I was pregnant.
The little plastic stick told me so.
But that was less than two days ago, and now my period is here. I used to be hopeful when this happened. Used to tell myself bleeding was normal in early pregnancy. And it is. What’s not normal is having a full-blown period, especially when you’re less than four weeks along.
Another chemical pregnancy.
Another baby that didn’t stick.
Another small bubble of happiness that’s popped too fucking soon.
I stifle a sob as I quietly close the bathroom door. It’s the middle of the night and Logan has to be up for work in a fewhours. I turn on the lights, dimming them to their lowest setting, and strip off my soaked underwear. The sight of the blood crushes me.
It shouldn’t.
I should be used to this.
But I’m not.
Every time the cramps come, my heart fractures a little more. And when I see the actual proof of what I already know to be true, I lose a little more hope.
How long will I last before I can’t take it anymore? Before I give up completely?
Another sob slips free, and this time, I can’t quite catch it in time. I flick my gaze to the closed door and hold my breath. When I don’t hear any signs of Logan waking up, my shoulders drop. I barely mustered up the courage to give him the pregnancy test at breakfast this morning. Now I’ll have to tell him a different kind of news in the morning.
I knew I should have waited, but damn it, I’d been too excited.
Shaking my head, I throw my ruined panties into the sink and shuffle to the toilet. Nothing makes a woman feel less sexy than the first few days of a period. Between the awful cramps, PMS, stomachaches, nausea, and bloating, it’s a wonder we find the strength to function at all during Satan’s waterfall. Our uteruses are literally tearing themselves apart and punishing us for not conceiving. It’s the worst cosmic torture that exists.
Dropping to the toilet, I cradle my face in my hands and finally give into the urge to cry. Sadly, this isn’t my first time crying on a toilet, and it likely won’t be the last.
“Baby doll?”
Shit.
I suck in a sharp breath, burying my face deeper into my palms. I’m not ready for this. Not yet. I thought I had more time. Time to grieve before I go back to being happy, hopeful Shiloh.
The door clicks shut, and I know the exact moment he catches on because I hear his slight intake of breath. Can sense the way his big body freezes. My panties, no doubt.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs. A second later, he’s on his knees in front of me, tugging me into his chest. “I’m so fucking sorry, Shiloh.”
I shake my head against him. “I’m sorry.”
And I am. No matter how many times he tells me this isn’t my fault, I can’t help the ugly voice in the back of my head telling me I’m broken. That I’m defective. That he should find someone else, someone who can make his dream of a huge family a reality.
Our dream.
Logan kisses my forehead and palms the back of my neck, bringing my eyes to his. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
I do, though. He just doesn’t believe me.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he murmurs. I swallow hard and shake my head. We’ve had this conversation countless times. There’s nothing left to say. He nods. “Are you in pain?”
I open my mouth to deny it, just as another excruciating cramp hits me. It’s always worse when your body has already started making baby chemicals. It’s confused and angry. Add that to my existing PCOS, and I know I’m in for a week of utter hell.
With a grimace, I jerk a nod.
Logan brushes sticky hair off my forehead. “Want a bath or a shower?”
