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“I’ll be there.”
Another breath rattling through my ears.
“Hang on, sweetheart,” I tell her. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
A long pause. “But you?—”
“I’ll be there soon, baby.”
“I—”
“Bye.”
“I—”
I hang up, yank on a hoodie, grab my shoes, step into them.
Into the hall.
Keys off the hook in the kitchen, moving into the garage, hitting the button to open the heavy metal door. I fold myself into the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition, back out of the driveway, pull onto the street.
Navigating the dark and quiet highway.
Pulling into the hospital parking lot.
Moving into the ER waiting room, speaking with the registrar.
And finally?—
Fucking finally.
—making my way back to the patient rooms.
Making my way back to the two people who own my soul.
Even though it really should just be one.
Because the woman I see, her expression drawn, her hair pulled sharply back from her face, dark circles beneath her eyes, skin beyond pale, shouldn’t make my heart roll over in my chest, shouldn’t make me have to clench my jaw, draw my hands into fists, dig my toes into the soles of my shoes just to resist the urge to pull her into my arms and promise that everything will be okay.
I force my body to relax, tamp down the instinct to draw Brit close.
And I move to Roxie’s bedside.
But every cell in my body remains focused on my ex-wife.
Eighteen
Brit
Roxie’s finally sleeping, her temperature having begun to creep down, her pain under control when Stefan shows up in the doorway, one of the nurses drawing the curtain to the side after apparently guiding him to us.
He stops in the opening, big body stilling like a gorgeous god-like statue.
A muscle in his cheek flickers and his hands clench into fists.
And he stands like that for one long moment.
Then his head turns to the side, his gaze collides with mine, and I suck in a breath, half expecting him to come toward me, to draw me close and reassure me that our baby is going to be okay.
