Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,324

have to make.

I can’t help but think of how this day began, with the heat of our lovemaking, with our dreams and speculations about this baby whispered as dawn broke. We were sure it would be just as we wanted, that anything was possible.

Dwell in possibility.

I can’t think of what’s possible as I replay the conversation with Dr. Wagner like a horror movie I can’t un-watch, the word “terminal” clanging like a bell over and over in my head.

Possible? Not when all that is weighing on me, waiting for me, is death.

Bitterness pools in my heart, a fast-filling well of poison choking me. I don’t speak for the rest of the ride home. I think about how certain Dr. Wagner seemed, how she called the test Grip is pinning so much on a formality. I stew in my fear and anger and frustration until it runs over, leaving little room for hope.

Chapter 36

Grip

THE NURSERY IS DOUSED in shadows. The only light comes from Bristol’s phone, illuminating a small sphere in the dark, showing her high cheekbones, stark in the diminished light, and the full curve of her mouth pulled thin with tension. She’s sitting on the floor, her dark brows contorting into a frown as she scrolls down the screen with her index finger.

The last ten days of waiting for the test results have been harder than anything I’ve ever experienced, but not harder than what lies ahead.

Our baby will die.

Whether because we terminate the pregnancy or decide to let it run its course, her death is an inevitability for which I have no idea how to prepare. I can’t, and I have no idea how to help Bristol because I can’t help myself. I thought I could protect her from anything, from anyone. I called myself her first line of defense but I’m blindsided, never suspecting that the enemy—death—had already breached our gates.

We always talk about everything, Bristol and I, but a heavy silence hung over us on the way home, like a rain cloud poised to pour. We were silent as if our words would trigger the storm, and the deliberate, unnatural quiet followed us across our threshold. Maybe by unspoken mutual agreement, we decided it isn’t real until we talk about it, until we weigh our shitty options and are forced to make impossible choices.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask from the door, my voice scratchy from lack of use. I’ve barely spoken since we left the doctor’s office.

At my question, Bristol’s head jerks up, her attention wrested from the phone. With a click of her finger, she turns it off, losing the light and plunging the room into darkness. The overhead light would show too much, would be too bright. I step carefully in the general direction of the lamp on a table in the corner. I fumble under the shade until I find the little button that will show me Bristol’s face, but not much else. Her thoughts will remain a mystery until she’s ready to talk, and as much as I don’t want to, as much as I’ve avoided it for the last few hours, we have to talk.

The soft, lambent light shows me the broken heart in her eyes, killing me at a glance. They aren’t teary or red-rimmed or puffy. There are no telltale signs of distress, but that secret joy that lit her eyes to precious-metal silver for the last few months has been snuffed out. They’re dulled to pewter, an alloy of pain and grief, a mixture of mourning.

I take a tentative step, only to freeze when I spot the things flanking her on the floor. To her right sits a tub of her favorite cookie dough ice cream. The lid is off, and a large serving spoon spears the creamy, untouched surface. To her left is a half-full bottle of her favorite liquor, vodka. No glass, so I assume she’ll be taking it to the head, if she hasn’t already. My heart thuds behind my ribs because that must be a sign. Bristol hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since she found out she was pregnant. She would never endanger our baby, unless the point is moot, unless she has already decided something I thought we would decide together. My heart painfully draws its own conclusions, even though I can’t make myself ask her the question.

What do you want to do?

Each word of the unspoken inquiry is like a drop of acid burning through my tongue. I can’t ask. I haven’t