“I’ll call the cops if you don’t fuck off, Quinton.”
I snort. “Go ahead. Chief Bosworth and I play pickleball once a month. Maybehecan talk some sense into you.”
Damon groans, and faint shuffling sounds from inside. The lock clicks, the door opening slowly. My gaze flits around his face, taking in the bags under his eyes, the grayish hue of his skin, his dry lips.
What a mess.
“What do you want?” he asks, propping the door open just enough that I can’t barge through.
“Come home, Damon.”
“No.” He drops his head. “She’s better off without me.”
My jaw clenches as I force myself to remain tactful and in control despite the urge to grab him by the collar and drag him back to the brownstone. “Emery needs you, Damon. She- She’s not doing well.”
Damon perks up, alert. “Is she sick? Did something happen?”
“She’ssad, Damon. She’s…” I swallow, banishing the image of Emery sobbing in the bathroom from my mind. “She’s fucking miserable. You need to come home. We need you to come home.”
Damon winces. “I can’t. I-I can’t.”
Anger thrums in my veins. “Christ, Damon, why are you being so selfish? You think you’re protecting her from harm but you’re not. You’re causing the harm. Can’t you see that?”
Damon’s rage mirrors my own. “She’ll get over it. One day she’ll wake up and she won’t feel sad. But she’ll get to wake up, Quinton. And that’s all that matters.”
A neurotic laugh tumbles past my lips. This is ridiculous. Completely absurd. “You are not a fucking God, Damon! You don’t control who lives. You don’t control who dies. This notion that you’re somehow responsible for all this death is unfounded, and quite frankly, borderline psychotic.”
His lip twitches. “Until you’ve experienced what I have, Quinton, you don’t get a say.”
“Experienced what? People around me dying?” Ishake my head, scoffing. “My mother passed away from cancer, Damon. The woman I loved ran off with my best friend, and then died.” My fingertips tingle as the truth slips out. “I sold a fucking drug patent to a megalomaniac, and inadvertently caused the death of thousands, Damon. Fuckingthousandsof people died because I made a mistake. Not one, not two, but fucking thousands. You don’t think that haunts me? That I don’t have nightmares? That I don’t wish I could turn back time and do things differently? Because I do. Every fucking day.”
His shields flicker for a charged second before zapping back into place, his expression hardened and flat. A facade. Almost believable. Almost. “You should leave.”
“People die, Damon. It’s unfortunate but it happens every fucking day. What are you going to do? Spend the rest of your life hiding? Worried that the next person you look at or touch will somehow magically drop dead?”
His response comes out clipped, unwavering in its belief. “Yes.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. What the hell can I say? What the fuck am I supposed to do? He’s so goddamn stubborn. It’s like talking to a steel wall. Unflinching. Unwilling to bend to logic and reason.
“Emery has an ultrasound this Friday,” I say, defeat lacing my tone. “We’re going to find out the sex of the baby. You should be there. She… She needs you to be there. Come with us. Please, Damon.”
He curls his fingers around the doors, nails digginginto the lacquer. He refuses to look at me. Refuses to acknowledge my desperate request. “Goodbye, Quin,” Damon says, stepping back into his hiding place, and then he’s gone.
I rest my forehead against the door, my breathing shallow. “Come on, mate,” I whisper to myself, the muscles in my neck tensing. “Please… She needs you. I-I fucking need you. I can’t do this without you. Please, Damon… Open the door. Open the door. Please.”
My pleas get lost in the emptiness of his silence.
My knee bounceswith anticipation and anxiety as we sit in the OBGYN’s office. Emery’s hand trembles in mine, her eyes darting between the ultrasound screen and my face, seeking reassurance. These appointments are difficult for her. She’s always expecting bad news. That something is wrong. And every time the doctor smiles, the relief that coats Emery’s entire being is breathtaking.
Dr. Wells applies gel to Emery’s abdomen and starts the ultrasound, the machine humming softly. And then there it is. Our baby. So small. So perfect. It’s almost surreal. There’s life growing inside of her. If anything is magical, it’s life. It’s this. It’s not death and pain or hurt. It’s this moment. It’s that baby. It’s the woman who’s giving it a home.
As the doctor points out the various features—the head and the fluttering heartbeat, I tighten my grip on Emery’s hand, silently promising her boundless loveand protection. Promising presence. Through my touch, through the way I stroke her skin, I’m vowing to always be by her side.
Emery smiles at the monitor, tears welling in her eyes. But the joy she feels is tainted by Damon’s absence. This room may be bright, but there are shadows everywhere, sullying this moment. Such a precious fucking moment. He should be here. He should be holding her other hand. Instead, he’s God knows where, sulking in his own misery.
I force a smile, trying to push aside my turmoil.
“Would you like to know the sex?” Dr. Wells asks.
