Page 35 of When Love Found Us
The words don’t settle right. They don’t belong to me alone. They belong to someone else, too. And yet, I’m the one laying here, trapped under the enormity of it. I should feel something—joy, relief, hope. Anything but this crushing sense of finality.
It’s no longer a distant problem I can shove to the back of my mind, something I can file under deal with later. Yes, I knew I would have a baby, that the cost was going to be stratospheric, but actually acknowledging what will happen the baby is born . . . my mind hadn’t caught up with that. But it’s happening. It’s real.
And I have no idea if I can do this.
If I can love a child, who will forever remind me of the worst part of my life.
Simone’s voice is just noise in the background, muffled and distant. Instructions about follow-ups, prenatal vitamins, nausea remedies. Atlas is the one responding, like a doting husband whose concern about my wellbeing. I can’t even register what he’s saying. My skin prickles, too tight, too hot. My pulse skitters wildly, a runaway thing I can’t control.
I need to get out.
I push off the exam table too fast. The floor shifts, the walls tilt—like the whole room is moving without me. My stomach lurches in protest.
Atlas moves before I can even register what’s happening, his hands catching my arms, warm and solid, like he knew I’d stumble before I did.
“Whoa, easy.” His voice is low, threaded with something softer. “You okay, babe?”
I should pull away, should tell him I don’t need this, don’t want this—but his touch isn’t suffocating this time. It’s . . . careful. His grip firm enough to hold me upright, but not caging. Like he’s reminding me, we’re together in this, even when I keep fighting it.
I blink up at him, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
His brows draw together, concern etching into the lines of his face, but there’s something else in his expression, too—something almost teasing. “You’re gonna make me carry you out of here, aren’t you?”
A breath escapes me, half a scoff, half a laugh, wobbly at the edges.
“I’m fine,” I lie, the words barely more than a whisper. My voice doesn’t hold, the edges too frayed, stretched too thin. “Just . . . a little nauseous.”
His hands stay on me a beat longer than they need to, his thumb grazing my wrist, a touch so fleeting it could’ve been accidental. But what if it wasn’t . . . and why did I like it?
Atlas exhales, eyes scanning my face like he’s not convinced, like he’s memorizing the cracks. But he doesn’t push.
Instead, he smirks, an exasperated kind of affection shaping his mouth. “Alright, but if you pass out, I’m catching you. And I will make a big deal out of it.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my lips betrays me, tugging up just the slightest bit.
And I hate how much I need this—this tiny, ridiculous moment where everything feels normal. Even when it’s all fake.
Simone watches me carefully before schooling her expression back into something neutral. She keeps her tone light, professional, as she reminds Atlas about their agreement. There’s nothing left to discuss—nothing I can bear to stand in this room and listen to.
I turn away, grabbing my clothes with jerky movements, barely aware of the fabric sliding over my skin. I don’t care that I’m almost naked in front of him. I just need to be done. The hoodie catches as I yank it over my head, my fingers fumbling as I shove them through the sleeves. My sneakers feel too tight when I shove my feet inside, and I rush through tying the laces, my fingers clumsy, shaking.
I straighten, but I don’t look at Atlas.
I can’t.
The moment we step outside, the air hits me like a slap, sharp and biting. The cold should clear my head, should shock me back into my body, but it doesn’t.
“Why is it so cold here?” I complain.
He shrugs. “The weather is being very New Englandy,” he states, as if that makes sense. It doesn’t, but I don’t say anything.
I need more space.
I move fast, too fast, heading straight for Atlas’s truck, gripping the handle and yanking the door open before he can catch up. The leather seat is freezing when I slide in, and I keep my hands in my lap, clenching them into fists to stop the shaking.
Atlas doesn’t start the truck right away. He sits behind the wheel, watching me, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, his jaw tight.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on in your head, or do I have to guess?”
