Page 43 of All At Once

Routine helped — Zeb and dinner and piano practice and homework, bathtime and storytime and bedtime.

When her phone rang with his number and the photo of them at an Astros game on the screen, she didn’t pick up because if she heard his voice, tried to speak, everything would bubble free in an agonizing, sobbing scream, and she could not make him carry that in an airport, on a plane, when he was alone and surrounded by strangers.

She tapped the voicemail icon, standing in their darkened bedroom, his deep drawl winding about her while she tried not to think about their child in her womb, its heart not beating.

“Hey, precious, figure you’re busy or already in bed. My flight’s delayed, and I’m going to be seriously late. If you’re not in bed already, don’t wait up, and uh . . . hey, you didn’t let me know how things went with Alice. Guess we can talk about it in the morning. I love you. Goodnight.”

Eyes closed, she pressed the phone against her mouth, clutching the device until her knuckles ached.

The bleeding began soon after three, the darkest hour of the night. Unable to sleep, Caitlin stared into the shadows, waiting. The sharp cramping followed, and she slid from the bed to put on a pad and crept to the kitchen to down a couple of ibuprofen.

His dad sweater lay tossed over a family room armchair, and she picked it up, buried her face in his scent before slipping it on to wrap him around her.

In their bedroom, she crawled into one of the wingchairs and curled her knees toward her chest. She pressed her eyes closed, tears leaking beneath her lashes. Pain twisted through her stomach, echoed in her chest, her throat as tight and painful as in the hours after Fuller’s attack.

Up the hallway, the lock beeped and whirred, and she cringed, drawing her body into a smaller ball. A sob swelled in her throat, suffocating her. Familiar footfalls drew near, a long, lazy stride, leather light on the hardwoods as he tried to be quiet.

“Hey, it’s late. I told you to go bed . . . Cait?” And he was there, solid and steady, a hint of urgency in his hands and voice as he folded his arms around her, lifted her, sat down with her in his lap. “Precious, baby, what’s wrong?”

She couldn’t catch a breath, sobs smothering her as they had the night Mother had died.

“Cait, precious.” He cupped her wet face, smoothed her hair, trying to hold her gaze, but she buried her face into his shoulder. “I need you to tell me what’s going on. Please.”

The shaky distress in that single syllable pulled her together. With a gulping inhale, she lifted her head and pushed damp hair from her cheeks. Another breath and she swallowed.

“I’m miscarrying.”

He froze, muscles bunching, and he tried to rise with her in his arms. “We’re going to the ER.”

“No.” Flattening a palm on his shoulder, she stopped him. She shook her head, the shock and fear in his dark eyes tearing at her. God, she’d dreaded this, having to tell him. She swallowed once more, her throat like jagged glass. “Alice . . . the sonogram showed there was no heartbeat. This is . . . it’s too late.”

He sagged, collapsing into the recesses of the chair. He stared at her, eyes darker than normal, a little blank, and his throat worked. After a moment, he blinked, and he tightened his hold on her hip.

“Are you okay?” He ran his hands over her. “I want you checked out—”

“It’s fine.” She shook her head. “I have to follow up with Alice in a couple of days, but this is . . . normal.”

“Normal.”

She tried to get a calming breath into her lungs. “I’m bleeding and cramping, but she told me to expect that.”

Scraping a hand through his hair, he gripped his nape, other hand cupping her hip. Silence stretched, his jaw tight, and she fought down a cringe. What if he blamed her?

“I’m sorry.” He hooked her tousled hair behind her ear, his voice a rough whisper.

Her eyes filled with fresh tears, and she bit her lip, fighting down another sob.

Brow creased, he cradled her face, thumb a gentle caress over her cheekbone. “I’m so sorry.”

Arms about his neck, she folded into him, buried her face against his throat, and wept.

“Daddy, you’re braiding it wrong.” Eva shifted side-to-side between Tick’s thighs, squirming so her soft hair pulled free of his fingers.

He bit back a spurt of frustration, born of exhaustion and shocked grief. How the hell could a braid, one he’d done dozens, probably hundreds, of times, be wrong? He expelled a long breath.

“How so, Minnie?”

“It’s pulling my face.” Twisting sideways, she tugged the skin back at her cheeks and temples, eyes wide and solemn, and a slight smile twitched at his mouth. “Why can’t Mama do my hair?”