“Hank. Do you?”
“Not if it means losing you.” His throat worked. Tears glittered in his sapphire eyes. “I almost lost you once. I can’t do it again.”
I didn’t believe him. Hank should be a dad. He dreamed of it, and he’d be the best at it. I might have been terrified of having another baby, but that didn’t mean Hank should be denied the chance. Why should I stop his life just because I couldn’t give him what he deserved?
I thought leaving it all behind would help, would heal. But it hasn’t. I’ve tried to fix the grief inside me. Tried to paint my way through it. Tried to ignore it. Tried to talk to a therapist. But nothing worked. Not fully. Everything inside me has felt shaken up but contained for so long. A soda can under pressure.
That little baby changed everything. Broke me. Broke us.
But only because I let it.
My stomach rumbles, snapping me out of my trance. Slowly, I wander to the fridge. Tilting my head, I take in its contents, then blink. Every shelf is full. A true Christmas feast. Pumpkin pie. Ham. Potatoes. Even the tin can of cranberry sauce I love and a random pack of candles stacked on top of a jar of mayo.
When I notice Papa Blue’s infamous chocolate chip zucchini loaf, my mouth waters. Without a second thought, I grab it and carve myself a hunk. Then, like the heathen I am, I stand over the kitchen sink and inhale a giant slice.
As I chew, I take in the open space of the cabin.
In every crevice, a memory.
The archway where we’d meet under the mistletoe after working a long day at the tree farm. “Kiss me,” I’d say, pressing up on tiptoes to meet Hank’s grinning mouth.
The fireplace where we’d hang stockings and then trade our ornaments. Every year, we’d get each other an ornament that best symbolized the year. The year we were married, I got Hank a cowboy and cowgirl couple, complete with matching boots and hats. Our fifth, the year I landed an agent, he got me an artist’s palette.
Our last Christmas together, I put our sonogram in a mini rectangle ornament frame.
“Nugget.” Hank got down on his knees in front of me on Christmas Eve. His voice was low and rough with joy. “That’s it.”
I sighed happily. “His name’s not nugget.”
Hank’s hands flexed, then spread out on my belly. He laughed, glancing up at me. “Nickname, then.”
“Yeah, sure, okay. But he needs a cowboy name,” I added a bit more seriously.
“Whatever you want, Bluebell.” He smiled up at me, unconcerned, big palms still on my belly, rugged yet gentle.
“Westley?”
By the twist of his lips, I could tell he hated it. But he’d never say it, so I went on.
“Cody?”
“Hmm. Like that one.” He pressed a kiss on my belly.
“Me too,” I said breathlessly.
Wrapping an arm around my waist, he pulled me closer. He inhaled. Exhaled. Breathed us both in.
I reached down, palming his smooth cheek. Feeling like there was something so big between us, something so, so special.
He looked up, like he already knew what I wanted to say.
“I love you too, sugar.”
The memory washes over me like acid. “Fuck,” I mutter, puffing a lock of hair out of my eyes and turning back to the sink.
I hate this.
I shouldn’t be here.
