Page 35 of Breathing Wisteria
“I’m pregnant.”
“Right.” The word escapes on an exhale.
“I wanted to tell you first, by ourselves.” She rushes on, her concern written all over her face. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? There’s no simple answer to that. I’m terrified I will never be okay.
Instead, I slip on my mask and I tell her what she needs to hear.
“Of course, I am. Lay! God, I’m so excited for you both.”
“Really?” She physically slumps down in relief. “Because it’s okay if you’re not, you know. I would completely understand.”
“Sweetie, what happened to me was a long time ago, I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me.”
“Okay, if you’re sure?” She eyes me tentatively.
My head is screaming at me, my body desperate to collapse into itself, and in this moment, I hate myself a little. Because the sweetest girl in the world is standing in front of me and she would be devastated if she knew what her news was doing to me. So, I hold it together and move around the breakfast bar and wrap her up in a giant hug.
“I’m sure,” I whisper.
An hour later, I close the door behind Layla and turn my back to it, slowly sliding down until my ass hits the ground.
The last hour proved to be endless as I listened to excited chatter and fearful musings, all the while fighting for control of my emotions. Layla tried so hard to hold back, her concern for me evident but there was no disguising her joy.
My head sinks to my knees and my chest tightens painfully. I don’t understand why this hurts so much more than when Skye and Cassidy told me they were pregnant, but this pain feels raw and intense in a way it didn’t then. Like my heart is a gaping open wound and I’m prodding it with a sharpened fingernail in an effort to see how much agony I can tolerate.
My breathing becomes labored as memories assault me. The could have beens. The should have beens. Most painful of all are the never will bes.
Grasping my chest, I begin to panic as my tears fall, causing my breaths to become even more ragged. The act of dragging air into my lungs seems too damn hard and my sobs grow harder, harsher, my throat closing in.
My phone goes off in my pocket and my first instinct is to ignore it, but fear and self-preservation has me answering it. I put the cell to my ear, but unable to speak, whoever is calling just gets an earful of me hyperventilating.
“Wyatt?”
Shit. Of course, it would be him.
“Wyatt, what’s going on, are you okay?”
I try to answer him, tell him everything is fine, but I can’t force the words out. Instead, my cries get louder, my breathing more forced.
“Relax, baby, I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.”
Common sense is shrieking at me to tell him to stop, to stay away, but when he disconnects the call, all I feel is relief.
My breathing has leveled out, breaths coming easier by the time he hammers on my door. But the tears are still falling and no matter how many times I scrub my hands over my face to wipe them away, they keep on coming.
“Wyatt?” The banging continues. “Wyatt!”
Summoning every ounce of energy I have, I pull myself up and open the door.
“Jesus.” Flynn takes one look at me and pulls me to him, wrapping his strong arms around me and holding tight.
All I can do is burrow my head into his chest and cry. I shed all the tears I should have cried ten years ago and then, all the tears I should have cried three years later when my life, once again, crashed down around me.
We stand there, for I don’t know how long, me locked into his embrace, his mouth at my ear, reassuring me that I am going to be okay.
But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I don’t get to be okay.
