the couch downstairs.”
I smile at him. “Are you sure you’re okay down there?”
He smirks. “Big screen TV, beer in the fridge, comfy couch, what else could I ask for?”
I laugh. “Yes, you’ll be fine all right,” I tell him, closing the distance between us. “Thank you for all this. You didn’t have to be here.”
“I did,” he argues, his long fingers stroking my cheek. “You’re my wife.”
I look down, not quite able to face him. I don’t deserve him. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
He swallows me up in a big bear hug. “Let’s forget about all that right now.”
He does go back to Bridget’s condo where he’s been staying, but only to get a few of his things. He tells me he just bought the complete The Sopranos series on DVD.
He puts his brown distressed leather jacket on — the one I got him a few years back. “Do you wanna watch it?”
I smile. “Why not? There’s nothing like a little mob violence and sex to get your mind off your problems, right?”
He smiles — a bright happy smile I haven’t seen in a while. “I’ll bring it. I’ve been watching the first few episodes, but I don’t mind watching them again.”
I want to ask him about her, about the two of them. I know she’s no longer with Weston. Is she at her loft too? But I know it’s none of my business. I know Gabe loves me. And he’s with me right now, and that’s all I care about.
The girls are both in bed, and I know this is my window of opportunity, the perfect time to call Weston. I check the clock on the oven. It’s 9:05 PM, so around seven o’clock in California.
With my heart in my throat, I pick up the phone and dial his number, my fingers shaking.
He picks up on the third ring. “Weston Hanson,” he says, his tone formal.
I swallow the lump in my throat. My voice cracks when I say, “Hi.”
His voice softens. “Is that you, Mirella?”
“Yes.” I say simply.
“I didn’t recognize the number,” he explains. “You sound different.”
I swallow, trying to even out my voice, but I know I’m about to fall into sobs any second. “I’m calling from my home phone.”
“You don’t sound like yourself,” he says again.
My voice trembles as I tell him, “I-I’m not.”
I can hear the worry in his voice when he asks me, “What’s wrong, Mirella?”
I don’t want to tell him. I fall to pieces, not saying a word. My sobs and whimpers mixed with a hiccupping wail are the only sounds he hears.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Mirella,” he pleads. “You must tell me.”
I can hear the desperation in his voice. I think he already knows.
I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my sweater. “It’s…the baby,” I say softly. “I lost the baby.”
The line is silent and then…
“Oh, Mirella,” he says, his voice cracked at the edges. My heart sinks.
I hear a soft sob. I know he’s crying too. Neither one of us says anything. We both just sob into the phone for what seems like an eternity. I wonder where he is.
As the tears flow, the weight lifts. “I’m so sorry.”
He clears his throat. “Don’t be sorry, Mirella. It’s not your fault.”
I hug my knees, the receiver cradled in the nook of my neck. “I’m not sure what went wrong. Everything was fine. There were no medical conditions. They couldn’t really tell me.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t have…” he says, the words so soft, I almost don’t hear them at all. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so forceful.”
He’s not making any sense. “Weston,” I tell him. “That has nothing to do with it. Sex does not cause miscarriages. Can you imagine if it did?”
He doesn’t say a word. I hear sniffles across the line.
“There would be no humans on earth,” I point out. Suddenly I’m the one who needs to be strong, to be the voice of reason. “That’s crazy talk.” I hear a soft laugh and my heart lifts. “You know what I’m saying, right?”
“I suppose you do make sense,” he concedes. “I’m just so…”
“Devastated?”
“Yes,” he says. “You have no idea how much I wanted this child.”
I think back to the blue and green room. “I think I do. I wanted him just as much as you did.”
“I’m so sorry,” he suddenly blurts out. “I didn’t even ask about you. How you’ve been?”
I bite my lip. “I’m fine, Weston. I was taken to the hospital where I had an ultrasound, and a procedure under