More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(81)

“He was fine. He was healthy. And he grew like a weed. He knew me, knew my voice. The day before he died . . . I swear, he smiled.” The sweet memory made her smile. Her aunt—a mean-spirited woman who had made no secret of the fact that she resented having Tina and Fletcher in her home—had dismissed the movement of his mouth as gas, but Tina had known it was a smile. A perfect, precious smile. “He died for no reason. Of nothing. Sudden infant death syndrome, they said. How is that an explanation? How does that tell me why my baby died?”

She turned over to face him, scooting up until she sat with her back against the headboard. Harris’s eyes were stark, his face strained and pale.

“He looked like you, you know?” she whispered, and this time he flinched, his face going from pale to ashen.

He had known it was coming, of course, known since the moment she’d confessed to once having a baby. It explained why she’d held on to her hatred of him for so long. It explained why, even though she’d allowed him to touch her and love her, she had continued to keep him at a distance.

He had known it was coming, and yet her words still felt like a punch to the gut.

No. To the scrotum.

The burst of pain was indescribable and crippling and nothing compared to the agony he could see in her eyes, on her face; hear in her voice; and sense in the very still way she held herself.

“You were on the pill,” he heard himself saying, his voice sounding lifeless and the words making him cringe. It felt like exactly the wrong thing to say right now. Like an accusation.

“I was a stupid, naive girl who thought that going on the pill just hours before a sexual encounter would somehow magically prevent pregnancy,” she said, her words bitter and self-deprecating.

She had been eighteen, young, and inexperienced; Harris should have worn a condom; he should have protected her from the painful consequences. But he hadn’t exactly been himself. He was shocked that he’d even thought to ask her about protection. It was a wonder he’d been able to perform at all. Truth be told—the state he’d been in—he very much doubted he would have managed to maintain an erection with anyone other than Tina. He had been wanting to get into her panties for months and—despite that—still managed to cheapen what should have been a special moment for her with that fucking unremembered bet. His worst, and fastest, sexual performance ever, and it had resulted in a pregnancy. Had resulted in a baby. A son . . . who had looked like him. He swallowed down an anguished sob at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The most inadequate two words in the English language. No matter how heartfelt, they were nowhere near enough to express his absolute remorse and anguish at the pain he had caused her. At the incomparable loss they had both experienced.

“I felt like I was the only one who cared about him. Who cared that he had once lived and then died.”

“I care,” he said fiercely, his voice harsh with the strength of his emotions.

“That means a lot. Thank you,” she said, and he nearly swore. How could she thank him? The selfish, arrogant prick who had ruined her life in a single night? Her gratitude killed him because he didn’t fucking deserve it. Not one bit.

He swiped a hand over his face, barely able to meet her eyes. His beautiful Tina, whom he had so utterly and irrevocably fallen in love with. How could he ever expect her to forgive him for this? To love him even a little?

“I’ve been having some difficulty,” she continued unbidden, and he locked his gaze on hers once more, “being around babies. I know it’s stupid . . . and makes no sense. I love babies. I love Clara. But I can’t hold her. I’m terrified of holding her. And I so desperately want to.”

“Have you . . .” His voice failed him, cracking and fading before he could complete the sentence. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Did you see someone? After?”

She nodded, her fingers restlessly toying with the drawstring on her hoodie.

“For a little while. The hospital arranged a social worker; she was very kind.” The words damn near killed him. Who else had been kind to her during that time? The parents who had tried to force her to give the baby up? Her brothers, who had never displayed one iota of patience with her in the entire time that Harris had known them? He should have been there. He should have known. But at the same time, the young, irresponsible fool he had been would have been ill equipped to deal with such an overwhelmingly adult situation.

“What about a therapist?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle, not wanting to spook her when she was in such a fragile emotional state.

“Not immediately. After I returned home and found myself unable to continue with medical school, I saw someone for a little while. I was having panic attacks and night terrors. The therapist taught me a few breathing techniques, coping mechanisms. I recovered physically and—eventually—emotionally.”

Emotionally? When she couldn’t so much as hold a baby? That wasn’t a recovery; that was a festering wound. He didn’t argue. She had been staring at the wall somewhere beyond his left shoulder and suddenly shifted her gaze to meet his. Those wide green eyes still drenched in tears and red rimmed. She wasn’t a pretty crier, yet somehow the raw, honest emotion made her even more beautiful to him.

“Would you . . .” Her fingers curled into the string of the hoodie. So tightly they went white where it pushed into her flesh. “Would you like to see a picture of him? Of Fletcher?”