I put the cup down and open the drawer beneath the coffeemaker. It’s filled with kitchen knives, the ones with mismatched handles that aren’t pretty enough for the knife block that rests on the small island. I stand there, just looking down at those blades, and though I know I shouldn’t think it—though I definitely shouldn’t want it—I know that they will help.
“You’re up.” Damien’s voice is soft behind me, and I shove the drawer shut and turn to face him, certain that he can see my guilt. He comes to me, his eyes searching my face. But he doesn’t ask. Instead, he pulls me close, and I cling to him, and we stand that way in silence for what seems like forever.
“What day is it?” I finally ask.
“Wednesday,” he says. “Late afternoon.”
It takes me a moment to process his words. That means it’s been over four days since the miscarriage. Four days during which I’d completely checked out of the world.
“It’s okay,” he says, his lips brushing the top of my head. “You needed the time.”
“You were working,” I say, and though I don’t mean it to, my words sound like an accusation.
He nods. “Today, yes. And some yesterday. There were things I had to take care of.” He takes my hand. “Now I’m going to take care of you.”
He leads me to the table, then tells me to sit. I comply, and then I watch as he moves about the kitchen. He doesn’t ask what I want, and I’m glad, because right now I don’t think I have the capacity to make a choice. And when he slides a plate with buttered toast and a simple cheese omelet in front of me a few minutes later, I think it is the most perfect meal in the world.
He sits with me in silence as I eat. “Better?” he asks when I’ve cleaned the plate, and I’m a little surprised to realize that, yes, I do feel better. Stronger, at least, and that’s a step in the right direction.
“Good,” he says when I tell him as much. He stands and holds out his hand for me. “Walk with me.”
We walk in silence on the beach, on and on for what seems like forever, coming back to the house only as the sun is about to set and the ocean starts to turn orange and gold.
“It’s beautiful,” Damien says as we sit on the pool deck on an oversized lounger and watch the world shift into night.
The words form a hard ball in my gut. “It feels like nothing should be beautiful anymore,” I whisper.
“No,” he kisses my forehead. “I like it. It means there’s hope.”
I blink, and fat tears spill down my cheeks. “Is there? Because it doesn’t feel like it.”
“Sweetheart.” He pulls me close, his voice as lost as I feel.
“I feel like I’m broken,” I admit. “The baby’s gone. And so is any real chance of me ever having another one.”
“No, sweetheart. No.”
But I just shake my head, not willing to hear him. “I should be relieved,” I say harshly, my eyes on the pool deck. “I’m not cut out to be a mother.”
“Bullshit. That’s your mother talking.”
“No. It’s me.” I look at his face, lost in the gray of dusk. “Do you know how many times I thought about cutting today? All those knives in the kitchen? Your razor in the bathroom? The utility knives in the garage? The pocketknife you keep in the top drawer of your dresser? It’s as if they’ve been calling my name.
“That’s not someone who should be a parent,” I continue.
“No. Dammit, Nikki—”
“I want to cut, Damien. I want to cut the pain right out of me. I don’t because I know I shouldn’t and I know you’re here. But I want to. I want to so damn much.”
He pulls me roughly to him, and I cling to him as I cry. Tears burn down my cheeks, and it feels like a million knives are slicing me up on the inside.
As the sobs rack my body, he holds me close, rocking me gently. And through it all, I wonder if I’m ever going to stop hurting again.
I don’t know how long we sit like that, but I must have drifted off because the next thing I know, he’s carrying me into the bedroom and tucking me into bed.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, and as he bends to kiss me, I hear my phone ping with an incoming text message. I automatically reach for it, not really caring, but he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it. You sleep.”
And though I don’t know how I can possibly sleep anymore, I do—at least until I’m wrenched awake by someone shaking my shoulder violently.
“Nikki!” It’s Jamie’s voice, and I squint up at her. “I’m so sorry, but Nikki, you have to wake up. We have to go.”
“What?” My voice is hoarse, confused.
“We have to go,” she repeats. “Damien’s been arrested.”
21
I’m in the closet frantically pulling on jeans and a T-shirt when Jamie rushes in. “It’s okay,” she says. “Charles just called. They’re on their way back here.”
I sag to the carpet. “Thank goodness. What happened?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Charles called here for you, but no one answered the phone. So he called me. Actually, he called Jackson first, but Stella said they were out so I guess that put me on deck. And he said I had to bring you to Beverly Hills because Damien had been arrested.” She shrugs. “And now I guess he’s not. Or Charles posted bail or something.”
She reaches a hand down to help me up, and I grab hold, letting her pull me back to standing. Then I throw my arms around her and hug her tight. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you back. I haven’t called anybody back.”
She peels me off of her. “Don’t be stupid,” she says, with typical Jamie bluntness. “We love you. All we want is for you to be okay.” She makes a face. “That, and for Damien not to end up in a maximum security prison.”
I wince, but I’m smiling. And I realize that despite the odd circumstances, it’s my first real smile since the miscarriage.
I follow her out of the closet and head into the main part of the house. “He was here with me last night. How could he end up arrested?”
Even as I speak, I notice a difference in the way I feel. Less numb. More focused. And for one brief, ridiculous moment, I wonder if Damien ran out into the world last night simply so that I would be forced to crawl out of my funk.
“Do you want me to poke around online? See if there’s any gossip?”
I shake my head. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” The idea of seeing some horrible story splashed across social media just depresses me. And most of the time, the reporting’s inaccurate anyway. “What about asking the police directly? Your station has reporters on the police beat, right? Can they make a call for you?”
She presses her lips so tightly together they disappear.
“Jamie?”
“I kind of don’t work there anymore.”
I gape at her. “What? Since when?”
But even as I ask the question, I know the answer—since she pushed the camera away from me and denied her network my story.
“Oh, James. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she says firmly. “Assholes. Who trades on shit like that?”
“But—well, what are you doing now?”