“No, no. You didn’t do anything. It’s something inside of me that isn’t right.” Her lips tremble.

“Oh.” I wish I could say something else, something better, anything, really.

“Yeah.” She rubs her hand over the bottom of her stomach, and I can feel the air disappearing from the small space of my car.

As fucked-up as it is, as fucked-up as I am, my chest feels like it’s caving in, and little brown-haired girls with blue-gray eyes, little blond boys with green eyes, little bonnet things and tiny socks with little animals—all kinds of shit that used to make me want to vomit repeatedly—swirl through my mind, and I feel dizzy as they are torn away, tossed into the air, and carried off to wherever ruined futures go to die.

“It’s possible, I mean, there’s a very slim chance. And there would be a high risk for miscarriage, and my hormone levels are all messed up, so I don’t think I could ever torture myself by trying. I wouldn’t be able to handle losing a baby, or trying for years with no result. It’s just not in the cards for me to be a mother, I guess.” She’s spitting this shit out, trying to make me feel better, but it’s not convincing me, not making her seem like she has it under control when it’s obvious that she doesn’t.

She’s looking at me, expecting me to say something, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say to her, and I can’t help the anger I feel toward her. It’s fucking stupid and selfish and absolutely fucking wrong, but it’s there, and I’m terrified that if I open my mouth, I will say something I shouldn’t.

If I weren’t such an asshole, I would comfort her. I would hold her and tell her it will be okay, that we don’t need to have kids, we can adopt or something, anything.

But this is how reality works: men aren’t literary heroes, they don’t change overnight, and no one does anything right here in the real world. I’m no Darcy and she’s no Elizabeth.

She’s on the verge of tears when she squeaks out, “Say something?”

“I don’t know what to say.” My voice is barely audible, and my throat is closing. I feel like I’ve swallowed a handful of bees.

“You didn’t want kids anyway, right? I didn’t think it would make such a difference . . .” If I look over, I will find her crying.

“I didn’t think so, but now that it’s been taken away—”

“Oh.”

I’m thankful for that, because who knows what the fuck would have come out next.

“You can just take me back to the . . .”

I nod and put the car into drive. It’s fucked-up how something you never wanted can hurt this way.

“I’m sorry, I just . . .” I stop; neither of us seems to be able to finish a sentence.

“It’s okay, I understand.” She leans into the window. I suspect that she’s trying to get as far away from me as she can.

My emotions are telling me to comfort her, to think of her and how this is affecting her and how she feels about it.

But my head is strong, so fucking strong, and I’m pissed. Not at her, but her body and her mum for whatever she was born with that doesn’t work right. I’m pissed at the world for slapping me in the damn face again, and I’m pissed at myself for not being able to say anything to her as we drive through the city.

A FEW MINUTES LATER, I realize that the silence is so loud it hurts. Tessa’s trying to stay quiet on her side of the car, but I can hear her breathing, the way she’s trying to control it, to control her emotions.

My chest is so fucking tight, and she’s just sitting there, letting my words stew in her mind. Why do I always do this shit to her? I always say the wrong thing no matter how many times I promise that I won’t. No matter how many times I promise that I will change, I always do this. I pull away and leave her to deal with the shit herself.

Not again. I can’t do it again; she needs me more than ever, and this is my chance to show her that I can be here the way she needs.

Tessa doesn’t look at me as I turn the wheel and pull over to the side of the highway. I turn my hazard lights on and hope that a damn cop doesn’t come and start shit.

“Tess.” I attempt to get her attention while I scramble through my thoughts. She doesn’t look up from her hands in her lap. “Tessa, please look at me.” I reach my hand across the console to touch her, but she jerks away and her hand smacks against the door loudly.

“Hey.” I take off my seat belt and turn toward her, taking both of her wrists into one of my hands, the way I do so often.

“I’m fine.” She raises her chin slightly to prove her point, but the moisture in her eyes tells another story. “You shouldn’t be parked here; this is a busy highway.”

“I don’t give a shit about where I am parked. I’m fucked-up, my head isn’t right.” I stumble for the words to make sense. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

After a few beats she lowers her eyes to me, staring at my face but avoiding my eyes.

“Tess, don’t shut down again, please. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I never even considered having kids anyway, and here I am, making you feel bad for this shit.” The confession sounds even worse as the words fall between us.

“You’re allowed to be upset, too,” she quietly responds. “I just needed you to say something, anything . . .” The last word is so low that it’s barely audible.

“I don’t care that you can’t have kids,” I blurt. Fucking hell. “I mean, I don’t care about our kids that we can’t have.”