Page 49 of A Castle in the Sky: Fern & Connor
Dried tear tracks scored Fern's cheeks, silvered in the low light. Her lashes clumped, her mouth slack in the way of someone who'd cried themselves past exhaustion into that thin, fragile layer of slumber that could split in a second.
He'd done that. He had leaned and leaned on Fern until she broke. He had made her cry. He had ground her light into the dust.
He had taken his wife and child for granted, conveniently forgetting that the well of patience and love can dry up.
Chapter 25
Connor set the tray on the bedside table, then crouched on his haunches so he was level with her. For a moment, he just looked at them, the two most precious stars in his life as they lay wrapped up together, using the duvet as a shield. Maybe from him.
They had a rule about food in the bedroom—no crumbs on the sheets, no mugs on the nightstand. It was a remnant of her dad's military-style neatness and Fern’s preference for order.
He was about to break it. One more rule into a bonfire of them.
"Fern," he said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder. He hesitated just short of contact, then let his fingers rest lightly on the worn cotton of her T-shirt. "Love. Wake up a second?"
Her tiny, involuntary jerk made him feel like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed, but she didn't pull away. Her eyes blinked open blearily. For a moment, she looked past him, like she didn't recognise him.
"Wha—?" Her voice was rough and sleep-clogged.
"I brought you something to eat," he said. "Just a bit of pasta. You didn't... you haven't had anything since the hospital."
Awareness seeped back into her features. He could pinpoint the precise moment her gaze cleared and she remembered it all, as her eyes shuttered. A wall came down between them.
"I'm not hungry," she said, the words flat even as her stomach gave a faint, betraying growl.
"Borborygmi," he whispered.
"What?" she whispered back.
It was a little game of trivia in reverse they played where you had to guess the question. He used to feverishly google answers to get one up on Fern. It seemed like a long, long time ago.
"What are the rumbling sounds of hunger made by the stomach and intestines called?" he offered.
For a second, her little face crumpled, and she screwed her swollen eyes shut like she was about to cry again. It had been so long since they had a moment like this.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." He kept his tone gentle, careful without mentioning all the things he was sorry for, because he had a mountain of them. For letting them both down. For letting Coral get hurt. For not being the husband and father they deserved.
Coral made a small sound and wriggled, but didn't wake. Fern automatically smoothed her daughter's hair with a slow, sleepy hand. "Just a few bites? Please. You'll feel worse in the morning if you don't."
She looked past him, at the bowl, at the lamp, anywhere but directly at him. Then she exhaled, a long, thin sigh that seemed to deflate her.
"Fine." She disentangled herself from Coral's hold, easing her daughter's arm back to the mattress. Coral mumbled and rolled onto her back, thumb sliding toward her mouth.
Fern pushed herself up against the headboard, shifting like every movement hurt. He handed her the bowl and fork, then sat back on his heels, not daring to sit on the mattress.
Steam curled between them, carrying the scent of garlic and basil. She frowned down at it, and for a second, he thought she might cryagain. Instead, she blew gently at a forkful, lips pursed, then slurped the pasta into her mouth, chewing mechanically.
He watched her throat move as she swallowed.
The last time he'd taken care of her like this, she'd been pregnant with Coral. He'd sat with her as she knelt over the toilet, one hand gripping the edge of the porcelain, the other pressed to her belly, as if to hold the nausea in. He'd been on his knees beside her, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades, promising he'd make everything easier somehow.
He thought of the years since, of how often his promises had gone to Matilda's emergencies and his mother's machinations instead of this woman who'd carried his child. Of how Fern had quietly stretched herself thinner and thinner, never complaining, always understanding. Of how he'd let her down in exchange.
His loyalty and energy should always have been here, with his wife and their little girl. Not with a woman who might have been carrying his son. Not with a "maybe" that had swallowed up everything that was precious in his life. He had gone astray.
Fern reluctantly ate exactly four forkfuls before she set the bowl on the bedside table.
"That's enough," she whispered.
