Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Stop it,” Mom chides. “You have nothing to be sorry about. All that matters is that you’re okay.”
By the time they’re done double- and triple-checking to make sure I am, in fact, okay, Shane has disappeared from the room, and I tell myself that it’s for the best. I have nothing to offer him or anyone else.
But as I recall his warm brown eyes and boyish grin, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if I wasn’t broken.
Would I have given him my number? Would he have taken it? Where would he have taken me to dinner? Would it have been the start of something fun and exciting, or would the date have been awkward and ended early?
My train of thought causes a lump of emotion to settle in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I’m broken because of my actions. I killed my unborn baby and husband, and if I hadn’t, they’d be here. And instead of lying in a hospital bed, thinking about what it would be like for a man to ask me for my number and to take me out on a date, I’d be home with them, cuddled in bed.
I had my chance at a family.
At happiness.
At love.
And I single-handedly destroyed it.
THREE
Kinsley
Valentine’s Day.
A holiday I used to look forward to.
When I was younger, my mom would buy my siblings and me each a basket. She would fill it with chocolates and other goodies, always saying that regardless of who came into our lives, we’d always be her Valentines and that I was her first since I came along before my dad and siblings.
When I got older, it meant fun dances and the boy I liked asking me to be his Valentine. And when I started dating Brandon, it meant sharing the day with the person I loved.
Now that I’m a widow, it means spending the holiday alone and remembering all the good times Brandon and I had.
Today is the third Valentine’s Day without him, and even though it gets easier, it still hurts to think about the fact that we’ll never celebrate together again. We’ll never kiss or hug or make love. We’ll never conceive another baby together.
My hand goes to the area that carried our little girl. I was supposed to protect her, but instead, I killed her. She should be here, dressed in a pretty pink-and-red outfit. I should be following in my mom’s tradition to buy her a basket of goodies.
Instead, her ashes sit next to my husband’s in a glass cabinet that I can’t even stand to look at because I did that. I killed them both, and because of my actions, I’ll never celebrate another holiday with either of them.
A knock on the door brings me back to the present, and I climb out of bed, knowing it’s my mom. Normally, she’d be here even earlier, but since we didn’t get home from the hospital until late last night, she probably wanted to give me time to get some sleep.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Mom says, holding up the white wicker basket and then enveloping me in a motherly hug. “I love you, my Valentine.”
“I love you too,” I choke out, hating that even after almost three years, I still get emotional.
“For you,” she says, stepping into my place.
It was once a pool house that they turned into a mother-in-law suite my grandparents stayed in when they visited from Ireland. After the car crash, when I couldn’t face going back to the townhouse, Mom and Dad insisted I move in here, so I’d be close and have my own space. Lately, I’ve been considering getting my own place, but I haven’t taken the initiative yet.
“Thank you.” I set the basket on the counter.
“How are you feeling?” Mom asks carefully.
“Fine.” I shrug. “Tired but alive.”
Mom nods, and then tears fill her eyes, and before I know it, she’s got me wrapped up in another hug. “I was so scared,” she cries. “When Natalia called …”
“I know, but I’m okay. The second I realized I forgot my EpiPen, she called for an ambulance.”
“You’re so calm and strong,” she says, pulling back and wiping her tears.
“More like numb,” I mutter, tears pricking my eyes.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re strong, Kins. What you went through, what you’ve lost. Only someone with a shit ton of strength could continue to wake up every morning and keep moving forward.”
“It doesn’t feel like I’m moving forward,” I admit out loud. “It feels like I’m just existing.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulls me into her arms. “It takes time. It took me six years, your dad tearing down my walls, and many years of therapy for me to truly move forward from my past,” she says, referring to the time she was married to my sperm donor.