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I hesitate. Many men will reject me for the part I’m about to confess. This is my defect. I’ll carry it forever alone. Ian lost a baby, but he can still have children.
What I don’t want is his pity. What I don’t need is his guilt. What I can’t bear is for him to hang around just because Ruben shot me. I don’t want him to give up on being a father just because I can’t be a mother.
Opting for a clinical tone that doesn’t give away the hurt churning in my chest, I confess the final part. “They had to operate. I had a hysterectomy.”
Nostrils flaring, he doesn’t give me pity or guilt. He gives me anger. “Do you think for one moment I give a damn that you can’t have children?”
I try to pull my hand away, but he holds fast.
“I saw the way you looked at your brother’s baby,” I say. “I know you want children. That’s what you were secretly hoping for in Zim. That’s why you didn’t get me the morning-after pill.”
“Yes, damn you.” He squeezes my fingers to the point of pain. “Yes, I wanted that. Yes, it was wrong of me not to get the pill. I should be sorry, but I’m not. Am I devastated for you? Yes. Am I guilty? Yes. I should’ve killed Ruben long before he had a chance of taking a shot at you. That doesn’t change a goddamn thing about how I feel. I love you, Cas. I love you, not your body or its breeding capacity. Nothing can ever change that, do you hear me?”
It’s too much. It’s like seeing him at the bar. My emotions threaten to get the better of me. “We can’t go back to the way it was. Too much has happened.”
“No, we can’t.” He adds with determination, “That’s why we’ll go forward.”
I don’t want this for him. I don’t want him to give up on fathering a child. It’s selfish and cruel of me, but I can’t cope with imagining Ian impregnating another woman. I’m too jealous to consider a surrogate mother. Moving forward doesn’t make sense, not for us. He’ll regret his decision when it’s too late. He’s thirty-six. His clock is ticking. I don’t want to become the resented woman, the woman for whom he sacrificed a family. Some people are fine about not bringing kids into the world while it’s an undeniable desire for others. Ian falls into the latter category.
“I’m a criminal, Cas. There’s no place in my life for a child.”
I look away. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to justify a decision you shouldn’t make. That’s not your heart talking.”
“Look at me.”
When I don’t react, he grips my chin and turns my face to him. His eyes are awash with emotion. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. I’m sorry I didn’t see through Ruben and anticipate his plan. I’m sorry you almost died.” He swallows. “I’m sorry our baby died. I’m sorry that you can’t have children.” Placing my hand on his cheek, he rubs his face against my palm. “I’m not sorry for taking you that night. I’m not sorry for making love to you, and I’m not sorry for going after you again and again. I’ll never be sorry as long as you stay. That’s all I ask, Cas. Stay.”
The speech loosens something in my chest. The words floor me. The floodgates open. What I feared, happens. Sorrow and regret burn a path through my chest and clog up my throat.
He climbs onto the bed and pulls me into his arms. “It’s okay to let it out.”
I want to fight him, but the sentiments holding me hostage make me too weak.
It pushes up like a volcano until the top blows, and the ache in my throat lifts. Sobs rack my body. They’re dry sobs, gasps for air. The crust of hatred cracks, and the slush buried underneath erupts from my chest and pours from my eyes like acid rain. For the first time, I mourn properly. I mourn with tears instead of vengeance.
The more he hushes and rocks me, the more I cry. I cry until my throat is raw, and my eyes are dry, and all that’s left are the ashes of grief. I’m a ragdoll in his arms, weak from the emotional outburst, but lighter than what I’ve felt in a year. The anger that had churned inside me spilled out like rivers of lava. The heat is purging. The ash cloud clears and clarity sets in. For the first time since the accident, I feel like I can do what Ian suggested. I can move forward, but not with him. It’s tempting, but I love him too much to be that selfish.
“I’m here,” he whispers in my hair, kissing the crown of my head.
