Page 17

But the sharpest punch wasn’t for him. Or me.

It landed when my brain dragged up the image of Chloe holding baby Drake.

Her nephew. Our nephew. Named after their big brother. A baby who had nothing to do with any of this.

I should’ve been glad she could do it. Proud of her.

Instead, something tore inside my chest.

I drove my fists into the bag, harder, faster.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t that she loved that baby more. It was that she got to feel that small, warm weight in her arms… and we had never had that. Not once.

No tiny casket. No service. Just hospital forms and a D&C and a nurse telling us gently that we could try again.

Like our entire future hadn’t just gone up in smoke.

My brain knew it wasn’t Chloe’s fault. The doctor had never blamed her. Never blamed me. Sometimes pregnancies failed. Sometimes bodies did things no one could control.

But my gut didn’t care about medical explanations.

All it knew was she could hold Drake.

We never got to hold either of ours.

I hit the bag until my shoulders burned, until my lungs clawed for air.

How was she the one strong enough to pick up a baby again?

How was I the one who couldn’t even hear about it without coming apart?

I stopped swinging and slumped, grabbing the bag like it was a lifeline.

My Chloe. The bravest woman I would ever know. I could never be like her. I was broken. Useless. A man who couldn’t protect his wife, couldn’t give her kids, couldn’t even pick up the damn phone without screwing it up.

Maybe Michael was right, but he was partly wrong.

You’re not protecting her. You’re hiding.

Pulling away felt like the only kindness I had left. If I let her go, really let her go, she could start over with someone whole. Someone who didn’t come apart at the thought of a baby in her arms.

I stepped away from the bag.

Sweat was pouring down my back, lungs burning, arms heavy, when Cappy tapped me on the shoulder.

“Zarek,” he said, steering a younger guy toward me. “This is JJ Baumgartner.”

The kid was lean, solid. Early twenties. Calm eyes.

I shot Cappy a look. “You sure?”

Cappy smiled. “He’ll be fine.”

We stepped into the ring.

The canvas was scuffed and stained, the ropes soft from years of bodies leaning into them. JJ bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a jog, not a fight.