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Nothing good comes after midnight. That’s something my mama used to say. Admittedly, she slurred the words, drunk or high off her ass. But the truth still holds.
The only calls that come this late are from my brothers, looking for a damn bailout.
Well, forget it. I’m not going back out there. I don’t care if they’re all snuggled up in a jail cell together, keeping each other warm.
Good riddance, honestly.
Trudging out to the den, I pluck my phone from the side table and stare down at the message. My heart pounds, and the metal shakes in my quivering palm.
The message isn’t from my brothers. Nor is it a collect call from the jail or a group text from the servers at the Tipsy Taco.
King of My Heart: I’m sorry
Air seeps from my lungs, my eyes burning as I gaze at the screen. I’m not sure what to think, what to do.
Fifteen years later, I finally get an apology, and it’s over motherfucking text.
Adrenaline spills into my veins, pumping through me, and I’m fully awake now. I bang out an angry reply.
Juliet: Go fuck yourself
Thumb hovering over the send button, heart hammering in my chest, I hesitate. The strong, set jawline, the pain flashing in his navy eyes, has me pausing.
Thinking.
Like I’ve thought of anything else this past decade and a half.
But this was never the scenario. It was always a face-to-face talk. Heartfelt, with a good, hard sob on his part.
This is too soft, too easy.
Probably not worth a Go fuck yourself, though.
I delete the words, collapse down on the sofa with a shuddery exhale.
What in the actual fuck should I say?
“Yeah, me too” seems weak. Even if it’s true.
I am sorry.
Sorry I failed.
Him. Us. Our baby.
The doctors said it wasn’t my fault, that I did nothing wrong. But I’m still racked with guilt, haunted by the thought that I did something to cause the miscarriage.
Fresh pain springs up inside me, sharp, pressing against my ribs. Sucking all the oxygen from my lungs until dark spots dance at the corners of my eyes, my head pounding.
Damn him.
I’m exhausted, every inch of my body heavy, and now the idea of sleep is so absurd it’s laughable.
Out of habit I flick on the TV, eyes glazing as Ross and Rachel have yet another predictable, avoidable fight on Friends. The canned laugh track cuts through the silence of the room, and I tuck my legs up beneath me. Still holding my cell, glancing back down at the message in disbelief.
King of My Heart: I’m sorry
Yeah, well, you should be.
