Page 60 of Promise

“No, I don’t want you to regret marrying me. About still being married to me.”

My head lifts.

“I don’t want you to be angry at the process because look where it got you.” He twists his upper half, glancing at Mirabelle again. “And look at who you are now.”

He spins back toward me. “Strong as ever. Maybe even stronger. With or without me, you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.”

I scoot forward in the chair, bringing our faces closer. “You’re strong, too. Stronger than you know.” I drop my gaze from his face to his hands, clutching that one raised knee. “For the longest time, I thought you were a coward for walking away.”

He lowers his head, nodding.

“But I also think there was strength in breaking us apart. We were a mess, Dart. Both of us. And we would have continued to spiral if someone didn’t leave. If someone didn’t give us space. I would have preferred that we worked through everything together, but maybe . . . maybe we just couldn’t. We needed that time apart.”

He nods, keeping his head down.

“I’m not a marriage counselor, and I’m certainly not going to say I’m a marriage expert, but I think . . .” I swallow hard again and lick my lips. “I think it was too painful to look at you because I felt like such a failure.”

His head pops up. “Baby, no. Never.”

I tip my head, balancing my forearms on my thighs. “My body failed me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” His eyes are wide, his tone adamant.

“I know. But I also think I took the separation between us, before you ever left, as blame. Shame even.”

Dart scoots closer to me. “There was nothing to ever be ashamed of. It just happens.”

There were so many ways others try to console someone after a miscarriage. A blessing in disguise. Something was already wrong. But the painful truth is even science doesn’t fully know why some pregnancies take and others don’t, and it is not a reflection of my body, or habits, or thoughts, or religion, or my soul.

It just happens.

Dart tried to understand, but it wasn’t his body. The miscarriages were not a physical loss to him. A confusing, frightening loss.

Dart’s fingers lightly brush mine. He stares down at where he tickles the tips down my knuckles. I glance down as well.

We haven’t talked like this in a long time. I’m not certain we ever really talked so openly. We didn’t ever really fight. It was just all . . . frustration and tension.

“I don’t know if you heard me the other night, so I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am.”

“For what?” His brows lift as he slips his palm underneath mine. His hand is warm. His touch tender.

“For everything, at this point.” For pushing him away. Or pulling apart. For falling to pieces.

“You don’t owe me an apology.” He slowly smiles, glancing up at me while he continues to rub his hand underneath mine. “But thank you.”

I chuckle. “I also owe you a thank you.”

He shakes his head, laughing quietly, while looking back down at our hands. Mine smaller than his. Our palms still rubbing over each other’s.

“Nothing to thank me for.”

“You’ve been working hard around here. The roof. The bathroom. Mirabelle’s room. And you’ve cooked dinners and done laundry. And this chair.” I sink back into it, pulling my hand from his.

He smiles a little wider and bends his raised knee, so both are on the floor. Then he sets his hands on the armrests, lifting his upper body taller. He leans over me. My knees brush his belly.

He lifts one hand and pinches his fingers. “Might be a teeny tiny bit selfish, in hindsight, about this seat. Lying on that couch at night isn’t easy.” He grins wide and teasing, while setting his hand back on the armrest, continuing to cage me in. “But I’ll do anything for my girls.”

His eyes lock on mine.