A long pause. "I promise."
That night, I stand outside Hannah's door again gathering courage for a goodbye I can't actually give her.
If I tell her where I'm going, why I'm going, she'll worry. Worse, she'll realize just how precarious her situation really is.
Better she thinks this is just routine business. Better she doesn't know that I might not come back.
I press my palm against the door, wishing I could go inside, hold her one more time, tell her everything I've been too afraid to say.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
20
HANNAH
The morning starts the same way every morning starts now—with nausea rolling through me like a tide I can't escape.
I force myself to sit up slowly, one hand pressed to my mouth, breathing through the worst of it. The ginger tea Maria left on my nightstand last night has gone cold, but I sip it anyway, desperate for anything that might settle my rebellious stomach.
Morning sickness seems to have turned into morning and evening.
Yay me.
Eleven weeks. I'm eleven weeks pregnant by my estimation and my body is making absolutely sure I can't forget it for even a moment. I remember hearing it was worse in the first trimester. I would love to Google that information, but I don’t have access to the outside world.
It’s a reminder that although I appear to be free, I’m not. Not really.
I managed to avoid Dante last night—he left early this morning for some business trip he wouldn't explain, taking Radimir with him. The relief I felt at his absence was immediate and shameful.
I hate the man I love.
I go into the bathroom to begin my new super fun ritual of puking my brains out. I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some color back into my cheeks. And then I wait.
My stomach is a little queasy, but I don’t feel like I’m going to puke.
“Hallelujah,” I murmur.
Thank goodness for small miracles.
Mila will be up soon, expecting breakfast and stories and all the normal routines we've built together. I need to pull myself together and be the steady presence she's come to depend on.
I dress carefully, choosing loose clothes that hide my slightly thickening waist, and head for the door. I head for the stairs, thinking about what we might do for the day.
Lightheadedness washes over me like a sneaker wave pulling me under. The walls blur, the floor seems to rise up to meet me. I reach for the banister at the top of the stairs with fingers that feel like they belong to someone else.
I miss the lifeline.
The fall happens in slow motion and too fast all at once. I'm tumbling, the stairs hard against my shoulders, my hip, myhead. Panic floods through me—not for myself, but for the tiny life inside me that I've been too afraid to acknowledge.
The baby. Oh God, the baby.
I try to protect my stomach, curling around it instinctively as I fall. Pain explodes through my skull as my head connects with something hard—a step, the banister, I can't tell. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
Then I'm at the bottom, sprawled on marble that's as cold and hard as Dante's world. I can't breathe. I can't think past the terror that I might have just killed my unborn child. And oh shit, I hurt everywhere. I don’t know where the pain begins and ends.
"Miss Hannah!"
