burst open at the seams.

“How are you feeling?” He pushes away from the door, moving farther into the room.

“Okay, I guess.” Emotion clogs my throat. “Do you know?” My chin quivers as I speak.

He nods slowly and that’s all it takes for the floodgates to open up. I drop my face into my hands seconds before sobs begin to rack my body. I try to muffle the sound, try to hold on to a semblance of control, but it does me no good.

I can’t face him.

Hell, I can’t face myself.

The bed dips beside me seconds before his arms close around me, the warmth of his embrace a stark contrast to the cold seeping from my pores, making me tremble harder.

“It’s okay,” he speaks into my hair, his hold on me tightening. “It’s okay,” he reiterates, rocking softly in a gesture that feels so soothing it only makes me cry harder.

He falls silent next to me, continuing the rocking motion as he gives me the time I need to cry myself dry and then somehow manage to cry a little more. When I finally lift my head several minutes later, it hurts to open my eyes that feel painfully swollen. Even still, I manage to find his gaze and hold it, reading all the things he hasn’t spoken but reflect so clearly in his expression. He’s upset. Of course he is. He has every right to be.

How could I have been so irresponsible? Missing my pills. Going out drinking with no idea that I was carrying his child in my womb. A womb that rejected it before it ever had time to really make a home there.

“I’m so sorry.” I force myself not to look away as I speak.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He shifts, taking my face in his hands. I have to resist the urge to pull away, sure that I look like death warmed over.

“I have everything to be sorry for,” I disagree.