Page 81 of Fallen Crown

My reaction is odd, though. This morning I told him I didn’t want kids, and all I’ve done while we struggled to get out of the ravine, while we rode our bikes almost a hundred kilometers and while we ate at the final checkpoint, is think about babies. His babies. Babies with Brice.

Before Enzo and even with him, I was never sure I wanted to have children. Mostly, I was indifferent until I miscarried. Once it became clear I couldn’t have children the way most people do, I was certain fate was telling me something. Motherhood wasn’t meant for me. The accident, my inability to carry a child, and Enzo’s reaction sent me on a headfirst dive into oblivion. I’ve spent the better part of a year in a fog because my body, which had never betrayed me before, let me down in such a massive way. Then my husband, instead of blowing away the haze, only contributed to the thickness.

I’m beginning to wonder whether my previous apathy about children was because I wasn’t sure I wanted Enzo’s babies. Such a strange realization to have when I wanted my marriage. Despite filing for divorce and what’s materialized between me and Brice, there’s still a tiny part of me that considers giving up on Enzo to be a failure, a character flaw, as though I could have singlehandedly saved our marriage if only I’d tried harder. I’ve never been one to give up, which is what made the news about babies so hard to take as well. It’s not an outcome I could change through sheer force of will.

I’ll never have children without significant medical intervention and a surrogate. I’ll never carry a child to term, never hear a heartbeat thrumming inside me, and never feel the flutter of movement in my belly. None of those things will ever be mine, the same way Brice will never be mine.

Those thoughts are prying open the chasm in my chest, and I can’t afford to let the fog descend again.

After dinner at the checkpoint, we plan out exactly how many hours of sleep we’ll allow ourselves before our final push to the end. There will be no more sleeping after tonight until we’re resting our heads on hotel pillows, hopefully fresh off a victory.

My thigh aches, but I’m too afraid to take the bandage off to check for infection. When Jag offered to change the dressing earlier, I made up excuses to avoid it. But when I head to the bank of bathrooms, I sense my shadow behind me.

Sure enough, when I come out, Brice is waiting for me, but not in our usual spot. He’s right in front of me, and his annoyance is clear.

“If you won’t let anyone else check your leg,” he says, “then I’m checking it.”

“We have one more push. By the end of the day tomorrow, none of this will matter,” I say with a wave of my hand, trying to step around him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Tucker,” he says, and there’s a warning note in his voice I’ve never heard before. “Your body, your choice, and all that, but I’m not taking you home in worse shape than when you arrived. When you agreed to come, I said I’d watch out for you. If I ignore your pain, I’m not doing what I said I’d do. Pretend for everyone else, but don’t pretend with me. We don’t do that with each other.”

I wish we didn’t do that with each other. We’ve been pretending for so long—all day, all week, for months—that I don’t know what’s real or not real between us. The thing is, even if I asked him, I’m not sure what I’d want him to say.

Last night was real and raw, but today has been disconcerting, as though I can’t quite get my feet under me.

“I’ll let Jag take a look when I get back to the team,” I say, and I try to step around him again.

He loops his arm around my waist, and he draws me tight against him before dipping his head to nuzzle the curve of my neck. There are other people milling around us, but as soon as his skin grazes mine, I’m so hyperaware of him that we could be on another planet. Up until now, we’ve been focused on where Iris is at any given time, but the truth is there are cameras with other teams and in other places. We could have been caught a thousand times doing things I’d rather not have an international audience see.

“Brice,” I murmur.

“I don’t know why you’re trying to resist me.” His voice has the now familiar rough texture, which tells me I’m not the only one who’s caught up in the close contact. He raises his head to meet my gaze, and he keeps his palm on the small of my back while his other hand smooths a tendril of my hair behind my ear. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t want to rely on you for this,” I say.

“Too late,” he says. “This is what we do. We rely on each other. You’re my favorite person, and I’m yours.”

I can’t help my soft laugh at the certainty oozing out of him. This cool confidence used to be the version of him I disliked, but now that I’ve discovered so much more under his veneer, I find I like every side of him.

“You’re that confident, are you?”

“Your lack of denial just gave me another ten confidence points.”

“Oh no,” I say. “No one needed you to have another ten points of cockiness.”

“Trust you to turn my positive self-talk into a negative.” But there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll distribute my extra confidence to other people on the way back to the tent to check out your leg.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I really will let Jag administer some first aid if I need it, but he must sense a protest on my lips because he cuts me off.

“Let me take care of you, Tucker.” He frames my face with his hands. “I want to take care of you.”

Given the year I’ve had, those words mean more than they ever have, and my eyes fill with tears. “Okay.” I can barely get the word out around the lump in my throat.

He wraps his arms around me, and he holds me tight against his chest. We stand like that, soaking each other in for longer than we should. Whatever everyone else on the racecourse might think, what’s between Brice and I isn’t a game or a ploy for airtime. This unexpected affection is real.

When he steps away from me, he runs his hand down my arm to lace our fingers together. Part of me wonders if I should pull away and keep that inch of distance between us around other people. I hate the idea of being the source of gossip, and walking back to the tent like this with Brice will only feed the mill.

As we wander past my South African friend, Brice calls out, “Yvette, great job on the bike today.”