“Vee?”
I look up from my plate.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” I inhale sharply, then dig back into my breakfast. “It’s so good. Much better than toast.”
He eyes me suspiciously, but he doesn’t press.
“You’ve started calling me Vee.” I move the subject safely away from talk of children.
“Things are less formal between us now.” He finishes off his coffee.
“Ivan, I know last night we said things, but people say things when they’re in the middle of sex, right? It’s not binding. You don’t have to?—”
“What’s this?” He cuts me off, picking up the photo frame from the end of the counter. The only photo I’ve allowed myself to keep since my world cracked in half. “Vee?”
I instinctively touch my stomach, to the scar.
“That’s me and my husband.”
He continues to stare blankly at me.
“You knew I was married before.”
“Yes. He passed away. It’s in your file.”
“My file?”
“You work for my family, did you think we wouldn’t dig around before offering you a job.” He raises his brow, moving his finger to my swollen belly in the photo. “But nothing showed up about a baby.”
“That’s because there isn’t one.” I get up from the table, snatching the frame from him and putting it face down again– as though the past will stay buried if I can just keep from looking at it. Maybe it’s time I pack the photo away.
“I was in the car accident that killed Derek. I lost the baby.”
People’s reaction is the same every time—pity followed by an awkward silence. Their faces soften into a look of helpless sympathy. Then comes the panicked look for escape, because losing a baby makes people uncomfortable. As though losing a baby is contagious.
“How?” His voice is low. Rough.
“How?”
“You looked very pregnant in that photo.” He places his hand on top of the frame. “What happened?”
I fold my arms over my stomach—protective. Empty. “A drunk driver jumped the median and came into our lane. We were hit head on. Derek died instantly.”
The next words catch in my throat. “I was unconscious when the paramedics arrived. When I woke up, I found out that my husband and my son were gone.”
I force the rest out, dragging the memory out into the light. “I was seven months pregnant, and the placenta separated from my uterus. There was no oxygen...” I take a shaky breath. “He suffocated inside me.”
Ivan’s jaw tightens. “What happened to the driver?”
A chill runs through me at the ice in his tone. His expression is murderous.
“He was paralyzed from the neck down in the accident. He’s spending the next fifteen years in prison, one of those medical facilities.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No.” I breathe, it comes a little easier now. “It’s not. But whatever happens to him, it won’t make things different. They’ll still be gone.”
