The O'Conners: A Made for Love Novella (22 page)

Tomorrow marks four weeks
—
four weeks since all my fears came true. I knew it, I knew it from the moment I saw that positive pregnancy test. I predicted that I
’
d be a horrible mother and nature proved me right. I couldn
’
t even keep my baby alive through the first trimester. I
’
ve been told every which way that miscarriages are very common and that I did nothing wrong
—
but that doesn
’
t make sense. Not when there
’
s so much evidence against me.

For three weeks, I was in denial. I was praying and hoping that I wasn
’
t with child. For three weeks, I was on the pill, knowing that it was a possibility that there was a baby growing inside of me. For three weeks, I was telling my body
no
instead of embracing my precious, little yes. Then, of course, for the next several weeks, I was a mess with worry. What kind of havoc did I wreak on my baby as I let my mind effect my body? I had one job
—
one job!
I was to love my child by taking care of myself and I didn
’
t. At least, not well enough.

I draw in another deep breath when Grayson walks in, making my best effort to swallow my tears. I barely look at him as I get up and begin putting away my cello. I know he hates it, hates the way I avoid looking into his eyes, but I can
’
t stand to see his sorrow knowing that I
’
m the one to blame. I can
’
t even begin to figure out how to make it up to him
—
how to apologize to him or even how to let him love me when I know that I don
’
t deserve it. His kindness and his attentiveness makes me want to scream sometimes! It should be
me
begging for his forgiveness and striving to ease his pain, but I can
’
t.  Our loss is like a double edged sword, piercing me straight through. I bleed both guilt and sadness.

Sunrise to sunset, that
’
s all I
’
m concerned about
—
keeping myself together from sunrise to sunset.

“Hey,
”
Grayson mutters in greeting.

“Hi,
”
I reply as I seal my cello case closed.

“Did you go to class today?
”
he asks, no doubt taking in my attire and guessing the answer before I speak it.

“No.
”

“Do you need me to get you anything?
”

I peek over at him from beneath my eyelashes and shake my head. He nods once before disappearing into our bedroom. A tear escapes, racing down my cheek. I want to run to him, I want to throw my arms around him, I want to hold him and absorb his strength, his faith, and his love. I want to feel his lips on my face and his breath in my ear as he promises that everything is going to be okay. Instead, I watch him go, my
entire being
aching as it
’
s denied what it craves.

It
’
s my fault. The reason why he doesn
’
t come in and kiss me before he does anything else; the reason why he hasn
’
t touched me in weeks; the reason why we hardly speak, it
’
s because of
me
. I lost his baby. Grayson was scared, but he never
once
had any doubt that we could do this. He wanted our baby and was prepared to do anything for us. Then I lost what was his
—
I failed them both.

I know that he loves me. I know that he wants to take care of me. He
’
s done so much to prove that. He makes sure that I talk to Addie every day. I know he talks to her too, when I
’
m not around. I
’
m sure he checks up on me, using my other half in an attempt to bridge the gap between us. I
’
m also sure he
’
s disappointed by all that I don
’
t say
—
all the things I don
’
t have the strength to give voice to; not even to my sister.

Two weeks ago, he asked my parents to come. He didn
’
t even tell me. He knew, in spite of my stubbornness, that I needed my mom. Of course he was right, because my husband knows me. I spent most of my weekend cuddled in my mom
’
s arms, crying. If not with her, then with my dad. It was so hard to see them go. It was so much easier to surrender to their affection than to let myself grieve with my husband. In their arms, it was like I was simply a woman struggling to wrap my head around the title of
mother
being stripped away from me. With Grayson
…

Last week, he insisted that I go to his counseling session with him. Listening to him talk about his loss was excruciating. I know he was being honest, in hopes that I would open up too, but how could I? I had no words to give after listening to him explain what I stole from him. I know he doesn
’
t see it the way I do, I know he doesn
’
t blame me, but it
’
s only because he doesn
’
t understand. He
’
s frustrated with God and he doesn
’
t blame me one bit, but he should.

I
’
ve questioned God so many times over the last several weeks. I wonder why He didn
’
t protect my baby? Why He didn
’
t protect me? Why He didn
’
t forgive my doubts and  let my child live? Grayson
’
s words, the morning after we found out we were pregnant, I can never forget them. He told me that we weren
’
t in control
—
that God apparently thought that we could handle a child. Obviously, that wasn
’
t the case at all. It was more like a test
—
a test that I failed miserably. I can
’
t help but question if He
’
ll ever trust me with a child again? What happens if He doesn
’
t? Just the thought that this could happen again
—

“I
’
m going on a run.
”

My head snaps up at the sound of his voice. My chest aches at the sight of his tennis shoes.
I ran while I was pregnant. I haven
’
t run since. Maybe I shouldn
’
t have run then. I know the doctor said I could but
—
what if she was wrong?

“
Avery
…”
Grayson starts to make his way toward me but I stand, backing away from the instrument that keeps me sane and the man I miss more than anything in this world. I can see his grief in his tired eyes. I can see how he wishes to comfort me and share in
my
grief. He doesn
’
t understand that I can
’
t allow either of us to believe that our pain is the same. He can
’
t be held liable for the life that
’
s been lost, so how could he possibly understand how sorry I am?

“I
’
ll start dinner,
”
I manage to spit out.
“
It
’
ll be done when you get back.
”

I can feel his eyes on me as I stare at his feet. I know that if I looked up, if I looked into my favorite pair of brilliant green eyes, I would crumble and lose every ounce of will power I have to stay away from him. I can
’
t accept his affection or his sympathy. Not now. I don
’
t deserve it and I
—

“I love you,
”
he says before he heads for the door.

The second I
’
m alone, I let myself cry.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I can keep my tears at bay.

I sleep like shit and wake up to two things I
’
m growing tired of
—
morning wood and cold sheets in the space beside me. It
’
s been almost a month since I
’
ve had sex. For a man who waited over a year to be with the woman he loves, a month doesn
’
t sound so bad. For a man who hasn
’
t gone longer than two days without being inside of his woman since the day we said
I do
, a month feels pretty close to a year. Not to mention, with all my built up frustration, I could seriously use a release. That being said, I
’
d wait a month more if I could go back to the days when I
’
d wake up with Avery beside me. I
’
d wait for as long as she asked me to if she
’
d only let me hold her. I miss the feel of her little body cuddled up with mine. I miss the feel of her heartbeat, the heat of her blush, and the kiss of her breath.

I sigh, scrubbing my hands over my face as I clear my mind and wait for my dick to go limp. While my blood begins to rush elsewhere, I listen to the sounds that pulled me from sleep. She
’
s playing again. Regardless of the fact that my wife will hardly speak to me, I know her heart. I know the extent of her pain by the intensity of her playing. I
’
ve never heard her practice as much as she has over the last four weeks. I never thought I
’
d get jealous of her cello, but I won
’
t deny that I am.

I wish she would pour her heart out to me that way; that she would be honest with me about what
’
s going on in her head. I wish that she would surrender her grief to
me
—
not a damn inanimate object that can
’
t even begin to understand her loss the way that I can. And her hands
…

“Shit,
”
I grumble as I sit up. The thought of her hands playing with me instead of her instrument eradicate my efforts to get rid of my erection and I have to start all over.

I don
’
t know how much more of this I can take. It
’
s not just the sexual frustration, it
’
s being on the outside looking in. I feel locked out of my own marriage and I want back in. I
’
ve been going to see my counselor more regularly lately. It
’
s helping me, having that outlet and encouragement to keep going, to grasp onto my faith, and to remember that everyone grieves differently. Nevertheless, while time is known to heal the wound caused by death, I
’
m afraid the passage of time in conjunction with the space Avery and I have let come between us will only create a more devastating loss.

I cannot lose her. Not like this.

Nothing
—
absolutely nothing
—
would help me to survive that.

As I get up and get dressed, I make the decision that today is the day
—
the day I break down the wall that has been erected between us. I just can
’
t take it anymore. I need my wife and I know that she needs me too. I promised her that we would get through this
together
, and I won
’
t allow either of us to break that promise.