Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“Because you reminded me of what happened and of my helplessness. You could do something to work through the trauma. You hunted those men and killed them. You acted. I felt like I did nothing, or at best, reacted.”
Did she really think I had gotten past the trauma of that day? “You survived a horrible thing. That’s not nothing, Sara. And you had a lot to process, even afterward. The pregnancy…” I still didn’t like talking about her losing our baby because that too felt like it was my fault. I hadn’t wanted the child, hadn’t wanted a reminder, and our unborn child had died, almost as if my thoughts had been strong enough to kill it. I’d avoided the oak tree for that very reason, to avoid being faced with memories. Like a coward. I hated being one, so I had begun the process of having the tree tattooed into my back. That way, I’d never be able to escape again.
“Sometimes I think that it’s my fault our baby died…” She swallowed thickly. “That because I was so caught up in my trauma, I couldn’t show it that I still wanted it. That I didn’t love it enough because of what happened and that it just left because of that.”
I shook my head, feeling completely at a loss. I leaned more heavily on the backrest. I couldn’t believe that she’d harbored the same feelings of guilt as I had. Hearing those thoughts aloud from her lips made far less sense than in my head. “Nobody would have blamed you if you’d not chosen to keep this pregnancy.” She gave me a look that made it clear that wasn’t true, and she was probably right. “But you did choose to keep the pregnancy, so even if you were struggling with what happened, the baby knew you wanted it. And pregnancy losses are common. It’s rarely anyone’s fault, Sara. You heard what the doctors said.”
“I know, but it can be hard to see facts if it’s your baby. If I ever get pregnant again, I’ll do everything right.”
I bridged the distance between us and touched her shoulder. Fuck, I wanted to pull her into my arms. She peered up at me with those soulful, always melancholic eyes. “You did nothing wrong last time either. Maybe you should consider talking to someone professional about your feelings.”
I was the last person who’d ever go to a psychiatrist to work through the traumatic shit I’d witnessed and done in my life, but maybe they could help Sara. I didn’t want her to carry this kind of guilt.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to move on,” she said. She looked at me as if I could make it happen, as if I held the key to her happiness in my hand.
“I’ll do what I can to make that happen.”
She briefly touched my hand still resting on her shoulder. Her smooth, small hand on mine made my heart speed up. “You know what I want more than anything else.”
I fucking dreaded our next sexual encounter, but I wasn’t a coward who ducked away when shit hit the fan. I’d make Sara a baby even if it cost me the last shreds of my sanity. I’d make my wife happy, and if a baby was the only way to do it, then she’d get her baby.
Two weeks later, Sara and I shared another sexual encounter that was hardly any better. She still wanted to get it over with as fast as possible, only concerned about the technicalities—me getting my sperm into her. Even with a ton of lubricant, which I’d insisted we use even though Sara was sure it would lower the chances of pregnancy, the ordeal was painful for her. I was so fucking done with it. If she didn’t get pregnant this time, I wasn’t sure what I would do. Maybe we simply needed to use medical help even though Sara wanted things to happen naturally for some superstitious reason. As if anything about our sex life felt natural.
Sara didn’t get pregnant yet again.
We didn’t talk about what that meant. I was half tempted to insist on a visit to the fertility center. I didn’t want a repeat performance. I didn’t want to keep feeling like I did that first horrible time. I was fucking done.
But I also wanted to salvage our marriage. I wanted us to become more than what we were. With how things were progressing, that would never happen.
“We can’t go on like this,” I told Sara the morning after her pregnancy test when I entered the kitchen. I knew she would simply continue living a separate life until her next fertile window rolled around and then have me mount her like a breeding bull, but I was done with this shit. I’d never had a problem with detached sex. I’d never sought an emotional bond with a woman. Sex had been enough. But sex had been fucking great back then. Sara wasn’t a fling, she was my wife, and I wanted more than the miserable marriage we currently led, more than the awkward and painful sex. And I knew I would have to be the one to take the reins to make that happen. For Sara, sex had no good connotation. It was my job to change that, even if I was also the reason it was bad in the first place.