I shrugged. “I don’t know, Ash. I couldn’t even think about it without the guilt clawing at me. So I didn’t want to talk about it.” I peered at her. “Do you still think about your own miscarriage?”
She nodded. “Yes. From time to time. In an abstract way. It’s hard to envision things differently. Malcolm and Wee Duncan wouldn’t be here if not for the miscarriage, you know?”
“I know,” I murmured.
“That makes me think…do you ever wonder what our lives would’ve looked like if we’d wound up with different men?”
I thought of her children upstairs. I thought of mine.
“I can’t even imagine something so different.”
“Then let it go,” she said quietly. “Let the guilt go. You can’t control everything, Barrett. Even though I know you try to.”
“It gets me in trouble—trying to control everything.”
“Yep. It’s not healthy. Don’t shut us out because you think you have to control everything, including your own emotions.”
I pondered her words. I hadn’t just been shutting Flynn out, I had been shutting out Ash, too. “I’m sorry.”
“How did Flynn take the news about the miscarriage?”
“He was supportive. I never expected him to be anything else. But it’s strange. It happened years ago, but it still feels fresh in my mind.”
“I wonder, if you’d shared it with Flynn when it happened, do you still think you would feel this way and feel the need to flee?”
“I don’t know. I know I needed the time to myself. In a different place. Alone.”
“You sure about that? Or did you need Flynn to come after you and prove he wasn’t going to leave, no matter what crazy stunt you pull?”
“I wonder if I’ll ever not be a head-case.”
“Doubtful.”
“Thanks,” I said in a dry tone.
She rolled her eyes. “I just mean, you’re Barrett. And you’ve lived through a lot. More than most people by a long shot.”
I shook my head. “I think we need a girls’ weekend.”
“More like a girls’ month,” she said with a grin.
“You, me, and Quinn. What do you say?”
“I say Quinn and I have babies attached to our breasts. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“Damn,” I said. “I wanted to go topless in St. Tropez.”
“You really think we can do the topless thing? We’ve breastfed children for years.”
“No one cares,” I pointed out. “I guess we’ve entered that phase.”
“What phase?”
“That phase of ‘we’re no longer in college and hot as fuck’.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m still hot as fuck.”
“Yeah, you are.” I grinned. “The proof that your husband still wants you is resting right upstairs.”
