"And if she does," he finished, voice barely above a whisper, "that'll be it. For my job. For our marriage. For how people look at me. For how they look at you. At Coral. I've been trying to hold the whole thing together with lies and favours and... obedience, I guess. And in doing that, I've hurt you in all the ways I was trying not to. Worse, I have selfishly hurt our baby."
He stared down at his open hands, as if genuinely surprised to find them empty.
"I'm sorry," he said, the words raw and bleeding in the space between them. "It is inadequate but it is all I have. I should have told you before you ever said yes to me. Before you said 'I do' in that stuffy room with the wilting flowers. Before you packed up your life to move back here. You deserved the choice."
He finally lifted his head. "If you'd known all this," he said quietly, "would you have still married me?"
Chapter 16
Fern sat frozen in her cheap plastic chair, trying to get her head around everything Connor had just thrown at her.
Her lips parted, a million questions hovering, but her eyes gave nothing away. It all tangled in her head—Matilda, Jacob, his mum, the threats, the maybes—until the words blurred together and it felt like she couldn’t breathe, never mind speak.
"Mrs. Ashbourne?"
She looked up from her daze.
A nurse stood in the doorway of the relatives' room, blue scrubs, plastic badge and a polite, professional smile that didn't quite hide the tiredness in her eyes.
"Sorry to interrupt," the nurse said. "Theatre recovery called. Coral's waking up, and they want you to come up. We'll bring her straight down once they are happy."
Fern's chair scraped as she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs felt like someone else's, heavy and disconnected.
She hesitated, then glanced at Connor. "Do you... want to come?"
For a second, something like relief lit his face. "Yeah," he said. "Of course."
He moved as if to reach for her hand, that old automatic gesture. Fern saw it coming and neatly stepped out of range.
"This doesn't mean anything," she said, keeping her voice even. "I'm doing this because Coral loves you. We'll talk after she's settled."
The hopeful spark in his amber eyes dimmed. He dropped his hand to his side. "Right," he murmured. "I understand."
They walked side by side down the corridor without touching, the air between them thick with everything that had been said and everything that hadn't.
***
They wheeled Coral back just before lunchtime, a little island of white sheets, her two favourite plushie toys, and metal rails, swaddled in blankets that looked like a giant nest around her small body.
Fern's heart lurched at the sight of the bandage, thick and padded. Only two days ago, that skin had been soft and warm under sticky ice-cream fingers. It had only taken a few seconds for all those plans for tomorrow to take a backseat.
"Okay, poppet, we're back," the nurse said, steering the bed into place with the practised ease of someone who did this a dozen times a day. Her badge said Katie, and she had bright blue eyes and a soft voice. "Let's get you comfortable, yeah?"
Coral was already fussing, small limbs shifting restlessly under the blankets. The sedation hadn't worn off cleanly; it clung to her, making her movements jerky and uncoordinated, rather than floppy. A low, frustrated sound slipped from her throat, more mewl than cry. Jim had come into recovery and explained that, though it had taken a little longer than he expected, it had gone well and he thought she wouldn't need a skin graft, though there would be a scar, which would lighten over time.
Fern was at the side of the bed before she knew she'd moved, both hands flat on the mattress.
Connor hovered at the foot of the bed, fingers twitching uselessly around the bedrail. He looked enormous in the cramped cubicle, his broad shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller.
"Can I... can I get in with her?" Fern's voice came out too fast, a little panicked. "If I'm careful?"
Katie glanced at the IV line, at the pulse oximeter glowing on Coral's little finger, at the swollen, bandaged skin.
"If you're really careful," she said finally. "No leaning on the dressing and watch the lines. We've just got her settled post-op, and we don't want to pull anything out. But if she wakes up and you're right there, that might help."
Fern kicked off her shoes, hands shaking as she climbed onto the narrow bed. It felt wrong, taking up space that should belong entirely to her child, but Katie helped, lifting the blankets so Fern could slide in along the far edge, body curved around Coral.
Coral's head lolled toward her, cheek resting against Fern's arm. Fern could feel the heat of her, the sticky damp sweat that clung to her hairline, the faint plasticky smell of the dressings and antiseptic. She tucked one arm under Coral's uninjured shoulder and carefully laid her other hand over Coral's wrist, just above the IV cannula.
