Page 109 of Break Me

Tenderness.

I press my lips together to keep from smiling as I silently check off every single one.

When Sam comes in from the garage, I’m still sitting at the kitchen table with my phone in my hand.

“Google?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not the only one who researches things.”

He leans against the counter. “And?”

I shrug, trying to sound casual. “It says fatigue is common.”

His expression softens. “You have been more tired than normal.”

I hesitate, then say it anyway. “My breasts feel heavier. Tender.” I hesitate, then say it anyway. “My bra feels tighter.”

He pushes away from the counter and stops beside my chair. His gaze drifts down to my chest before returning to my face. "You won't catch me complaining," he says, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear before leaning down to kiss my forehead.

I roll my eyes, but I lean into him anyway.

We buy another box of tests the next day. They sit unopened in the bathroom drawer. Every morning I see them when I brush my teeth. Every night when I wash my face. Every time I think, maybe today.

But I leave them where they are.

The first three were easy. Exciting. I was sure there would be two lines.

This time feels different. Not because I'm any more certain. Because I'm not sure how many disappointments my heart can take.

Sam never asks if I've taken another test. He doesn't have to. We're both waiting.

That night, he pulls me a little closer as we settle into bed.

"A couple more days," he murmurs against my hair.

“Yeah,” I whisper as my eyes close, and I drift to sleep.

Raven

By the end of the week, I stop pretending that my body isn’t changing. The sensation isn’t pain. If it were, I’d know what to do with it. This is something different.

There’s a constant awareness in my abdomen. But I don’t mention it to Sam, not yet.

We move through our days like we always do. Coffee in the mornings. Sam leaves for the clubhouse before noon most days.

My days are spent keeping busy around the cottage. I water the window boxes, deadhead the petunias, and check the tomatoes, even though I already know which ones are ready.

In the kitchen, I wipe down the counters and prep the food for our dinner later. Finally, I rearrange the thrifted frames on the hallway table for no reason other than I need something to do with my hands.

I tell myself I’m not thinking about it. But the truth is, I am.

By early afternoon, my energy crashes and the couch starts to look inviting. I’ve never been much of a nap person. Even when I’m tired, I push through. There’s always something to do. But twice this week, I’ve lain down just for a minute and woken an hour later.

When I wake this time, my mouth is dry, and the haze of sleep still clings to me. I push myself off the couch and head to the bathroom, splashing cool water on my face in an attempt to wake up—and pretend I didn't just lose another hour of the day.

The bathroom light is unforgiving. I lean over the sink, studying my reflection in the mirror. My hair is flattened on one side, a faint crease still marks my cheek from the couch pillow, and my eyes look heavy with sleep.