Page 110 of For Her Own Good

But if it were his, if he wanted to be a father—and he’d be an exceptionally wonderful father, I know—then I would do it for him. I believe in him so fully, I think he’d be able to shepherd me through that as well. Ratherhadbelieved.

Moot. I’ll need to make decisions about this for myself. And though I’d like to think that this is indeed a choice, is it? Conceivably—if the pregnancy itself doesn’t aggravate my depression to a place of danger, at any rate—I could have this child by myself. If anyone has the resources to pull that off, it’s me. But for all the money I have, I’m still me, and I can’t buy mental health. Is single parenthood even an option for me? I’d like to think so, but I can’t imagine that actually being true.

Sometimes I wish I could stay here for a while when I wake up. Not the short window of observation I usually have to make sure nothing’s gone awry, but something longer that might feel like actual rest. Today won’t be that day, though.

I’ve got to get up, get back, and face the prospect of a life devoid of Lowry again. Perhaps I’ll feign sleep a bit longer because if I don’t open my eyes to see he isn’t there and in fact it’s only Holden sitting with an ankle perched on a knee while he swipes through his phone on the far side of the room, if I simply take a deep breath and let my brain trick itself into having a few more minutes of breathing in the subtle scent of him, then I won’t have to face this.

But there is no more time to wallow, no more time to keep my eyelids shut against the world. It’s time to face this day, and indeed, the rest of my life.

My eyelids feel closer to lead than feathers as I blink them open, and it doesn’t seem like a terrible idea after all to rest a bit. Except that…

My brain may very well be an asshole, but it’s not a delusional asshole. It’s not only Lowry’s scent that’s present, but Lowry as well.

I’ve got ninety-nine problems, but hallucinating’s never been one of them. So, nothing in my previous experience would explain why Lowry—face drawn and his facial hair a bit more grown out than usual but still handsome as ever—is in the chair that’s always been to the side of the beds here, but which I’ve never woken to someone sitting in. My father was always pacing by the door, speaking in hushed, hurried tones, and Holden sits politely but distantly in the chair that’s in the far corner.

I sit up like a jackknife and am swamped immediately by nausea. I know better, but I can’t—

“Starla, shh. It’s me. Would you lie back, please? I don’t want you making yourself sick. I’ll go if you want me to, but please.”

His voice is gentle, soft, and coaxing, as though he thinks he might scare me. I’m not scared, but I am confused and not in the “searching my mind for information that’s no longer there” way that I sometimes experience after I’ve had a treatment.

It’s not so much what he’s saying right now that gets me to cooperate as all the things he’s said to me before. He’s built a foundation which is, yes, cracked down to the core in some places, but I still find that in some things, I’m content to listen to his judgment.

I close my eyes, let his warm hands and firm grasp on my shoulders steer me back until my head hits the pillow again and I take long, deep breaths that help clear the feeling that I’m about to puke.

It’s perhaps not wise, but I reach out anyhow, and it’s not even a second before Lowry is slipping his hand into mine—warm and dry in distinct contrast to my cold and clammy palm. And then there are blunt fingers brushing away the fine strands at my hairline, now matted there with sweat. That didn’t take much.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I guess you still— I didn’t realize— I should’ve known— I’m sorry.”

I can’t reassure him at the moment, and I don’t think that’s actually on me to do. I’ll take the comfort of his hands, though.

After a few minutes of breathing, when my roiling stomach has settled and I’m no longer actively sweating, I open my eyes again and don’t snatch my hand back. I should. I know I should, but I can’t quite figure out how to make my hand obey.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to apologize. I’m sorry. You deserve more than that, and I’ll give you whatever you’d like, whatever you need from me. I shouldn’t have left the way I did. I just didn’t feel as though I had any other choice. I couldn’t…”

He makes a disgusted noise and I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it’s directed toward himself. Many people I would not because instead of filling the well of goodwill, they’ve drained it instead, never bothering to top it off. But Lowry? I’m angrier at him than I’ve been at anyone else in my existence, but I also can’t let go and dismiss all of the good things he’s done, all the ways he’s loved me. I look at our hands, fingers entwined, and follow them in time to see Lowry dip his head to my knuckles and lay a kiss there. It’s achingly sweet even as I want to visit violence upon his body.

It’s difficult to wrap my head around all of my feelings, but I manage to choose the one that is the most sensitive. “I wish you would’ve talked to me. Nothing is set in stone. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m really angry at you for leaving, but I also understand how hard this must be for you.”

The crease between his ginger brows deepens, and he cocks his head. “Hard for me? I mean, yes, leaving was like ripping my heart out of my chest. But I wasn’t going to be any good to you. I would’ve hurt you, lost you something that was so close to your heart and I couldn’t stand the idea of hurting you so deeply. It may have been bloody stupid but I swear I was doing it for your own good. I left so I could protect you.”

Protect me? How on earth would abandoning me when he found out I was pregnant be protecting me? So I could make the decision about whether to keep it without him? How can he not know that I value his opinion above all others and that this is nearly as much his decision as it is mine? How could he not realize that whether he stays or not would have a profound impact on whether I would even consider keeping this baby? He’s not making any sense.

“I don’t…”

The hand he’s not holding drifts to my belly, and though it’s far too early to feel anything, I swear I do. Perhaps not anything physical, exactly, but a…connection of some sort. That’s a little woo-woo for me, but I can’t explain it any other way.

“Didn’t you leave because I’m pregnant?” Pregnant seems a little less final, a bit less personal and intimate thanhaving a baby. “I thought you saw the test in the trash and freaked, and I get it, I do, because of your uncle, and I get how it could be overwhelming and scary and poke at those icky spots we all have, but I was really hoping…I was really hoping we could figure this out together because I know it’s hard for you, but it’s—”

Goddammit. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to be a reasonable, logical person who could enter—if not leave—this conversation like an adult, like a grown-ass woman, and here I am blubbering like an overly sensitive baby walrus. Goddammit. My voice cracks into a sob and Lowry’s face is blurry beyond the tears crowding my eyes. They’re going to spill any second but perhaps I can finish my sentence first.

“It’s nearly impossible for me. I’m so scared and I don’t know what to do because I can barely take care of myself and manage my business and throwing a baby in there—I don’t know. And my mom—what if I turn out to be like her? What if I leave my baby alone? What if my depression lies so very hard it convinces me she’s better off without me? What if she would be because I’ve got this pretty well under control and have for quite some time, but I wasn’t planning on adding a baby. Probably not ever, and— How? How could you leave me like that?”

So, I’m oh-for-two in the not-having-a-breakdown score. Great.

Lowry presses tissues into my hands, and I blow my nose and wipe my eyes. I told myself I wasn’t going to yell at him, that I wasn’t going to panic, but here we are. When I’ve tidied myself up as best I can, I look at him, tissues still crumpled in my hands. The nausea is back, but this time it’s panic-induced, I’m pretty sure.

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