"You disappeared," I choke out, the words jagged. "You weregone. And now you're here, standing beside a grave with fresh dirt, and you're saying you're sorry..." I can't finish. Can't say it out loud again. My hand gestures helplessly at the fresh dirt. "I thought I’d lost everything."
She makes a sound that’s a half sob, half gasp, and then her hands are moving. She takes my hand in both of hers and presses my palm flat against her stomach.
"Our baby is still right here."
Her voice cracks on the words, but they land like a lifeline. I freeze as my hand rests against the cold, wet fabric of her dress. But beneath the rain-soaked material and the chill, there's warmth. Life. Still growing. Still real. Stillours.
The relief doesn't just wash over me; it devastates me. My hand spreads wider across her stomach, fingers splaying as if I can cover more of her, I can protect more of them. Like I can hold this moment and never let it slip away again. The warmth beneath my palm feels like the only real thing in the world. Like everything else, the rain, the grave, the week of hell, is just noise, and this is the truth. This steady, impossible warmth.
"Right here," she says again, and she's crying harder now, her hands pressing mine tighter against her. "I would never... I could never."
I love her. God, I love her so much it's breaking me apart and putting me back together all at once. Every piece of me that shattered this past week is reforming around this single point of warmth beneath my hand. The relief crashes over me so hard it steals what's left of my breath, and I pull her against me.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry I ever made you doubt…that you thought for one second I could ever do that to you—to us."
It’s not her fault. It’s fear. That's what fear does: it doesn't ask questions, doesn't wait for answers. It just takes your worst nightmare and convinces you it's already true.
I put a small amount of space between us, just enough so I can see her face. My hand trembles as I push the wet hair back from her eyes. "Don't be sorry. We've been through hell this past week. Unimaginable hell. But Asha, I need to know…" I pause, needing a second to breathe before continuing. "I need to know what else you could possibly bury beside your mother's grave."
"I should probably start at the beginning, but first I need you to hear something." Her bottom lip quivers before she bites it to find her strength. "I know there’s no way you could have known what I accused you of that day in my father’s office, but in the moment, I couldn’t see past getting out of that room. I just needed to be alone." She exhales, like she’s releasing the weight of her choice. "I didn’t run this time—or at least, I didn’t try to." My eyes search hers curiously. "I never left Bardstown. I stayed at the B&B in town and parked the truck around back, under the carport, where no one would see it. The owners know me. They floated my stay until I could pay, and I told them I would pay double for their discretion."
Her voice draws off, and she pulls in a shaking breath, her fingers still circled around my arm like if she lets go, I'll disappear too.
"I'll admit..." She swallows hard, and I see the truth in her eyes before she says it. "I thought about what you're suggesting. The idea crossed my mind, but I wouldn't make that decision without you. Icouldn't."
Relief and agony hit me at the same time, and I don't know if I want to pull her closer or fall apart completely.
Her hand releases my arm and finds the side of my face, cold and trembling against my cheek. She gently pulls my face toward hers until we're eye to eye, close enough that I can count the flecks of gold in her irises, see my own broken reflection there.
"I was utterly broken," she whispers. "The past few days, I wasn't me. It felt like an out-of-body experience, like I was watching myself from somewhere else, somewhere far away. I was overtaken with shock at first. Then denial. And when those finally ebbed, fear and anger..." Her hand slides up my arm and rests on my cheek. "They crippled me. I couldn't move. Couldn't think." Fresh tears well in her eyes, and I see every ounce of pain she's been carrying. I recognize it, because I've been carrying it too. "But it wasn't fair to let you worry like that. I thought I'd be gone for one night. Just one, and I would come home, but then I couldn't leave the room. I didn't plan to stay gone so long. I was so selfish?—"
"Don't." I catch her wrist, holding her hand against my face. "Don't apologize." I hear the strain in my voice as I try to hold myself together. "You're right. I was angry—furious, even—but my hurt and pain are nothing compared to what you’ve had to endure. You're the one who got the diagnosis. All I got was the grief." I force myself to hold her gaze, to let her see every raw edge of what I'm feeling. "You're the one who might be dying. I'm just the one who has to learn how to love someone I can't save."
The rain still mists around us, turning the world into a gray blur, but all I can see is her. All I can feel is her hand againstmy face and the way we're both kneeling in the mud beside this grave, holding onto each other like we're drowning. And maybe we are.
She shakes her head slowly, and water forms streams down her face. "Aren't we all dying?" My eyes narrow on hers. "Every day, we all grow older. We all grow one day closer to our end." Her eyes slide over to the freshly dug dirt. "My days are no more numbered than yours—or at least that's how I've decided it will be."
"What's beneath that dirt?"
"A letter." She's quiet for long moments, her eyes fixed on that patch of earth like she's saying goodbye to something I can't see. "My father was right not to trust that my mother would keep up her end of the deal." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "The last letter she left me contained the results of testing she ran behind my father's back. She admitted she hated doing it, but she hated even more that she wouldn't live to know if I would have the same fate."
My chest tightens. The answers are right there, beneath the dirt. The answers I'm not sure I want anymore.
Her eyes come back to mine, and they're clearer now. "I don't want to know." The words are absolute. "I don't want to know how many days I may or may not have left. I've always known every breath is a gift. I've known that since I lost my mom, but I don't want to count mine." Her hand tightens against my face. "I want to live in the moment, not in fear."
The rain runs between her fingers, down my jaw.
"Trigger, I love you. I can't imagine living this life without you." Her voice cracks but doesn't break. "But I've made my choice. I understand if you need to leave. I'm not saying that because I want you to..." She swallows hard, and I see it's costing her everything to continue. "I'm saying it because I understand the impossible position it puts you in to stay with me."
My mouth parts to argue, but her cold finger covers my lips.
"I know you're going to argue. It's who you are. You'll tell me this doesn't change anything, but it does. We both know that." Her thumb brushes across my bottom lip. "It will be a cloud for the rest of my life, a question in the recesses of my mind, no matter how hard I try. I know it will bleed in. I know grief is circular, and it's not a question of if my fear will return and cripple me, but when." A shudder runs through her, and I feel it echo in my own body. "This is my fate." Her eyes search mine. "It doesn't have to be yours."
I reach up and gently pull her hand away from my mouth, but I don't let go. I weave my fingers through hers, holding on like she's the only solid thing in a world that won't stop spinning.
"I knew you were nervous the night we said our vows," I say quietly, "but I didn't realize you didn't hear them." Rain streams down my face, mixing with something else I won't name. "When I said 'in sickness and health,' it wasn't conditional."
"But our marriage was."
