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Anna.
Miranda swiped her tears away and pulled the blanket—which had been a gift from her—out of the box. I sighed at the stack of pictures. When I saw her little fingers that would never wrap around mine, I sighed again. This time my breath wavered under the pressure of the sobs I was desperate to release.
She’d been carried seven months, kicking and reminding me of her father. Miranda and I found out I was pregnant after my first exhibition, and we were eager to have her so I could get right back to work. We’d set up her nursery in the spare room of my apartment. I lifted the only outfit she’d worn—outside from the beautiful blue dress she was wearing now—and it still smelled like her.
Anna—the child I’d created with Dexter—had been stillborn, something I couldn’t wrap my head around. She’d be six this year.
Miranda placed her hands on my shoulders. I was content to sit here for the rest of the day, but I knew we had to go soon. The flurries were turning into thick clusters of snow that were sticking to her headstone. I wiped it off, angry that she was cold and I couldn’t warm her. It was an unreasonable thought, one driven by grief.
“I hope you’re sleeping well, sweet girl,” I whispered. I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to her headstone.
All I could think of while we walked back to the car was that she’d had Dexter’s nose. A nose he never saw.
My eyes were sightless on the drive back to my apartment. I was blind to everything but the sadness and the pain.
“Do you want me to come up with you?” Miranda asked.
I didn’t know, so I just nodded. She reached for the box, but I held onto it firmly. We headed to the elevator, and I let her work the shitty doors. When she opened them again, I stopped short.
Dexter was about to knock on my door.
He turned to us and Miranda stepped forward, anger making her steps quick. “What the hell are you doing here? Go back to your happy little family,” she hissed.
All at once, I forgot that I never corrected myself. She still thought he was married and living another life with another family.
“It’s fine, Miranda,” I said, not looking in her eyes. “He isn’t married.”
She looked back and forth and asked me if she should stay.
I shook my head. I was quiet while she stepped inside the elevator. Dexter eyed the box in my hands, and I regretted telling Miranda to leave. Part of me wanted to run screaming from him. Instead, I unlocked my door and stepped out of my shoes.
He followed me. I didn’t bother asking how he got up to my front door. Larry was nosey enough to notice his presence and assume I’d want him there.
“I had no idea you’d be in town,” I said as I sat on my couch, the box on my lap.
“Probably because you haven’t been answering my calls for the last hour. You’ve been crying. Why?” He stood with his hands in his coat pockets. His suit was black.
Had he known somehow that today was the perfect day for it?
I snapped out of it and cursed inwardly. I’d left my phone at the studio. “Just a tough day,” I lied. It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was a lie by omission.
I was begging internally that he wouldn’t ask when he asked, “What’s in the box? You’ve been holding onto it for dear life since you got here.”
I looked down at my fingers. Sure enough, they were white from the force with which I held onto the box. It was now or never. “This box will kill us,” I whispered.
“What are you talking about?” He squatted in front of me.
When he ran his fingers against it, I wanted to pull it away. She’d been mine and mine only for so long. I’d pushed her out, begging for them to just cut her out of me, knowing she would be dead when she was placed in my arms. I’d watched her blossom up until the day they told me she wouldn’t grow anymore. Me, all alone.
“I’ve hidden something from you, and it will destroy us,” I said with a cry, more tears coming. I bit my lip to keep from telling him. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.
How will I word it?
How will he take it?
Hate, hate, hate—the same hot hate I feel when I think of it.
He’d hate me. But who would I have left to hate? I’d long since let go of any hate I might’ve felt for him, any petty little grudge I may’ve held. Could I weather his hateandmine? The hate I was now feeling for myself?
