“I know.”
“God I hope this is the last time we have to do IVF.”
She turns silent for a beat. Then, tentatively, like she’s concerned about my reaction, she says, “I thought this was the last time ever?”
That was the agreement Winter and I had when I convinced him to go one more time at the beginning of the year. This is our tenth round and besides it being an expensive exercise, it’s a soul-crushing one that has placed more pressure on our relationship than I ever imagined it could. We took an eleven-month break after our last cycle. After I suffered another miscarriage. I needed those eleven months, but I think Winter needed them more. I know he’s deadly serious about this being our last shot—because he doesn’t want to watch me go through it again—but I want a baby and I’m not sure I can stop until we have one.
I switch the phone off speaker and put it to my ear. “It was. I’m not sure, though. I don’t know if I can accept that decision if something happens to this pregnancy.”
“Oh, babe, you need to stay positive.”
The door between the deck and the kitchen slides open and Winter comes inside. I quickly glance at him as I say to Cleo, “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Make sure you do. We need to finish this conversation. And say hi to that man of yours for me,” she says and we end the call.
“Cleo says hi,” I say to Winter as I put the phone down. My eyes drop to the tray of meat he’s carrying to the fridge. Frowning, I say, “Are we out of gas or something?”
“No, King has to leave.”
“But he just got here.”
Winter closes the fridge and looks at me. “Yeah, and now he has to leave to take care of something.”
King comes through the door. “Let me know how you go with Torres tomorrow,” he says to Winter. To me, he says, “I’ll see you next time I’m in town.”
“Bye,” I say, watching the two of them walk out.
When Winter comes back, he says, “I’ve got steak cooking for us. It’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”
I reach for him, needing the contact. It feels like this week has been a big, fat disconnect for us. He was away for two nights at the beginning of the week and then I was busy at work the last two days. On top of that, I know I’ve been moodier than usual this week, and while he’s a patient man with my moods, I think I’m pushing his limits. I’m trying not to—God, how I’m trying—but this pregnancy has brought up so many emotions I never saw coming, and I’m way out of my depth here.
“You good, angel?”
My heart exhales the breath she’s been holding. Angel. The day he stops calling me that is the day I know I’ve broken him. I lean in close. “I’m sorry I’ve been a bitch today.”
His features remain serious as he nods. “How are you feeling?”
I wasn’t well this afternoon when we came home from the club barbecue, but it passed quickly. “I’m feeling better now.”
“Good.” He glances at the salad. “You want a hand with this?”
“No, you go finish the meat.”
I watch him leave until I can’t see him anymore, checking out his ass in those jeans of his I love. At forty-two, Winter is even better looking to me than when he was twenty. He also works out daily and is packing on more muscle than he’s ever carried.
My phone rings and I’m surprised to see Andrea’s name flash across the screen. My staff don’t usually call me on a Sunday night.
I answer it straight away. “Hey, love. What’s up?”
“Hi, Birdie”—it’s not Andrea’s voice, but rather, her partner’s—“Sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I need to let you know Andrea’s in the ER. She’s had a miscarriage.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Brad.”
“Yeah.” He goes silent for a moment. “I don’t know when she’ll be right for work, but she won’t be in tomorrow.”
“Absolutely. Tell her to take as long as she needs.” I can’t believe this has happened to her. Andrea was nearly twenty weeks pregnant.
“Thanks, Birdie. I know your support means the world to Andrea.”
After we end the call, I place the phone down and grip the kitchen counter, my mind swirling with endless thoughts, my heart breaking for my friend. Andrea and I have worked together for seven years and have become close. She might be one of my staff members, but she’s more a friend now than anything. I’m devastated for her.
Oh God.
I think I’m going to vomit.
I race into the en suite and dry retch. Standing over the toilet, I let my thoughts go to the one place they’re driving towards. The one place I should not allow them anywhere near.
This could happen to you.
Your body is faulty.
Damaged goods.
And it doesn’t want a baby in it.
You know this.
It’s already gotten rid of four babies.
I heave, and this time I vomit. Then the tears fall and I collapse to the floor while hugging the toilet in case I need it again.
I don’t know how long I sit here and cry. By the time Winter finds me, I’ve curled into the foetal position and am a sobbing mess.
“Fuck,” he says as his strong arms come around me and lift me. He carries me into the bedroom and sits on the bed, holding me tightly to him. He doesn’t say anything, but rather strokes my hair to calm me.
When my tears subside enough for me to talk, I look at him. “Andrea had a miscarriage.” The words splinter from me, as broken as I feel.
After all these years together, and all the heartbreak we’ve suffered together, Winter knows how my mind works. “We’re gonna be okay, Birdie. Our baby is gonna be okay.”
I stare at him, wanting desperately to believe him. “I wish I believed that as much as you do.”
His eyes search mine, the love he has for me blazing from them. “I’ll believe it enough for both of us.”
I take hold of his face. “I love you.”
He brings his lips to mine and kisses me. “You wanna stay in here for a while?”
“Yes. With you.”
He repositions us and spoons me. His arms always provide the refuge I need from the world. From the ache that never leaves my chest.
“I was thinking we might head to IKEA next weekend,” he says after a while. “Check out furniture for the nursery.”
I still. We haven’t talked about setting up a nursery since my first pregnancy about a year into IVF. That time, we got as far as buying a cot. When I miscarried at thirteen weeks, I made him get rid of the cot. The second time we fell pregnant, I miscarried much earlier at seven weeks and neither of us got the chance to even consider baby items. “No, it’s too soon,” I say.
His arms tighten around me, like he’s readying to stop me leaving. I know what he’s doing; he’s going to try to force this on me. I won’t be having anything to do with it, though. I know my own mental health and it’s nowhere near ready for this. “I didn’t say anything about buying stuff yet. I just said we could check it out.”
“It’s too soon for that, too.” Panic rises in my chest. He needs to stop talking about this. “Besides, we haven’t worked out our budget for this yet.” Our finances are stretched to the max thanks to the cost of IVF.