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“But there’s blood everywhere.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s on my nightie and my legs… Ugh, Joe, it’s even on my socks.”
“Molloy, I promise you it’s grand,” I coaxed, hooking one arm around her waist, while taking her elbow with the other. “Every other woman in this hospital is in the same boat. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, okay? They see this kind of thing a dozen times a day here.”
“But you saw it, Joe,” she mumbled, lip wobbling.
“You think I care about that?” I shook my head. “I’m in fucking awe of you, baby. What you just did? Giving me a son? Christ, Molloy, I’m punching so high right now it’s ridiculous.”
“Really?”
“Really, really.”
“Oh, lovely.” Sniffling, she nodded and leaned in to my side. “I’m wearing a nappy.”
She had those disposable knickers and socks on, and I felt so fucking guilty for doing this to her, because I was under no illusions as to who was responsible for this girl.
Me.
“That’s it. Nice and slow.” Taking it one step at a time, I helped her into the adjoining bathroom. “There’s no rush, baby.”
“Thanks, Joe,” she said when we were safely inside the bathroom and away from prying eyes. “You can go out now.”
Yeah, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not when she looked like she was two seconds away from passing out on the floor. She’d been given two units of blood and an iron transfusion, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t fit to be going anywhere on her own, much less showering alone.
“No, Molloy, stop, okay?” I coaxed, recapturing her arm when she tried to stand on her own. “Let me help you.”
“No.” Her lip wobbled again, and I watched as she tried to blink her tears away, as I helped her into the shower. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this,” she cried, using her free hand to gesture to her stomach and legs. “It’s disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting,” I corrected gruffly. When she made no move to, I reached for the hem of the bloodstained nightdress she’d been wearing during labor.
“No.” She shook her head and twisted her body away. “Joe, no. I don’t look like me anymore.”
Fuck, that hurt.
Her vulnerability was soul-shredding.
I was desperate to soothe her.
To make it right.
Her stomach was bruised and deflated, with deep purple stretch marks from where her body had housed and carried my son.
“You’re so beautiful,” I told her, voice cracking when my stupid fucking emotions threatened to get the better of me.
“No.” Sniffling, she shook her head, refuting my words.
“Yes,” I corrected gruffly, catching ahold of her chin with my hand. “Yes.”
Green eyes stared up at me, so full of pain and vulnerability. “I missed you so bad.” Clutching the back of my neck, she pulled my face down to hers. “I feel like I died this summer without you and I’m only coming back to life now.”
“Yeah.” Resting my brow against hers, I absorbed the moment, the feelings, the weight of my conscience, the future laid out before us. “I know the feeling.”
