“What are you thinking about?” Amy says, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Oh, just what a hot woman my wife is,” I reply.
She snorts. “Last night was incredible.” She sits beside me on the bed and looks down at me with curious eyes.
I’m still lying down, not having moved yet this morning. “I love you, Amz.”
“I know,” she says, but there is melancholy in her voice. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the family you wanted.”
It’s not the first time she’s said that, but it never sounds like the apology it does today. We stopped talking about the failed IVF cycle days after it happened. Neither of us were willing to touch the bruise, terrified it would open a wound. Since then, Amy focuses on her inches, and I pretend I’m fine. It seems to suit us both—not dealing with it.
My chest tightens as I take in her downcast expression. She looks devastated. For a second, I wonder if she misses the hope of being a parent too. The dream of what our life could be like. Perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps she’s having second thoughts.
I push myself up on my hands, so I’m at eye level with her. “We could always try again?” I say, hopeful.
“Maybe,” she mumbles, then rises and leaves the room.
Her words hang there like smoke from a burned-out flame. Soft but suffocating. I want to believe her, but I know what goodbye sounds like.
***
Fucking New Year’s Eve, and I’m scheduled to work until 11 p.m. Perfect timing. Amy is home alone, waiting for me with champagne on ice and a full spread of food. At least I’ll be away before all the drunks start coming in after midnight, demanding pizza we don’t sell.
The shop is on a back street in inner-city London, but it does good trade from regulars. The walls are a tired shade of gray with posters that have seen better days of food choices long gone. The kitchen equipment works, but looks to be out of the seventies. We offer a short menu of various burgers and fries. Anything else tends to be unavailable as the owner never orders supplies.
“Hey, Terry,” Leanne shouts as she pushes open the front door. “Ready for the hell that is New Year?”
“What do you think?”
She giggles, removing her coat and hanging it on a hook by the front door. Leanne is my colleague and fun to be around. At the age of twenty-eight, she seems to have life figured out with a husband and a few shifts a week here to pay the bills.
Her black hair is tied up high in a ponytail, and her face is clear of makeup. She’s a short woman with curves, and her stature suits her gregarious personality. My shifts always go fast when we work together. She doesn’t stop talking from the moment she arrives until she leaves.
“I’ve got some news,” she sings as she places the dried plates back in the cupboard.
“You got another job?” I ask, and she slaps my shoulder as if that is the craziest thing I could have said.
“No,” she snorts. “I’m pregnant.” Her eyes widen as she leans in toward me with a huge smile across her face. I blink at her, shocked. We stand there for a few moments as my brain processes the information.
“Pregnant?” I repeat back to her. “Like there is a baby in there?” I prod at her stomach with my finger.
“Yes, pregnant. Am I speaking Swahili?” she snaps. “You know, the pitter-patter of little feet. I slept with my husband and got knocked up. I’ve got a bun in the oven. Do you understand?”
“Of course, I understand,” I mutter. “Congratulations.” It tastes like vinegar on my tongue.
My friend looks at me, hurt evident on her face. I curse myself for being an ass. “Sorry, Lee. It’s been a long day.” I wrap my arms around her and whisper, “Congratulations,” as my heart cracks wide open.
Chapter fifteen
Amy
2weeks later…
I sit, staring at the computer screen. My jaw hangs open as tears cascade down my face. Of all the people in the world, Terry is the last person I ever expected to smash my heart to smithereens.
He’s been my rock for two decades, my soulmate. I could count on one hand the number of times he’s hurt me emotionally. My feelings have always been his top priority. Maybe that’s why the betrayal tastes so bitter.
My gaze drops to my fingers, twisting together nervously, then rise back to the screen. My palms are slick with sweat, the same as the back of my neck. I’m rattled.
