Page 29

O ver the next few days, I stayed in the guest room, making myself useful to Sloane as she struggled with nausea.

I kept her comfortable, brought her water, and did everything I could to help ease her discomfort.

The kids didn’t ask questions, they simply adapted with a resiliency that only the young possess.

I called the rental company to cancel my lease. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts. My home was wherever Sloane was.

In the meantime, I promised her I’d slip back into the guest room one morning this week before the kids woke up.

We didn’t want to confuse them. Or worse, give them hope we couldn’t live up to.

The thought hurt, but I understood it. We were rebuilding trust brick by brick, not rushing it.

Not pretending everything was fixed just because we remembered how to touch each other.

It was a few days after Sloane had told me she was pregnant when I found the medication.

It was early in the morning, still a few hours before the rest of the family would wake.

I was in the kitchen. I set a pot of coffee to brew, letting the rich scent fill the kitchen.

I prepped Sloane's mug the way she liked it then set it beside the kettle with a peppermint tea bag; in case her stomach felt unsettled when she woke up.

The small things mattered now. They always had, but the Old Me had been too selfish to notice before.

I grabbed a sticky note and scribbled a quick message:

Drink some tea if you need it. Text me if you’re craving anything. Anything at all. I mean it. - L

I stuck it to the cabinet where she’d definitely see it.

Looking over to grab the creamer, something caught my eye. Tucked just behind it, barely visible, was a prescription bottle. My hand froze mid-reach.

It wasn’t mine and it definitely hadn’t been there before their trip to the amusement park.

I slid it out from its hiding spot, the plastic cool against my fingers, and turned it in my palm. Alprazolam. The name didn’t register.

Curious, and already feeling the stirrings of unease, I pulled out my phone and searched it.

'Used to treat acute panic attacks and generalized anxiety disorder.'

My stomach dropped. I looked again at the label, my eyes zoning in on the name printed across it. Sloane Shaw .

The kitchen blurred for a moment, and the ground tilted. I braced myself with a hand on the counter, trying to stop the sudden pounding in my chest. The bottle in my hand weighed a hundred pounds.

Oh fuck Sloane.

Anxiety coiled in my chest, a steel band tightening with each breath. Fuck, she'd never told me. Not about this. Not about the panic attacks. Not about needing medication just to function .

While I’d been busy chasing my guilt and playing the role of the man trying to fix what he broke, she had been surviving in her way. Quietly. Secretly.

Damn it Sloane.

I scanned the warnings. Dosage. Then down to the bottom where a line caught my eye.

'Not recommended for individuals who are pregnant or may become pregnant.'

I stood there, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly deafening, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. My eyes locked on the sentence like it was written in fire. My pulse roared in my ears, my heart stopped as I read it again and again.

Finally my brain scrambled, latching onto panic and possibility. Was she…? Had she… been taking this while unknowingly pregnant? The implications twisted like a screw.

How long had she been on this? Was this why she couldn’t sleep? Why she looked so tired all the time? The dark circles, the sudden long showers, the silences?

How many times had I missed this? Misread her? Assumed she was just “moody” or “withholding,” when really she’d been hurting?

Guilt suffocated me. She had been trying to tell me how much she was drowning.

Worse, I convinced myself that things were getting better.

I had ignored the years of negligence for a few good days, some shared laughter, and two nights of intimacy thinking it could undo the war still raging inside her.

I let my own selfish hope drown out the truth: she was still struggling and she had been for a long time .

Who knows how long she had been fighting panic attacks alone. Her nights of taking medication hidden behind a creamer bottle, hidden from me because I hadn’t been a person she could trust.

Fuck me. I really am fucking worthless.

I hadn’t been a safe place for her to bring her pain and she had to stop now knowing she was pregnant.

I made a silent vow to myself as I placed the bottle back exactly where I found it with a trembling hand. I didn’t want her to know I’d seen it. Not yet.

Sloane, I will do better. I promise to be your safe place.

I made a plan to talk to her about it. I had to think of a way to explain how I wasn't snooping, and that I wanted to support her regardless of what she was going through. Therapy could be a good start. Right. Therapy.

Regardless of how hurt I felt for her, I knew this meant holding the truth of who she’d become in my absence and that I needed to learn how to stand beside her in it. If things went well, maybe I would earn the right to be the person she could leave her prescription bottle in plain sight of.

The walk out of the kitchen felt heavy. But clarity, I was learning, always came with that type of weight.

Later that morning, I met with the agent for the rental as we did our final walkthrough.

The move out was easy. I gathered my clothes and threw a handful of things into my one suitcase.

I made sure to snap some photos that I'd left the place in good standing, everything neat, no damage aside from the broken mirror.

The agent promised me my deposit back, and I knew I 'd played my part in fulfilling the terms.

After the walkthrough, I planned in my truck.

Worried for Sloane, I placed an order for N95 masks using the company card.

Along with them, I added boxes of emergency medical supplies, toilet paper, gloves, antiseptics, and a few pregnancy items I knew she would need, like a body pillow and ginger chews.

Staring at the list, it felt excessive. Maybe even paranoid.

But the last thing I wanted was to be caught unprepared when it came to Sloane and the kids.

I knew that the pandemic was going to be awful, but I wasn’t sure how different things were going to be with me in the picture this time.

This was the beginning of a dark time, and I wanted to be the one who had thought ahead for once.

For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t acting on impulse or guilt. I was acting to protect something. Even if I didn’t know whether I still had the right to do so.

Coming home that night, a quiet sense of peace settled into my bones, as if the weight I’d been carrying for so long was finally lifting.

While I subtly moved more of my things into the guest room, I felt a stab pang of uncertainty.

I didn’t want to assume I had the right to stay in the master with her. Not yet.

The bed in the guest room was cold, but I welcomed it. It was a reminder that, right now, I had to earn my place beside Sloane back.

The next few days, Sloane barely moved from the couch.

She took time off from work to rest, the blanket tucked up to her chin, her cheeks flushed with the fatigue only early pregnancy could bring.

She tried to reassure me it was just the usual nausea and exhaustion, but I could see it wearing on her; she was pale, her eyes dulled at the edges.

I brought over peppermint tea and the ginger candies she liked, kneeling beside her as Rufus settled by her feet with a huff.

“You don’t have to hover,” she murmured in a groggy voice.

“Too late,” I said with a smile. I brushed a stray curl from her temple. “I’m officially a hoverer. ”

She gave a tired smile and leaned her head against the cushion again. I kissed her forehead and stood to adjust the curtains…

And I froze.

A figure stood across the street, half-shadowed behind the skeletal frame of a dying tree. I knew it was her by the tilt of her head, the way she stood too still, too long. Watching. Waiting. My chest tightened with a bubbling anger.

Fuck you, Angie. You aren't getting to Sloane. Not when she is like this. Not ever.

I glanced over at Rufus. His ears were perked but he didn’t bark. When I looked out again, she was gone.

Fuck me, am I seeing things now?

No, she was there. My gut knew full well she had been. That cold crawl down my back and the wrongness in the air?

“Everything okay?” Sloane asked.

I forced a grin, even though my pulse still thundered in my ears. “Yeah. Everything is going to be okay.”

I didn't lie to her. In that moment, I believed that everything was going to be okay. I refused to allow anything to happen to my family, to my Sloane. My thoughts were centralized on one thing: You are mine to protect.

Later that night, after I finally coaxed Sloane into bed and she drifted into a restless sleep, I sat in the kitchen and did my deep breathing exercises.

Silence clawed at me, wrapping its fingers around my throat as panic curled in my chest. Could I really protect my family? A vicious, gnawing fear ate at me.

It wasn’t just about me anymore. I could fight Angie on my terms, drag her into the light and tear her apart if I had to.

But I knew the cost of doing that. That kind of war would leave shrapnel in everything I’d tried to mend with Sloane and the kids.

One wrong move, and it could all come crashing down.

Fuck, maybe I need to take one of Sloane's pills for my anxiety.

The thought had me chuckling as I secured the house and headed for bed. I laid there, eyes staring at the ceiling, heart thudding in my chest, unsure if sleep would ever come.