Page 75 of Wait for Him

Because for years, I'd been afraid that if I ever got close enough to James, I'd find the man who hurt me staring back.

Instead, I found myself.

He looks like me.

Rose - 2012

“I understand this is a shock, Rosalie. And given the circumstances, I want to be certain you know about every resource available to you before you leave here today. You don't have to make a single decision in this room.”

I can't stop looking at the monitor.

A baby. His baby.

The shape of it swims on the screen, gray and impossible. A head. A spine. Tiny limbs tucked into a body that has been growing inside mine for months while I went to work, made dinner, helped Michael with homework and generally carried on as though my body wasn't quietly producing an entire human without bothering to send a memo.

Some far-off part of me understands that this is probably the most important thing anyone has ever shown me. I just can’t even make myself feel a single thing about it because I've gone somewhere else completely.

It’s quieter back here.

“Okay,” I whisper. My voice doesn't sound like mine, but then nothing about the last few months has felt particularly attached to me. I eat when I'm supposed to eat, sleep when exhaustion finally wins, get Michael where he needs to be, answer questions, sign forms, go to work and come home.

Apparently, I've also been pregnant.

Add it to the list.

The doctor keeps watching me with that careful expression people have started using around me since Mom and Dad died, the one that says they're trying to determine how much pressure the glass can take before it cracks.

“Based on the measurements, I'd put you around six months along.”

Fuck. Has it already been six months since the rape?

I finally look away from the monitor.

“Six?”

She nods gently. “Approximately. That would explain the weight change you mentioned and some of the other symptoms. And with the amount of stress you've been under, missing or irregular cycles wouldn't necessarily have seemed unusual. Your body has been through a great deal.”

That's certainly one way to put it.

My hand drifts toward my stomach before I realize what I'm doing, and the second my palm reaches the curve I snatch it back.

“Don't panic,” she says softly, mistaking the direction of my fear. “Everything I'm seeing looks very good. He's perfectly healthy.”

My gaze snaps up to meet hers. “He?”

“A healthy baby boy, yes.” The doctor smiles, because she has no idea about the panic coursing through my veins. “Congratulations, Rosalie.”

Congratulations.

The rest of her words start to fade at the edges.

A boy.

Another one of him.

The thought arrives fully formed and monstrous before I can stop it: I'm making another rapist. Another man built from the same blood, the same DNA, the same pieces that made the person who held me down while I begged him to stop.

My stomach churns.