More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(82)

God.

The half-hopeful, half-terrified note in her voice precisely echoed what he was feeling after that question. He wanted to see a picture, needed to see it, but he wasn’t sure he was emotionally fortified to deal with the pain he knew was just waiting to be unleashed once he did see it.

“Yes, please.” He kept his voice firm, not allowing a single ounce of hesitation or uncertainty to creep into those two words. She wanted to share their son with him. He needed to let her do that.

She untwisted her fingers from the drawstring, and they went pink as blood rushed back into them. She reached for her phone, swiping the screen while she spoke. The rush of nervous words barely registering with Harris as he watched her hands anxiously.

“I took so many pictures of him during the short time I had him,” she was saying. “I printed all of them—they’re in a photo album in the living room. But I also keep them in a folder on my phone. I’m terrified of losing them. Then I’d have nothing left of him. Of my beautiful little Fletcher.”

She stopped swiping and stared down at her screen for a long moment before inhaling deeply and holding the device out to him. Harris stared at her hand for an equally long moment, terrified of looking. But at the same time equally terrified of not seeing. Harris knew that if he waited too long, she’d change her mind and snatch her phone back. He slowly and reluctantly reached out to take the phone from her and flipped it around. He shut his eyes and held his breath for a long moment before exhaling once he opened his eyes again.

He stared at the image on the screen for what seemed like hours and felt a piece of his heart break off, lost forever. The damage was irreparable, the loss irreplaceable. And Harris knew that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.

His son.

Fletcher.

A tiny little human with a full head of black hair, an angry old-man face, wearing nothing but a nappy and socks that looked a couple of sizes too large for his minute feet.

“He looks so small,” he whispered shakily.

“He was just slightly longer than a ruler,” she said, her voice low as well. “He weighed under two kilograms at birth, but he picked up weight really quickly. He was close to six kilograms by the time he . . . when I lost him.”

Slightly longer than a ruler. Just a bit bigger than a rugby ball. Harris would have been able to cradle him one handed, right in the crook of his arm. He flipped slowly through the pictures: some of just Fletcher, the rest selfies of a glowing Tina and the baby. God, how young she looked. A mother at nineteen. While Harris had been off at university—screwing around indiscriminately, drinking, partying . . . not a fucking care in the world—Tina had been dealing with this. All alone.

Jesus. No amount of “I’m sorrys” would ever make up for this.

The photos became a blur, and he blinked rapidly in an effort to clear his eyes. Only when he felt moisture trickle down his cheek did he recognize the blurriness for what it was.

Her hand, soft and so gentle, reached out to cup his cheek and thumb away the wetness. He tilted his head into the cradling hand, accepting the comforting gesture even while he didn’t fucking deserve it.

Harris felt the sob welling up in his throat and tried to swallow it back down, but it escaped anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, trying to maintain his composure. But it was a losing battle, and another sob rose up and escaped. She made a soft crooning sound, and she cupped his other cheek, drawing his head down until his forehead was buried in the sweetly scented cove of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, apologizing because he had no right to accept this solace from her. No right to expect it when she’d been so alone for so long, with no one to offer her the same. But he was nothing if not selfish, and his arms curled around her waist while another involuntary sob escaped, followed by another and yet another. He wept on her shoulder, mourning the loss of the son he had never known, would never know, except through the memories his mother had so lovingly chronicled in two-dimensional pictures. Images that would never tell Harris how his son had smelled or how it would have felt to cradle him in his arms. They couldn’t detail his sounds—the gurgles and sighs and baby snuffles—or the faces he had made when he was sad or sleepy or contented.

Harris wept inconsolably for both the loss of his child and the loss of the dream he had nurtured that maybe someday he and Tina could have more.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you,” she said into his hair, her voice filled with heartbreak and regret, and he lifted his face to look at her. He knew he probably looked like shit, his eyes swollen, face wet, and nose streaming. But he didn’t care. He needed her to know that she had nothing to regret. That this was all him.

“How could you have? For all intents and purposes, the prick who got you pregnant did it on a bet. That dickhead didn’t deserve your explanations then, and he doesn’t deserve your regret or your apologies now.”

“You were young.”

“You were younger,” he reminded her bitterly. “I should have known better. I should have been better . . . but I’d wanted you for so long. It’s no excuse, but . . .” He sighed, his voice tapering off.

He pushed himself away from her and got up.

“Clara?” she asked.

“She’s asleep.”

“Tina,” he began, then stopped. Not sure what he’d been about to say.