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AURORA

There’s this blissful moment between asleep and awake when the sounds of the city seeps into my consciousness, and for a brief second, I don’t remember.

I’m suspended in time, neither happy nor sad.

Then, reality sets in, and my heart shatters all over again. It pounds frantically against my sternum, and I lie there just listening to it.

I didn’t at first—the first time, I gasped for air and ugly cried.

Now, I focus on the steady rhythm and wonder why it beats so fervently for someone impossible to love.

Next is guilt. I shouldn’t have left. He begged me to stay, and I didn’t listen. I should’ve stayed. I want to scream it into the abyss until it becomes reality.

I should’ve stayed.

Why didn’t I stay?

Then comes fear—the fear he’ll harm himself.

But I can’t bring myself to reach out to him, to offer him hope. I don’t want to speak to him, and I don’t want him back.

I’m angry, so fucking angry.

A hot tear slips down my cheek, landing on my nose, and I don’t bother brushing it away. I gaze out at the dreary gray sky over New York City, staring into nothingness until there’s a soft knock at my door.

There’s only one person it could be: Ricky.

Taking a deep breath, I gather every ounce of strength to sit up in bed. I’ve never felt so exhausted.

“I’m awake,” I call out.

He peeks his head in. “Hey, come eat.” He scans my face, and his tone softens. “Breakfast is ready.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and do what’s necessary. “I can’t afford to keep you.” My lips quiver, and I struggle to remain strong.

He clenches his jaw, the muscle bunching, and enters the room. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, but…”

“Jackson already paid me.”

I wince, pain lancing through my chest at his name. “You work for him.”

He shakes his head. “You’re my client, regardless of my employer. Anyhow, I ended it.”

“I can’t afford you, though.” The words barely escape, my throat tight with emotion. I don’t want to let him go, but I need to save every penny for the baby.

“He paid me for this trip. If he demands I reimburse him, which I doubt he will, we’ll talk. Now, come eat.”

In cotton pajama pants and a camisole, I remove the blanket and stand. I catch a wave of dizziness and nausea and return my ass to the bed. I’m shaking, and I briefly question whether I should call the doctor, but I know it’s only stress.

Ricky’s long stride eats up the distance. “You went to bed at seven last night. It’s been over twelve hours since you ate or drank anything.”

I lie down on the mattress. “I just need a minute.”

“You’re not going back to sleep, Aurora. I’ll carry you out of here.” His tone is low and gruff. “Let’s go.”

He extends his hand, and I take it, allowing him to guide me into the kitchen, where he has everything laid out on the breakfast table.

He made scrambled eggs covered in mozzarella, along with toast and a bowl of strawberries.

Beside my plate sits a steaming mug of coffee and my favorite vanilla creamer.

He went through all this trouble for me, and a sharp pang of shame fills my chest.

We eat in silence while the rain pelts the terrace windows. I sense his irritation and try to remain as quiet as possible, my body trembling. I’m in that dark place again, and no matter how much I tell myself I’m resilient and safe, I can’t pull myself out of it.

It’s as if Jackson set me back right along with him.

My stomach churns, and I lightly place my fork down to sip my coffee. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. If you want to do something, I’ll be fine.”

I have no desire to burden anyone else with my misery; I feel foolish enough as it is. I brought Ricky here, and he probably feels obligated to care for me. He probably thinks I’m too weak to care for myself.

He responds with a curt nod, his gaze fixed on his food. “Eat a little more, or your prenatal pill will make you sick. Drink some orange juice.”

He’s typically patient and polite, and maybe it’s all in my head—or maybe the shred of self-confidence I earned over the last few months has been obliterated—but I’m certain he’s annoyed with me.

“You’re very bossy today.” I shoot for humor, but my attempt to lighten the mood falls flat.

“I spent all night worried about you,” he says, jaw tight.

That bit of courage I gathered crumbles. My shoulders droop, and I cast my gaze downward. “I’m fine.”

“What’d I tell you about saying that?” he barks. “You’re not fine.”

I push my chair back, readying to escape.

Sleep is the only place I find solace. “What do you want from me?” My raised voice shakes.

“I’ll never be fine.” It comes out with a sob, and I hate feeling this pathetic.

“I’m horrible! I should’ve stayed!” The regret is gut-wrenching, and I fear the pain will never go away.

Elbows on the table, his hands shoot out, and I flinch at the sudden movement. He pauses, and his eyes, the color of the ocean beneath the dark moon, bore into mine. When I don’t retreat, he slowly cups my face in his warm palms.

“Stop,” he says in a firm yet gentle tone. “This is not your fault. Nothing is your fault.”

His thumb traces my cheekbone, and a shuddering breath escapes my lips, the tension in my coiled muscles releasing.

“He. Is. Not. Worth it.” He emphasizes each word, his intense gaze unwavering. “Pick your chin up, put one foot in front of the other, and move the fuck on.” The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air. “You deserve better than this. Act like it.”

So I do.

Or, at least, I try.