“I was pregnant.”
Scott goes stone still at my words.
“I’d found out three weeks after you left. I was terrified. Stupidly hopeful that you’d come back and we could be a family. But still terrified. I was young and desperate for your disappearance to make sense. A baby felt like proof that what we had was real, that you didn’t just disappear because you got bored of me and were too spineless to tell me it was over.”
He makes a sound—half pain, half disbelief. His hand lifts like he wants to touch me, then drops it.
I continue. “I miscarried at twenty weeks. I was alone. I thought if I could make it to the hospital, I could save it. Save our baby.” More tears fall from my eyes. “But when I got there, it was too late. No one knew. Not even my parents.”
Scott’s eyes are glassy. His throat works hard. When he speaks, his voice is wrecked. “Our baby?”
All I can manage is a nod.
He closes the distance in one step, pulling me against him in a warm, tight embrace.
I don’t hug him back right away. But I don’t pull away either. My tears become two waterfalls against his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasps into my hair. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
He’s quiet for a long moment as he holds me tightly in one hand, while rubbing my back with the other.
He then lifts his hand from my back and cups my face. His thumb brushes away my tears.
“Tell me,” he says, voice wrecked. “Please, tell me about our baby.”
The words crack something open inside me.
“The doctor was kind after it was over. Said it wasn’t my fault. Let me hold him before they took him away.”
Scott’s thumb stills against my cheek. His expression turns even more crushed.
“Him?”
I try to smile through the fresh tears forming and blurring my vision. “I wanted to name him Michael, after your middle name. I kept thinking”—my voice breaks—“what if the stress of losing you did it? What if I carried all that grief and shame and it poisoned him?”
“No.” The word is fierce, almost violent. He shakes his head, both his hands now frame my face. “Don’t do that to yourself. None of it was your fault. It was mine.”
I shake my head. “I should’ve?—”
“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. “It’s mine. For leaving. For not being there. For every single day you carried him alone.”
I swallow hard. The candlelight flickers across his face, catching the sheen in his eyes.
“He would’ve been perfect.” His voice is hoarse. “Just like his mother.”
“Don’t.” I turn my gaze away. “Don’t romanticize me. I’m not perfect. I’m broken. I spent ten years hating you.”
His forehead rests against mine. Our breaths mingle—ragged, uneven. The storm shrieks louder outside, but in here, the only sound is our hearts trying to find the same rhythm again.
He wraps his arms around me. Arms lock around my back, pulling me impossibly closer. For a long moment, we continue to just breathe, tasting of salt, rain, and grief.
Then his mouth finds mine.
The kiss isn’t careful. It isn’t possessive. It’s pure, aching need. Like ten years of hunger and regret are compressed into this one all-consuming kiss. I taste the salt of our tears and the faint edge of wine still on his breath.
One of his hands fists in my hair, tilting my head back.
I rest my arms around his torso.
