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Ashton doesn’t say a word or ask why we’re leaving, too busy devouring the sugary treat. So when we get to the car, I work in silence while buckling him into the car seat.
Will is standing at the driver’s side when I realize we left Ashton’s backpack inside.
“His bag is still inside,” I mumble, unable to look at him.
“I’ll go get it.”
Sitting inside the car in the passenger seat, my head falls back against the headrest while I close my eyes to stop the impending headache. The moment I take a deep breath, Ashton calls out, “Momma, why are we leaving Grandpapa’s house?”
“Dinner is finished, baby. That’s why you got chocolate.”
“But I don’t want to go.” I hear the tremble in his voice, and just when my patience begins to wear thin because all I want to do is be alone, Will enters the car and distracts Ashton with a story about dinosaurs.
The drive back home is short, less than ten minutes, but it feels like an eternity. When we arrive home, I change Ashton into his favorite pajamas and clean the chocolate off his face. His night routine is followed by brushing his little teeth.
Tucking him in, I kiss his forehead when Will follows, ready to read him a story.
Usually, I stick around, but I desperately want to be alone.
I head to the bathroom, and the first thing I do is pull out the draw with the ovulation and pregnancy tests. Throwing them in the trash, I’m tired of being stuck in this vicious cycle of infertility.
Without a second thought, I take the trash outside then strip my clothes to take a hot shower, hoping to relax my tense muscles.
The shower proves to be problematic—my mind refusing to shut the fuck up.
Is Ava still fucking Austin? Are they going to get married?
Frustrated with my thoughts, I hop out of the shower, dry myself off, and place my old Yale tee and robe on.
When I step inside our bedroom, I stare at the bed. Sleep is the last thing on my mind. I head back to the kitchen, assuming Will is in his office avoiding me after our fight.
With a bottle of red wine, I take a glass and go outside to the pool area and sit on one of the cabana chairs. We have an amazing view of downtown LA, so I pour myself a tall glass to admire it, drinking the wine in one sitting and unapologetic for doing this alone.
After my second glass, my limbs begin to relax. But my moment of solitude ends when Will sits on the chair beside me. He reaches out for the bottle, and instead of using a glass, he drinks straight from it.
“Amelia, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. This blame is uncalled for.”
I stare up at the stars trying not to cry. Will can’t possibly understand the guilt I carry for miscarrying the first time, to now being the problem. It’s my body doing this, and I’m supposed to be young and fertile.
He will never feel the same guilt I do.
After all, he’s just a man.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell him, avoiding his gaze.
“Amelia, please look at me?”
Slowly, my eyes shift toward him, but I stare with a cold stance because I am not worthy inside.
“Those things I said earlier—”
I drop my eyes again to cut him off. “I’m tired.”
And without another word, I walk away toward the house and to our bedroom.
Inside our bed, I sleep on my side, right at the very edge. Will never comes to our room, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I cry myself to sleep.
My eyes fall heavy like a lead weight.
