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I stepped aside as she smiled and headed into the room, papers dangling from her hand.
“All right, darlin’,” the nurse said. “Here are your discharge papers and your instructions on how to treat the next few days and weeks.”
I took them from the nurse and tucked them into my back pocket.
My dad came in and settled up against the door frame as he waited for me to ask questions and confirm a few things.
Thirty minutes later, we were pulling up into the brand-new concrete driveway of my new place, Ande and my dad following in Ande’s car.
“This is beautiful,” Shayne said quietly as she took it all in.
“I know,” I grinned. “I went with what I thought you might like color wise. Do you like it?”
“I love it,” she admitted. “The sage green and the white really look great together.”
I knew that.
Back when we were solid in our relationship, she’d mentioned how one day she wanted a farmhouse with a wraparound porch. She wanted two brown rocking chairs on the porch with a concrete path around the entirety of the house.
I had the outside looking like she wanted, but the inside was, sadly, a bare shell.
I hadn’t had time to fix it up.
It had the furniture from my apartment in it, but none of it had a home. Other things had taken priority, mainly Shayne.
I got out just as Ande reached Shayne’s side of the car and opened it.
Ande helped Shayne out, and the two of them walked up the porch steps toward my place. Our place.
She may not know it yet, but this house was her dream house.
I’d listened to every single thing she’d talked about since the day we met. I knew her wants, desires, dreams, and hopes.
And one of those dreams was to have a place that we could put a white picket fence around the front yard. Where we could get a couple of dogs and take them for a walk through a safe neighborhood. A place where our kids and our nieces and nephews could play in relative safety right in the street if they wanted to.
And just that thought alone was enough to make my heart pang.
The miscarriage, I decided, was the worst part of this entire ordeal for Shayne.
She didn’t talk about it at all, but every once in a while I’d find her absently rubbing her lower belly, a look of sadness in her eyes.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what she was thinking about.
“You get her in with that therapist that was recommended?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted. “I…”
A motorcycle sounded, and I watched as a man with a bushy salt and pepper beard rode toward us. On the back of his bike was a woman wearing a bandana over her flowing hair, with a vase of flowers in her hand.
Silas McKenzie.
The owner of Angel Flight, and Shayne’s boss.
He watched me observe him as he pulled to a stop next to the curb and got off.
He took the flowers from the woman’s hand, then offered his free one to help her get off.
Just the sight of the two of them together, so obviously in love, made me long to have Shayne on the back of my bike, giving her the same treatment.
