She mumbles a soft “thanks” and shuts the door.
I wait a minute, then another minute, before I knock once, gently. “Karissa.”
No answer.
“Hey.” I knock again. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says flatly, like she’s lying to everyone, including herself.
I don’t wait. I push the door open slowly, just enough to see her.
She’s just standing there, looking at herself in the mirror, tears streaming down her face.
“What’s wrong?” I mutter, stepping all the way inside.
I used to hate tears, used to run, getting as far away as possible if anyone was crying…but lately, I’ve found myself not only needing to do the opposite, butwantingto stay. I want to comfort her; I want to make her smile or laugh instead.
She sniffles. “I didn’t want to cry in front of them. I just needed a second.”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “You didn’t have to say yes to company, you know.”
“I know. But I wanted to, and I’m glad I did, it’s just that—” She chokes on a sob and I wait.
“They’re not even my family, Cody.” Her voice cracks. “And they decorated the house. They bought baby stuff. They treat me like…like I’m one of them, and that I matter. And I don’t. I’m not one of you guys, I’m not—”
“You do matter,” I cut her off, tightly. “Don’t say that again. Blood means nothing in this family.” I’m not mean, just firm.
She looks up at me, eyes red and glassy, and all I wanna do is hug her, but I know it hurts her too much.
“You want me to ask them to leave?”
“No,” she mumbles and wipes her face.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I don’t say anything, just wait for her to collect herself.
* * *
My family left about forty-five minutes ago. We had dinner, and now we’re heading into our first night at home with a newborn. I’m not really sure what to expect. In the hospital, we had the nurses to lean on…and now it’s just us. Mostly me, if I’m honest. Karissa can barely move, and I want her to rest, to heal without pushing herself. So tonight, I’m preparing to handle everything except feeding the baby. That part’s still up to her.
I hear her before I see her.
A soft gasp, followed by a muttered “Crap” from down the hall.
I stop making my temporary bed on the couch and move toward the bathroom. The sound of her deep breathing makes my stomach twist. I’ve been trailing her like a shadow since we got home, but I gave her a minute alone to shower while Emma was hanging out with me.
I knock gently. “Karissa?”
A beat of silence, then, “Don’t come in.”
But it’s too late. I’m already pushing the door open.
She’s standing there in nothing but a sports bra, damp hair clinging to her shoulders, eyes red and wet. Her incision is still taped, but what stops me cold is the bright redbloodtrailing on the floor. She’s holding a black towel in one hand and her other against the edge of the vanity like it’s the only thing stabilizing her.
“I’m trying to wrap my hair up,” she chokes out, “but I can’t. And I can’t reach down to get dressed and—”
