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He pulls me to him. “Don’t you think we should talk about this some more?”
“What’s left to say?”
“You always have a lot to say.”
“I have zero words left on this topic. I’m all the fuck talked out.”
“You’re angry and sad and defeated, angel, but I guarantee you, you’re not all the fuck talked out.”
“I am. Trust me. I fucking am.”
“Talk to me, Birdie. Throw your hurt out.”
“I don’t want to throw it at you. You don’t deserve it.”
“I’m not saying to direct it at me. I’m just saying get it out. With me.” When I stare at him in silence, he pushes, “Do you think it’s fair that we did seven fucking years of IVF to end up with nothing? Do you think it’s fair we lost this baby just after we lost Max? Do you think it’s fair you had to endure ten fucking rounds of IVF with all those needles and tests and fucking scans? All those moods? All the fights we had because of all that shit? Because I fucking don’t.”
The ugly words he speaks coil through my mind and body, dragging up all the hurt I’ve shoved down deep over the years. So much fucking hurt. And anger. And bitter, crushing disappointment. These emotions and feelings flood my veins until I can no longer contain them.
Pushing away from him, I yell, “I hate everything we had to go through! All of it! I hate that I injected my body with God knows what chemicals. I hate that my body failed us. I hate that I subjected you to all my moods. I hate that I don’t get a baby even after giving up so much.” I reach for him again as tears stream down my face. “I hate that you don’t get a baby when you did nothing wrong. I hate watching you go through all of this. Oh, God”—my voice cracks—“I hate all of this for you.”
I bury my face in his chest. His strong arms circle me and he holds me tightly while I sob.
It takes me a long time to get all my tears out. Winter doesn’t let me go; he waits it out with me.
When I finally gather myself, I look up at him. Touching my hand to his face, I say, “I hate that we can’t do it all over again and try one last time, but I know we won’t survive it if we do, so I choose you.”
I’ve never seen Winter cry. Not once. He doesn’t cry now, but I know he feels his emotions stronger than ever by the way he’s looking at me. He looks destroyed. Ruined. And when he speaks, I hear the utter brokenness in his soul. “I choose you, too.”
28
Winter
* * *
Four Months Later
* * *
“What time will you be home tonight?” Birdie asks as I put my phone between my shoulder and my ear so I can listen to her while I load guns into the van. Ransom and I are moving them from the storage warehouse to the clubhouse this afternoon. I want a stockpile there in case we need them in a hurry.
“I’m not sure. It’ll probably be late.” I lost four club members last night to Zenith; I’ve got a lot going on.
“Yeah, I figured. I’ve got a lot of work to take home and catch up on, so I was thinking we could maybe just order dinner in. Do you want me to order you anything or will you just get something yourself?”
“Don’t get me any. I’ll sort myself out.”
“Okay, baby. I’ll talk to you later.”
We end the call and I concentrate on what I’m doing.
“How many more?” Ransom asks as we half fill the van.
“This’ll do for now.” A text comes through and I check my phone.
* * *
Axe: We’ve finished going through the data on the phones.
