Their exchange has tears welling in my eyes, my emotions all over the place since everything happened last night.
“Come on, Shayne. Let’s get settled,” Ford instructs, placing a warm hand on my lower back and guiding me to the stairs.
“I took you off the schedule for a week. If you need more time, just say the word.” Jet nods and disappears through the kitchen entrance, making sure the door is secured behind him.
We go up the stairs, and I unlock my apartment door. It feels the same when I enter, yet nothing is right. I look around and see the place my mom kept her small bag of clothes, the spot on the counter where her purse sat, and the used cups lining the sink. Yet it feels foreign and wrong.
It doesn’t feel like home.
Ford drops the rental keys on the counter and guides me toward my bedroom. The bedding is different, which tells me Uncle Henry took care of changing the sheets after he cleared my mom out of my space. I snuggle into my bed, seeking out the comforts of home. It’s only when Ford crawls into the bed and wraps his arms around me do I finally feel the peace settle in.
“You sure you’re okay to stay here tonight? We can go back to your aunt and uncle’s place, or even get a hotel.” He runs his hand down my arm, and like a balm, soothes the anxiety in my chest.
“No, I’m good here,” I reassure him, slipping my fingers into his and holding on tight.
“But…” When I glance over my shoulder at him, he just smiles and adds, “I could tell there’s more to it.” His voice is gentle, calm, and patient.
I sigh and close my eyes, just lying here and feeling his body pressed to my back, reveling in the sound of his even breathing. I smile as I inhale, taking in his familiar scent. “I can smell you,” I whisper.
Ford sniffs my hair and groans. “You’re my favorite scent ever. I’ve missed this.”
I let him hold me before I take us back to our original conversation. He knows what happened with my mom and would have come with my uncle to deliver her stuff if he had been there. I can imagine he has a few choice words for her as well. “I’m good here, Ford, but I don’t think I’m happy.”
I feel him tense and quickly realize my words could be taken out of context. “I’m not happy here. In this apartment. In this town. I’m comfortable, but this isn’t what I want out of my life. I feel like I was starting to gain a little perspective on what that might be when I filled out those school papers. I thought I was doing something for me, you know? This is what I wanted. It felt right.
“If I hadn’t met you, I’d be fine living in this place, working in the bar, and ignoring the town chatter behind my back. But now, now that you’re a part of my life, I realize all of it is just a stepping-stone. I want more, and for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid to grab it. That’s because of you. You’re so brave, and you defend our country with such pride and strength. I can tell you love what you do, and I want that,” I whisper, swallowing hard over the lump and swiping at falling tears.
“I never thought I’d want to be a mother because I was sure I’d be a terrible one. I mean, look at my example. But when we met, and you asked me about it, I realized I did want that. I want to have a family someday. I want to experience that part of life and show a child exactly what it feels like to be loved unconditionally by a mother. I want to prove to myself, and maybe to everyone who doubts me, that I can do it. That I’m better than where I came from.”
I’m moving before I even realize what’s happening. Ford pulls me firmly against his chest and holds me while I cry. I let go completely, unleashing years of anger and pent-up sadness, letting it wash from my body one tear at a time.
“I wanted that baby,” I whisper, opening my eyes to find his wet and overflowing with his own grief.
“Me too.” His words are hoarse. When he clears his throat, he adds, “I never knew it was possible to love something so quickly and then lose it at the same time. When you were in surgery, it was the scariest moment of my life. I was terrified of something happening to you too, but worse, distraught I wasn’t there to help you.”
I give him a faint smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop,” he insists, shaking his head. “You did nothing wrong. I don’t want to hear you say another apology, okay? It was out of our hands, you got me? And it doesn’t reflect on us. Google says a miscarriage happens in ten-to-fifteen percent of pregnancies. Hell, my mom had one before she got pregnant with me and Faith. There’s no rhyme or reason behind it.”