Page 140 of The Wrong Groom

The nurse shrugs. “It’s up to her, in that case.”

As Alexis locks eyes with me, I try to read her expression, but I can’t. There’s too much there: uncertainty, hesitation, hurt. My stomach twists every time we make eye contact, and that pain makes it impossible to think straight.

She has the power to shut me out. To tell them I have no right to be here. But right now, I can’t bear the thought of being apart from her. I’ve been apart from her for the last few weeks, and it’s been hell, every second of it. And now that I know about the baby…

Alexis swallows hard, then turns to the nurse. “He can stay.”

Relief floods me, making my limbs feel numb. The nurse nods and makes a note on her chart before adjusting the IV line. “Alright. Let’s get you settled into your room.”

I stay right by Alexis’s side as the nurse wheels her into an elevator, taking her up to a private room. The realization settles in my chest as we walk past the sign.

Alexis is pregnant. The baby. Our baby.

Alexis remains quiet, her face pale. I want to reach for her hand, to reassure her, but I don’t know if she’d let me. All I can do is remain close by, watching her, trying to piece together what’s going through her mind.

Once we’re in her room, the nurse helps her out of the wheelchair and into the bed. She checks the monitors to ensure that Alexis’s vitals are properly displayed, then offers both of us a warm smile. “We’ll be in periodically to check on you,” she says. “Dr. Bryant left a note in your chart—if all goes well overnight, we’ll be able to release you tomorrow around noon. Try to get some rest.”

With that, she steps out, leaving us alone.

The only sound is the steady beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of the sheets as Alexis shifts slightly. She looks so small in the hospital bed. As she turns her head, still trying to avoid my gaze, I notice the stain of foundation on the white pillowcase. I step closer to her, and realize that her face is caked with the stuff, covering her freckles. Covering the dark, sunken circles beneath her eyes.

I wonder how intentional that choice was. If she’s intentionally trying to hide how exhausted she is.

I sink into the chair beside her bed, struggling to find the right words.

All I can manage is, “You’re pregnant.” The words are rough, hoarse.

Alexis doesn’t look at me. She stares at the ceiling, her brow furrowing. I can see tears in the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. Her voice is firm as she says, “I’m keeping it.”

I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts across me.

“You don’t have to be involved,” she says fiercely. “I can raise it alone.”

She can’t quite mask the way her voice wobbles on the last word, but I can tell that she’s trying. She wants to be strong, or at least seem strong. Trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince me.

That, more than anything else, hurts.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t want to be involved?” I ask quietly.

She glares at me, anger flashing across her face, overriding the hurt for an instant. “I don’t know what you want,” she spits out. “I’ve been alone for the past few weeks, thinking that the man I—” She stops herself, swallowing. “Thinking that my husband didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. That I was on my own.”

I take her hand, holding on even as she stiffens. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it like that. I’m sorry that I hurt you, that I shut you out. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

She closes her eyes, and her tears begin to fall.

“I needed to protect you,” I say desperately. “I didn’t know how else to do it. If I’d stayed with you—if I hadn’t done what I did—he would’ve run straight to the SEC. You could be in jail.”

She sniffs. “When we were married, you were… you were teaching me. So that I would know what to do when I married again. I justified everything we were doing by saying that, anyway. But there was never going to be an ‘again’ for me.” She opens her eyes and meets my gaze. Her lower lip trembles. “Because all I wanted was you. And you broke my heart.”

Her words settle in my chest, and it becomes difficult to breathe.

There’s a sharp chirp from the monitor by her bedside. Her heart rate has shot up, her breathing uneven and rapid. I release her hand and step back, like she’s wired to explode and my touch alone might trigger the detonation.

I want nothing more than to keep apologizing until she understands. To hold her. To feel her lean into me again.

But I need to keep her safe. That’s been my priority this whole time, and I’m not about to let my selfishness take control now. This conversation is stressing her out, and more than anything, she needs to rest.

“I’ll fix this,” I say hoarsely. “I swear.”