Page 48 of Sinister Red

I’m not the kind of girl that goes to worst case scenarios like that one because I know for a fact that if that were to happen, Captain Withers would be the one to call me about it. He’s met Lewis a few times, and he definitely knows we’re engaged. The captain even came to our engagement party back in February, but that was mostly to stand in the corner with my dad and talk shit about my fiancé.

Which is another reason why Withers would be the one to call me.

He may not like Lewis very much, but my dad likes him even less, so if his body was discovered somewhere, Roland Berk would be far too busy dancing a jig to take the time to call me about it. And considering he is one of only two medical examiners in Sabine Woods, my father would fight Johansson for the ability to get Lewis up on his table and dissect himbeforehe called to tell me about it.

Maybe all of that is a little bit of an exaggeration, but my point is, Withers would call if something happened to my fiancé and he hasn’t, so it’s nothing like that.

After eliminating the possibility of Lewis just staying late at work and forgetting to call, I’m starting to think that one of my biggest fears might be coming to fruition.

Last night, we ate the white wine garlic chicken, drank all the rest of the wine, and when I finished cleaning up, my very buzzed fiancé directed me to put on mymatching jammiesand sit with him so we could talk.

And talk, we did.

Lewis apologized again for what he said, for the things he’s been saying, but everything was followed up with something likeI just can’t figure out why you don’t like sexor,maybe you should see another doctor, and my favorite,it’s fine for now I guess, but I don’t want to be in my late thirties when we start having kids, so we need to figure this out now. All kinds of things every woman wants to hear from the man she’s supposed to marry.

But I didn’t fight.

Nope, I kept my mouth shut and took it, nodding my head when it was appropriate, giving him one or two little responses when I saw fit. Then, for some reason that is still completely unknown to me, Lewis thought last night was a great time—while he was drunk, I was buzzed, and I’d spent a good portion of my day crying—totest the watersagain.

Yeah, my insensitive and clueless fiancé tried to put the fucking moves on meafterhe sat and basically told me I was broken and if we didn’t have sex ever again, I’d be completely useless to him becausehow else would we have fun or make babies. And the jackass had the nerve to beoffendedwhen I politely declined, using my upcoming period as an excuse.

I just got off my period.

Something Lewis would know if he actually paid attention to what was important, like the eight days of me writhing in pain and crying that very literally just ended forty-eight hours ago.

Idiot.

So, we went to bed mad and Lewis even slept on the couch, but he apologized to me before he left this morning, and sent his normal messages throughout the day, and I thought we were fine.

Until now.

Now I’m worried that the fact that I can’t, at the very least, work myself up enough to have sex with the man I plan to spend the rest of my life with, just so I can maybe promise him babies, means that Lewis is going to start looking elsewhere.

The thought has crossed my mind before, I won’t lie about that.

Endometriosis is ridiculously painful and hard to manage at times, but it doesn’t mean having it ends your sex life or the possibility of becoming a mother. It just makes things trickier, a little riskier, but both of those things can happen despite the condition, and there are treatments for everything as well as ways to help with fertility, but Lewis knows all of this. He knows because he went to medical school, he knows because he’s heard it from my doctors, and he knows because I fucking told him.

But I get it.

Someone like Lewis wants the American dream; the wife, the kids, the career, and house. He wants everything that his parents had, and if I can’t give it to him then he’ll find someone who can.

My phone starts vibrating on the seat next to me, and I snatch it up without even bothering to check.

“Jesus Christ, woman! I have been blowing you up,” Harlow shouts in my ear.

“No you haven’t. I only had two missed calls.”

“Look again, Sof. I called you no less than thirty times in the last two minutes.”

I pull my phone away from my ear and sure enough, I have the two calls from earlier—Dad and the hospital—and twenty-six calls from Harlow.

How the hell did I miss that?

“Ok, sorry. I’m here now, so what’s up?”

“What’s up?” she screeches. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Yes, I’m serious. I don’t know… wait, are you crying?” She huffs again and I realize not only is my best friend crying, but she’s also running? “Where are you?”

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