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He slowly tilts his head to the side, misery written on his face. “Old enough to do better. Docs were worried about the baby. Her family was worried about the baby. Debbie was worried about the baby. No one was worried about how she was doing. It was my job to worry about her.”
I disagree that he was the only one responsible for Debbie’s well-being, but he’s clearly held onto this belief for a long time.
“I knew something wasn’t right,” he continues after a long stare at the wall. “But I trusted the doctors. They went to medical school, right? While I barely had my high school diploma. They had to know what the fuck they were doing. Who was I to question them?”
“Yes, they should have known,” I offer lamely, even though I don’t think he’s looking for an answer.
“Debbie wasn’t a complainer. I’d known her for a couple of years by then.” He flicks his gaze to the ceiling. “The pregnancy was rough on her.” A grim smile flashes across his face. “But she kept going. At school, they had to set her up in a special room to take all her final exams and she didn’t give a shit. She powered through. Kicked ass.”
Even though I know what’s coming is worse, tears burn my eyes.
“She was a tough girl. Labor was…brutal.” His body freezes as if he’s remembering something particularly awful. “And after…she kept saying she didn’t feel well. Something wasn’t right. They just nodded their fucking heads, humoring her, then blew her off.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “I should’ve pushed the doctors and nurses. Forced them to take Debbie’s complaints seriously. But I didn’t know what to do. I mean, she just gave birth for the first time. Carrie wasn’t doing well, she had to be put in an incubator. It had been rough. Of course Debbie didn’t feel good.”
I can’t take it. I have to say something. “Dex, that’s not your fault. She gave birth in a hospital, not a tent in the woods. You had every reason to believe she was in good hands.”
“No.” He shakes his head, unwilling to accept my words. “I was the only person she had. My one job was to protect her. Speak up for her. And I failed.”
“You didn’t—”
He cuts me off with a steely glare. “The last thing she said to me was, ‘I’m going to die.’”
An ache settles in my chest. No wonder he feels responsible. How horrible for Debbie. “She must’ve been so scared,” I whisper, my throat closing painfully around the weak words.
“She was.” He nods. “She kept asking about Carrie, though. Begging me to take care of her. Not to let her parents raise her.” He swallows hard. “Like an asshole, I kept telling her she was going to be fine. We’d leave the hospital with Carrie, and everything would be okay. Trying to think of anything I could to reassure her.”
“Of course, you did.”
His body stills and he takes in another shaky breath and lets it out slowly. “I didn’t tell Debbie when Carrie passed.”
My heart absolutely shatters. I can’t imagine how hard that was for him. To sit with so much pain alone. A final loving kindness for the wife he was also about to lose.
“That was probably the kindest thing to do for her,” I whisper.
He nods slowly. “I was focused on her pulling through. The whole time she was pregnant, she worried so much about doing everything right. She wanted to be a good mom. She would’ve been, too. I didn’t want her to blame herself. I didn’t want that to be…”
What killed her.
He doesn’t have to say it, I understand.
“Then she slipped away, too,” he finishes.
Tears sting my eyes and I press my face against his chest to hide them. It feels wrong to steal his pain somehow. But my God, his story hurts.
“I’m so sorry.” My voice cracks. His heart thumps wildly against my cheek. “I shouldn’t have asked. Not today.”
After a second or two he strokes his hand over my hair and down my back. “It’s a place in my head I try not to go to too often.” He inhales a long, slow breath. “But I wanted to tell you. I want you to understand me.”
The weight of that presses down on my soul. Dex is extremely private. He doesn’t share his story or his complicated feelings around it often. And yet, he trusts me.
“The club helped me pick up the pieces after.” Dex’s voice is barely above a rasp. “I hadn’t been patched-in very long but they still—well, Rock, Z, Wrath, Grinder, and Bricks were there for me. Our old president didn’t give a shit about our personal stuff. Murphy and Teller were still prospects. They didn’t quite know what was going on with me.” He balls his hand into a fist and slowly releases it. “Rock and Grinder had their own battles to fight, but it didn’t matter. They were there for me. I don’t know if I appreciated it at the time. Guilt fueled all this rage and resentment. It left me blind and bitter to a lot of stuff.”
