Page 189 of Diego

I wake with Blair’s name in my throat and the memory of blood everywhere.

For one awful second, the room around me means nothing. I am back in the car racing toward the hospital after Julia’s call, except this time, I arrive too late. I open the door to Blair’s room and see faces that tell me everything before anyone can speak.

In the dream, Dr. Mehta is there, but there is no heartbeat coming from the ultrasound machine. Blair is lying in the bed with her eyes closed, and no matter how many times I say her name, she never opens them.

My chest heaves as I stare into the dark.

Then Blair shifts beside me.

The movement snaps me back to reality.

I turn my head to see her asleep on her side, facing me, one hand tucked beneath her cheek and the other resting between us. Her breathing is slow and even. Her hair is scattered across the pillow, and enough moonlight comes through the dimmed windows for me to see the relaxed line of her face.

I reach across the small space between us and rest my fingers against the inside of her wrist. Her pulse beats steadily beneath my fingertips, strong and undeniable, and I stay there longer than necessary because I need the proof.

Blair is fine.

The baby is fine.

We saw both of those things confirmed only days ago. The hematoma is shrinking. There has been no more bleeding. Blair is stronger every day, impatient with the restrictions, bored enough to argue about carrying her own plate from one room to another. She spends more time awake than asleep now and complains when anyone tries to do too much for her.

Everything is improving.

My brain knows all of that.

The part of me that just watched her die can’t seem to accept it.

I ease my hand away from her wrist and sit up carefully. Blair gives a quiet sigh but does not wake, and I pause until her breathing settles again. The last thing I want is to drag her into this because my sleeping mind can’t stop replaying the worst day of my life.

I get out of bed and pull on the first pair of pants I find, then leave the room without turning on any lights.

The house feels different in the middle of the night. During the day, there is always some kind of movement now. Blair downstairs. Emilia in the kitchen. Someone from the family appearing without invitation. Phones ringing, doors opening, people talking somewhere in the distance. At this hour, everything is quiet except for the faint sound of the waves behind the thick glass windows.

I take the stairs down quietly and head toward the terrace.

The glass door slides open with barely a sound. Cold air hits me immediately, sharp enough against my bare chest that under normal circumstances I would go back for a shirt. Tonight I welcome it. I need something physical and immediate enough to force the nightmare out of my head.

I walk to the railing and look over the lake.

The water is nearly black beneath the night sky, broken only by scattered reflections farther along the shoreline. Wind moves across the terrace and raises gooseflesh over my arms, but I stay where I am, bracing both hands against the railing and breathing until my pulse begins to slow.

It was a nightmare.

I know how ridiculous it is to have to tell myself that.

I have seen worse things awake than most people could invent in their sleep. I have been threatened, shot at, beaten, and stood over men who did not walk away afterward. I learned young that fear is useful only as a warning, a lesson. You listen to it, identify the danger, and decide what you are going to do about it.

There is nothing to do about this.

That might be the part I hate most.

When Blair started bleeding, there had been no person to find, no threat to remove, no mistake I could correct with enough money or force or planning. The only thing to be done was get her to the hospital, get the doctor there, and make sure she was not alone afterward.

I could not make the bleeding stop.

I could not guarantee our child would survive.

I could only sit beside her and wait for someone else to tell me whether the future I had already started imagining still existed.