Sweet Sinful Nights(49)

She woke up early the next morning needing to pee.

The bed was already wet.

Embarrassment washed over her, even though she was alone in her tiny studio apartment. She hadn’t wet her bed since she was a child. But when she stood up, it wasn’t her bladder that was gushing. It was the water in the baby’s sac. A rush of utter helplessness slammed into her, then she rang Michael at his hotel and asked him for help. He called a taxi for her, and told her they’d meet at the nearest hospital. He gave her the name of where to go.

Fear seized her as she buckled the seatbelt, as if that safety measure would somehow protect them both—mother and child. As the cabbie drove her to the foreign hospital—it didn’t matter that the doctors there spoke the same language, everything felt foreign—she did what she’d already intended to do that day.

Called Brent.

Her cell phone service routed her to a switchboard, and then sent the call through to Los Angeles. International calls were hard to make directly. Usually only the country codes appeared on the screens. She hoped the London code would tip him off to pick up the call. But he didn’t answer. It was the middle of the night in Los Angeles. Then she remembered—it wasn’t even after midnight. It was the night before, and his show was on. He was working. Always working. The thing he’d loved more than her. His job.

She hung up.

The tears she’d held back the last few months were unleashed, like a lashing of the windows during a hurricane, like the punishing of a cold storm. Wild and ravaging streams of tears, matching the way her body was once again letting her down. She hated the way she’d lost the ability to dance because of a fluke injury in rehearsal. Hated the way she’d become pregnant when trying not to. And hated the way her body was expelling a baby she didn’t know she’d wanted, but would now do anything to keep safe inside her.

She reached the hospital a wet mess.

“Your water’s broken, love. There’s nothing we can do,” the nurse said, her warm British accent almost fooling Shannon into thinking everything was going to be all right. But nothing was all right. Not as she went into labor—did they even call it labor at twenty weeks? It was fast and furious, and it barely hurt her physically. But it tore apart her already-shattered heart an hour later as she delivered a baby boy. Less than one pound. His heart no longer beating. The nurse wrapped her son in a white hospital blanket and handed him to the mother who was no longer a mother.

Her.

That was her.

She was there, but somehow seeing it all through a lens, as if that lens was supposed to protect her from the pain. It didn’t. It couldn’t. Not even as she watched the scene play out. Not as she sobbed into the blanket, and cried over a life she hadn’t even been sure if she was keeping for her own. A life that had stopped sometime in the early morning when she woke up. Or on the cab ride to the hospital. Or on the hospital bed. The nurses and doctor didn’t know when the baby had slipped from the living, but it didn’t matter. Her water had broken prematurely for unknown reasons. The baby would never have survived. It didn’t matter when his tiny heart stopped working.

The only thing that mattered was that the decision had been taken out of her hands.

Michael walked into the room and sat with her as she said goodbye to the son she would never name and never know.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


As soon as she was dressed, Shannon returned to the kitchen. Michael rose, and hugged her.

“I’m sorry, Shannon bean. I didn’t mean to get mad at you.”

She rested her cheek against his chest. “It’s okay. I just want you to respect my choices.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“Even if you don’t agree with them,” she added.

He chuckled. “You know me too well.”

“I do.”

She pulled apart. “I need to put on my makeup and dry my hair. Is the video done?”

He nodded. “It’s just compressing. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

“Thanks for doing that.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he said, tucking a finger under her chin so she looked him in the eyes.

“Duh,” she said, playfully. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

A faint trace of a smile appeared on his lips. Rare for Michael. He was usually so intense, so serious. But the smile was a rueful one. He looked her up and down. “Could you wear a sack instead of that dress? Maybe a paper bag?”

She scoffed. “No such luck.”

He sighed heavily. “What time should I pick you up? You only need an hour with him, right? Tell me where to come get you.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Nice try, buddy.”

He parked his hands on her shoulders. “Be careful. I don’t want anyone hurting you.”

“I know,” she said softly. She didn’t want that either. Not one bit. Seeing Brent again was like tearing off the protective coating she’d worn for the last decade. Like peeling it off, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and whispering please don’t hurt me.

“Are you going to tell him? About what happened in London?”

“How do I even say it?” she asked, sinking down to a kitchen chair. “I haven’t talked to anyone but you and grandma about it in years.”