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"Oliver, you can't run away from this," I pleaded. "We should talk."
His eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Talk? Like you talk about your problems?" he spat, his words laced with bitterness. "You bottle them up and hide rather than get help for your nightmares."
The harshness of his tone made me flinch, but I recognized the pain fueling his outburst. Swallowing my own hurt, I tried again. "We can try again."
"I don't want to try again," Oliver said, his voice dropping to a hollow whisper. "It's not to be."
"I want a child," I insisted, tears pricking at my eyes.
Oliver's laugh was devoid of humor. "Then maybe you should marry someone who isn't so defective. I'm sure Ty would volunteer."
"I don't love Ty, I love you," I said fiercely. "I want you to be the father of my children."
He shook his head, defeat etched in every line of his body. "There are forces working against me. A child is not in my future."
Before I could respond, Oliver stood abruptly and strode to the door. He paused for a moment, his hand on the handle, but didn't look back as he left, shutting the door with a quiet click that felt as final as a slam.
I stared at the closed door, bewildered and heartbroken by his behavior. The loss of his daughter had always been a closely guarded wound, but I'd never realized how deep it ran. As I lay there, feeling more alone than ever, a thought occurred to me.
There was one other person who might understand, who might be able to shed light on Oliver's pain. But would she even speak to me? I closed my eyes, gathering my strength for the difficult conversation ahead.
Oliver spent the next day holed up in his office while I rested in bed. The doctor said I should be up and running in the next few days, but I didn’t want to. I was filled with self-pity and aimlessly flipped through the channels on television. Even though Oliver was somewhere in the penthouse, I felt alone.
When we got home this morning, he slept on his side of the bed and only for a couple of hours before he got up for his conference call. It was like he was shutting me out of his life the way he shut the hospital room door. I needed his support. Sometime in mid-afternoon, thirst drove me to get out of bed. I hadn’t seen Oliver since this morning, he didn’t even bother to check on me.
I passed by his office and saw he was on the phone. He gave me a dismissive glance and went back to looking at his laptop screen. It hurt. Trouble followed me, probably hoping he would get some tidbit of whatever I would eat but I had no desire. I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and while I slurped it down, I stared out the terrace window at the park.
It was early spring, and the trees hadn’t started to bloom leaving the park looking barren. Barren like my womb. Tears silently rolled down my face and I wiped at them with the sleeve of my robe. I felt that the life and happiness I had just the day before was slipping away.
I drained the last of my water, the cool liquid doing little to soothe the ache in my chest. Grabbing another bottle, I padded back to the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. A chill ran through me, goosebumps prickling my skin despite the warmth of the room.
I shrugged off my robe, letting it pool at my feet. The sight of my body in the full-length mirror stopped me short. My hand instinctively went to my belly, still slightly swollen, a cruel reminder of what we'd lost. Blinking back tears, I turned away and fumbled in the dresser for my favorite pink sweatpants and a soft, oversized t-shirt.
As I climbed back into bed, a soft rumble announced Trouble's arrival. The Frenchie leapt onto the mattress with graceful ease, padding over to place his head against my thigh. His warmth was a comfort, but also a stark reminder of the absence I felt so keenly.
The dam finally broke. Tears spilled down my cheeks as sobs wracked my body. I buried my face in Trouble's fur, letting out all the pain and grief I'd been holding back. The dog stayed put, a steady presence as I cried until my chest heaved and my throat was raw.
Through it all, I strained to hear footsteps in the hallway, hoping against hope that Oliver would come to me. But the house remained silent, save for my muffled sobs and Trouble's soothing rumbles. The distance between us, measured in mere feet, felt like an unbridgeable chasm.
As my tears finally began to subside, I stroked Trouble's soft fur, grateful for his simple, unconditional comfort. "At least I have you," I whispered, my voice hoarse. The dog blinked up at me slowly, as if to say he understood.
I glanced at the open bedroom door one last time before closing my eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking me. The space beside me in the bed remained cold and empty, a physical reminder of the emotional gulf that had opened between Oliver and me. As sleep claimed me, I wondered how we would ever find our way back to each other through this fog of grief.
Chapter 22
"Can you please pick up your stuff?" Oliver's voice, laced with irritation, drifted from the closet. "I'm tired of finding your clothes on the island."
I flinched at his tone, the words cutting deeper than they should. In the week since we'd lost our baby, our relationship had turned glacial. Sex was off the table for at least another week, but Oliver hadn't so much as touched me. At this rate, even that seemed like a stretch.
"Excuse me. I'm so sorry," I snapped back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
Stomping into the closet, I snatched up the ivory blouse and white bra I'd left on the island the night before. These days, I usually came home alone, Oliver insisting he had work to do late into the evening. We both knew it wasn't work – he was avoiding me, and it hurt more than I cared to admit.
Oliver cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "I won't be home until late tonight. I have a dinner meeting with Callan Ryder."
My head snapped up. "Is this about the San Francisco project?"
"Yes," he replied, not meeting my eyes.
