Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,341

pulls the pillow over her head. “Could you close the blinds on your way out?”

I stuff my frustration and general rage at the world down another inch. I’m afraid of what else is down there, buried beneath the thin flooring of my civility. It feels like some wild animal will leap out roaring and clawing and baring its teeth when I least expect it. There’s a pack of feral beasts caged in my belly, in my chest, and I’m not sure how much longer they’ll stay stuffed away before they come out raging.

“I’m not closing the blinds, Bris. Some sun would do you good. It’s spring.”

Her head makes a slow rotation until she’s looking at me over her shoulder.

“It’s spring?” Her eyes spark with the first emotion I’ve seen since the hospital. “Well whoop dee fucking doo, Grip. Now all’s right with the world because it’s spring. Who do I look like? Fucking Mary Poppins?”

I wanted emotions, yeah, but not the bitchy ones.

“Okay, Bris,” I say as patiently as I can. “I’m hurting, too, but—”

“Are you?” The naked misery in her eyes breaks my heart in places I assumed were already broken. “Yet you somehow manage to go for long walks and zip to grab breakfast and eat food? And tolerate light?”

“I won’t let this happen, Bristol,” I say. “You know I won’t. It’s been ten days and—”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She snaps to a sitting position, the T-shirt she slept in bunching up with the covers, her hair tangled and matted and disorderly. “Has it been ten days already? Am I late? Was I supposed to be all better by now?”

“I get it. The only thing that drags me out of bed every morning is you.” I lean over to cup her cheek. “I love you too much to let this go on. Ten days is no time in the grand scheme of things, but you can’t not eat.”

I lean closer, catching a whiff of my T-shirt she’s wearing, which could probably launder itself by now.

“Damn, babe.” I screw my nose up, hoping she’ll allow me to tease her some. “You can’t not bathe for ten days either.”

Her lips don’t twitch. Her eyes don’t glimmer with humor or interest or life. She just stares at me unblinkingly.

“I can’t do this, Grip,” she whispers, her anger fading as quickly as it came. She presses her cheek deeper into my palm. “You keep thinking I can do this, that I’m stronger than I am, but . . .”

She shakes her head, helplessness loosening a tear from her lashes and spilling it over her cheek.

“I’m not strong enough either, baby.” I dip to press my forehead to hers. “Not by myself, but remember what I promised you?”

“What?” she asks.

She doesn’t remember? I console myself with the reminder that she was exhausted and on drugs before her C-section, but my heart still winces that she doesn’t remember what I promised.

“I said—”

“That you would love me for the rest of your life,” she whispers, eyes closed. “And that you believed we could survive anything together.”

There’s my girl. Hope flares in this dark room that is our life right now. It’s the smallest thing, her remembering those moments, our hardest, but it’s the only thing I have.

“Yeah, that’s it. The only way we get through this is together.” This one thing encourages me to broach a topic I know we need to address. “I, uh . . . was talking to Dr. Wagner.”

Her eyes narrow.

“I just had the checkup and was okay,” she says, slowing her words as if she needs to process them. “I’m not due back until my six- week appointment.”

“I know.” I nod my agreement. “But I called her office and we talked—”

“About me?” Her words come fast and outraged. “Without me?”

“Bris, just listen.” I sigh, dreading this. “She thinks you should reconsider the prescription she suggested.”

“For the milk?”

Dr. Wagner mentioned a prescription that would expedite the milk drying up, but Bristol refused. I wish she would take it. Nature is cruel, preparing Bristol’s body to nurse and nurture even though her arms are empty. It’s a constant reminder of what we’ve lost burgeoning in her body.

“No, not those.” I clear my throat unnecessarily. “The, um . . . the antidepressant.”

“I don’t want that.” Bristol tosses the comforter back, throwing her legs over the side with more energy than I’ve seen. It’s a shame the only thing that seems to enliven her is anger. “It hasn’t even been two weeks.”

“True, but not only