“Target parking lot.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I insist, swiping at my cheeks. “I’m just…I’m being dramatic.”
“Megan.”
The way he says my name, firm but gentle, makes me break even more.
“I walked through the baby section,” I whisper. “And I just…I couldn’t handle it.”
“Sweetheart—”
“And I know it’s only been a few months, I know that, but it’s hard when you never thought it would be you,” I interrupt, the words spilling out faster now. “I’m just so angry. I’m angry at God. I’m angry at my body. I’m angry that this is so easy for everyone else and so hard for us.”
“I’m coming to you,” Mason says.
“No. It’s fine. I’m—”
“I’m coming. I’ll be there in five minutes. Stay there.”
The line goes dead and I sit in silence, phone still pressed to my ear, tears still streaming down my face. And I wait.
Mason pulls into the parking lot exactly five minutes later, his patrol car cutting across the lanes until he’s parked right beside me.
He gets out, adjusting his duty belt as he walks around to my side. He pulls open my door and crouches down so we’re eye level.
“Hey,” he says softly.
I can’t look at him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did.”
He reaches for me, his fingers rubbing my arm.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Stop pretending,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be okay all the time. Not with me. You’re allowed to be hurt. And sad. And frustrated. God can handle it, Meg. He’s not going to punish you for that.”
“I said I’m fine.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s bull and you know it.”
“What do you want me to say, Mason?”
“I want you to stop pretending you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”
“I’m handling it,” I snap.
“By shutting me out?”
“I’m not shutting you out!”
“Yes, you are. You weren’t going to call me right now and tell me you were sitting here having a breakdown in a Target parking lot, were you?”
My throat burns.
