Page 7 of Angel
“Yeah,” I call back too quickly.
There’s a pause. I can feel it through the wood. Then his footsteps fade. Relief and guilt tangle in my chest. I don’t wantto talk. Talking means questions, and questions mean doubt. Doubt means stopping. And I can’t stop.
The kitchen counter is lined with bottles now. I rearrange them every morning like it matters. Folate. Iron. CoQ10. Magnesium. Vitamin D. Something called maca that tastes like dirt and desperation. Evening primrose oil. Zinc. A probiotic that costs more than my first car payment.
They stand there like tiny soldiers waiting for orders. I swallow them with a green smoothie that makes my face twist, but I choke it down anyway.
Angel sits at the table, coffee untouched. He watches me.
“You eatin’ today?” he asks.
“I did,” I say. “This counts.” His jaw tightens.
“That’s not food, Stevie.”
“It’s nutrients.”
“For who?” he snaps, then immediately exhales. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in. “I’ve got a plan.”
That word again. Plan. I don’t miss the way his shoulders slump, but I don’t let myself see it. If I look too closely, I might feel something other than determination. And I don’t have room for that right now.
I don’t go to the clubhouse anymore. Not really. I make excuses; the truth is, I can’t stand it there. Everywhere I turn, there’s a reminder of what I don’t have. Carrie’s easy laugh drifting across the room. Polly toddling after Beau. RJ tears through the place like a tiny hurricane while Pandora pretends not to smile.
They’re all so careful around me now. Too gentle and quiet. Like I might shatter if someone speaks too loudly. I hate it, the way pity settles on my skin like dust I can’t wash off. Carrie texts me almost every day.
You alive?
Miss you.
Come over. I’ll make tea. No kids, I promise.
I leave them unread. Telling myself I’ll answer later, but later never comes. Because if I go there, I’ll see what I don’t have. And I might stop believing I can change that.
Angel tries again that night. We’re in bed, lights off, his arm draped over me like it always has been. But now it feels heavy. Like an anchor instead of comfort.
“Baby,” he says softly. “We can slow down.”
I stiffen.
“I don’t want to slow down.”
“I mean…" He clears his throat. “We don’t have to do this like it’s a job.”
I turn onto my side, facing away.
“If we don’t try, nothing changes.”
“And if you burn yourself out?” he asks quietly. “What then?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth scares me too much to say out loud. If this doesn’t work… I don’t know who I am without hope. Sex used to be easy.Messy. Laughing.Fingers and mouths and urgency that had nothing to do with calendars or windows or body temperature.
Now it’s scheduled. We have sex because the app says it’s time. I light candles like that’ll make it romantic again. Wear lingerie I used to love. But I can feel the difference. The way Angel watches me, like he’s afraid to touch the wrong place.
The way I keep checking the clock in my head, counting hours, making sure we don’t miss our shot. It’s mechanical. Functional. Necessary. Afterward, he pulls me close. I roll away. Open my phone and log it.Date. Time. Position. Symptoms.
He goes still behind me. I feel it but ignore it. I tell myself it’s temporary. It is necessary. That this is what sacrifice looks like.But some nights, staring at the glow of my phone in the dark, I wonder when love turned into math.
