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“She cried.” Those sobs gutted him, and the silent weeping cut even worse. After almost ten years, he knew tears didn’t come easy for her — only when she carried a broken heart. She’d carried that broken heart, the knowledge of their baby’s death for hours alone, protected him, and in the dark of the night, he still hadn’t been able to do anything but wrap her close, trying to absorb her pain.

And his dumb ass had stood in an elevator, let “We don’t have to do this” fall from his lips, like that small life was nothing but an inconvenience.

“Tick, man, I know grief is hard for you.” Mackey’s quiet statement drew him from the fog of self-recriminations. Hell, he’d navigated back to the neighborhood on autopilot, not registering the turns. The diner waited on the left, and he hooked the turn, pulling into a distant empty spot.

Both hands on the wheel, he stared at his spread fingers, the visible tremor there. His wedding ring gleamed in the dull morning light, the bold black of her signature on his skin beneath it.

“Yeah,” he breathed, throat tight, chest burning like he inhaled the acrid smoke of a burning car. “I have to do better this time. It’s not about me.”

He didn’t possess the luxury of burying himself away this time, not when she needed him to stand.

“I get it.” And he did. Tick recognized he would — the death of Mackey’s own father had followed a complicated relationship, and he’d screwed up his relationship with Landra six ways to Sunday. She’d married another man, and Mackey grieved that. “You need to talk, you call me. I’m here.”

“Thanks.” His fingertips shuddered against the leather wheel. Shit, he needed a cigarette. “Will do.”

Mackey rang off, and Tick pulled in a breath, getting his thoughts together. He needed to get home, but they’d both benefit if he wasn’t a shaky mess.

And he was, filled with a compelling urge to cry because he’d started envisioning this baby as part of their lives, another daughter, his Emilia, or his boy, possibly called Gene once he convinced Caitlin. He wasn’t going to hold this child, see a first smile or soothe a tantrum, play sports or introduce Zeb, teach swimming or read books or listen to bedtime prayers.

He wasn’t going to experience being this child’s daddy, and the reality hung heavy, worse than missing those early years with Eleanor.

Eyes closed, he exhaled. His throat hurt. Lord, help me.

Please.

He could not sit here forever, coming to terms.

His hands steadier, he reached for the gearshift.

Fresh coffee lingered in the air when he let himself in the house, and Zeb scrambled from the kitchen, still puppyish in his ecstatic greeting, despite a sprinkle of gray on his snout.

“Hey, Zeb, buddy.” He crouched to scratch behind floppy ears, letting Zeb worm his head and nose along his neck. He blinked against a prickle of tears and hugged the affectionate animal in. After a moment, he rose and strode for the kitchen, dog at his heels.

Wrapped in her robe, she sat on a stool, one foot tucked under her, a familiar pose on this least familiar of days. Expression blank, features drawn, she stared into a cup of coffee, circling the rim with one finger.

“Hey.” He wrapped an arm across her chest, kissing her temple, hands off her until he crossed to the sink to wash them.

“Hi.” She flicked a finger at the coffee pot while he dried his hands. “It’s not decaf.”

He winced. Son of a bitch, was everything going to hurt?

“Thanks.” He poured a cup and joined her at the island, studying her face. Pain and stress carved tiny lines about her mouth, her eyes dark and dull. And sweet Jesus, she was pale.

“Please don’t ask me how I feel.” She lifted her mug, both hands cradled about the nearly hundred-year-old porcelain.

He shook his head. He didn’t have to — the grief was all over her. They’d never be able to conceal this from Eleanor. He could tackle that later, though. “Bleeding slow down any?”

She nodded, setting her cup down, spinning a fingertip over the rim again. “More like a trickle now.”

The word punched his gut, made him want to vomit. Jesus Lord.

On the stool, she shifted, not unfolding, simply settling her weight off her ankle. “What did Mackey say?”

“That he was sorry. What to look for so I’d know whether to make you go to Alice or the ER.” He ignored her puff of derision. “Says it’s emotionally different for everybody, so we should take the time and space we need to sort ourselves out.”

On a wounded noise, she glanced away.

“I feel like it’s my fault. Before you say it, my head knows that’s not true, but I still feel it here.” She touched her chest, beneath the spot where the gold circle he’d given her normally rested. “Because I wasn’t excited, because my first thought was no, and all I could see was how our lives would change.”