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“Because she’ll have a miscarriage anyway.”
His hand stilled on my back. “No.”
I turned to look at him.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I went through this three times—I know how it ends.”
“Maybe this one will end differently—”
“It won’t. Stop with your annoying optimism. It doesn’t make me feel better. And if it did make me feel better, it would make me feel worse later. So just…shut up.” I immediately regretted what I said. “I’m sorry… I’m just being an asshole.”
He dropped his arm and rested both on his knees. “It’s okay to be an asshole sometimes.”
I shook my head. “Not when you’re trying to help me.”
“I’ve been practicing medicine longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve seen a lot of perplexing things. People are told they have no chance to go into remission…and they just do. People who get cancer but somehow beat the disease even after they refuse treatment. Sometimes…we can’t understand everything.”
“As much as I would like that to happen for us…it won’t.”
“Daisy is a different person. Maybe your ex-wife was the one with issues.”
“She has two daughters, so I doubt it.”
“Maybe the two of you together couldn’t make children, but with different partners…you could.”
No. This wasn’t a fucking fairy tale.
“Did the miscarriages happen in a specific trimester?”
“The first. Could never develop past that.”
Deacon gave a nod. “Well, it’s been a month.”
“And there’re two more to go…”
“Maybe she’ll get there.”
I dropped my gaze because I couldn’t even allow myself to think about it.
“I’ve seen stranger things, Atlas.”
I was silent.
“I’ve seen bigger miracles.”
“Please…just stop.”
He turned quiet, staring at me.
“I just…can’t get my hopes up. It will destroy me if it doesn’t work out. It’ll hurt so much more than all the other times because there’s nothing I’d want more than to have a family with her.”
His hand returned to my back, and he rubbed it again. “I know, son.”
“I…I don’t know what to do.”
“You need to be there for her. You need to be supportive. And I know this is hard, but you need to be positive.”
I shook my head.
“Because the mind is the most powerful part of the body. If your mind has given up, so will your body. You know this better than anyone. Our patients who reach remission are always the ones who are positive, who never stop believing. The ones who give up…they never make it. When my wife had cancer—” He stopped abruptly, as if just thinking about it was too hard for him. “She never lost her faith. She never lost her hope. She told us from the beginning that she would beat it, and every time I took her to the hospital for treatment…she smiled. She laughed. She…believed. Within a couple months, she beat the shit out of that tumor, triumphed against her odds, laughed in its goddamn face. I really believe her exceptional progress was because of her positivity. I understand how hard it is to not get swept up in the fear and grief because when you aren’t the one experiencing it directly, it’s somehow so much worse. Her cancer was a million times harder for me than it ever was for her. But you have to support Daisy. You have to believe with her. Because that will make all the difference in the world.”
When the elevator doors opened, she stood in the kitchen, a bag of takeout on the counter. She was still, watching me, tense as if she expected me to explode even though I’d had hours to wind down.
I wished this hadn’t happened. I wished we’d been more careful. I wished I hadn’t put us in this position. All I had to do was take a step back and put on a condom. But I didn’t. I should have looked out for both of us, especially when I knew the consequences of our actions better than she did.
But Deacon was right.
There was nothing that could be done at this point. We had to wait…and hope.
I came farther into the penthouse and approached the kitchen. “What’d you get?”
She stilled again, surprised by the question. “A sandwich…”
I came to her side and looked at her grilled steak sandwich with all the fixings. “It’s pretty big… You want to split it with me?”
There wasn’t a smile on her lips, but it was there in her eyes. “Sure.”
We didn’t talk about it.
We talked about work. That was pretty much it.
There was a bright pink elephant in the room, and neither one of us addressed it.
We had a routine down, going to work, coming home, whipping up something together for dinner, and then working together on the couch. When we went to sleep, there was lovemaking before the lights went out for good.
But still no talking.
I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever.
Another week had come and gone, and that meant she had reached five weeks.
This was how I would spend my time from now on. Counting every week. Reaching a new goalpost and hoping to make it to the next one. Waiting. Hoping. Begging.
