Page 13 of Iridescent
The first light of November seeps through the high kitchen windows, spilling across the marble countertop and catching on the rim of my half-finished coffee, the orange prescription bottle from the clinic, and the prenatal vitamins I have taken every morning with the obedience of a woman afraid to give fate one more reason to punish her.
I don’t move. I just stare at them.
Cold seeps into my bare feet. My pulse roars loud enough to drown outeverything else.
Three years of trying. The first spent believing love, timing, and stubborn optimism might be enough. The next two swallowed by hormone shots, bruised veins, sterile reassurance, and now IUI. By quiet prayers choked into my pillow so my husband wouldn’t hear how desperate I have become.
I’m almost afraid to believe it. My body has done this before—parading every symptom in front of me like a promise, only to gut me hours later.
And still…
The heaviness in my breasts. The nausea at the scent of coffee. The strange warmth beneath my palm when my hand drifts to my stomach.
They don’t feel like lies this time.
They feel real.
My heartbeat kicks harder, a dangerous little thread of hope pulling taut in my chest.
I should know better by now.
But I can’t help it.
I stifle the tremor of a smile and leave the kitchen, my footsteps hushed against the marble as I slip into the corridor toward the stairs.
The house is still at this hour, its high ceilings and polished floors steeped in the hush of gold-tinted dawn.
With Colette off on her usual Saturday visit to her sister in town, there is no clatter of dishes, no voice carrying through the halls—just silence, broken only by the distant sound of waves striking the cliffs below.
When I woke earlier, I was relieved to find her gone. Yesterday’s dinner had been a catastrophe, one I didn’t have the strength to revisit through Colette’s worried eyes.
And judging by the absence of so much as a misplaced fork, she had already found the wreckage and cleared it with silent fury.
I climb with one hand grazing the banister, careful now, as if the house might punish too much eagerness.
At the double doors of our bedroom, I curl my fingers around the cool brass handle and listen for any sign of movement inside.
Nothing.
Good.
If Xavier were awake, he’d tell me I’m overthinking again.
The clinic’s nurse is due later this morning for the beta draw, but I need to know before anyone else does. One more wait might finish me.
I ease the door open and step inside.
The room is dim, the blackout shutters still drawn. Thin ribbons of gold filter through the slats and spill across the bed.
Xavier lies sprawled on his side of our king-sized bed, sound asleep for once.
The sheet has slipped low on his hips, leaving him bare from the waist up. Pale morning light skims the tanned planes of his back and shoulders, accentuating the dark ink coiling across his skin.
One arm is tucked beneath his pillow. The other hangs over the edge of the mattress, his fingers brushing the floor.
For a moment, I just stand there, drinking in the sight of him.
Messy dark hair falls over his forehead. His face is turned away from me, but I can still see the sweep of his lashes against his cheek, the familiar angle of his brow. With his eyes closed and the usual sharp intensity smoothed from his features, he looks younger. Gentler.
