“This part of your head here at the crown talks about your academic and career success. Yours rises very sharply, which says you will have a very long and prosperous career. You will be very dedicated to your profession.”
“Wow, sounds like hard science to me,” Heath cracked and now it was me who shushed him because I didn’t want Alex’s feelings to get hurt.
“And this part, the widest part of the front of your skull, in between your temples, is about your love life. You will have a long-lasting pairing with the love of your life. Hmm. One marriage.”
“We already know all this stuff,” said Kat. “We get it. She and Adam are mated for life. Now tell us something useful, like how many kids they will have or something.”
My throat closed at Kat’s words. “That’s not—”
“Oh! That’s right here at the base of the skull.” She ran her fingers along the top of my neck at the part of my head that formed the edge of my cranium. “Hmm. Two? Nope…one. Only one baby.”
I jerked away from her, unexpected emotion suddenly slamming me against my chest. It was hard to breathe.
“Okay, all done,” I said in a trembling voice.
“But I haven’t—”
“She’s done, Alex,” Heath said, watching me with concerned eyes.
“I—uh—I gotta go find the bathroom,” I said, stumbling to my feet. I turned toward the doorway and saw Adam standing there, leaning up against the frame, watching me with his dark, serious eyes.
Tears prickled the backs of mine and I swallowed fiercely. “Excuse me,” I whispered as I squeezed by him. Instead of making all the way to the nearest bathroom, I jumped up the stairs and turned into one of the cabins, tucking in as the tears suddenly breached my eyes. I closed the door and sank onto the bed.
Only one baby. I bent over, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. I would not cry. I could not cry. I had to get over this. But how could I, when I’d vowed never to forgive myself? Long-suppressed grief clamped down on me. Grief I’d stuffed down so deep, hidden like bits of dust and grunge tucked so far under the furniture it never was cleaned out, never saw the light of day. But it was there, self-hatred, self-judgment. I could have done things differently. I could have…
Now I had no idea if I would ever be a mother. Ever hold a child. But Alex, with her drummed-up fortune, seemed to confirm those doubts. That my chance—our chance—had come and gone.
A minute later the door opened and I knew who it was, so I didn’t bother to look up. Adam sank down on the bed beside me and hooked an arm around my shoulders.
He didn’t speak, just pulled me against him. I wouldn’t weep. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t allow it. I’d stifle it, refuse to let it out. I could be strong. I couldn’t let him see this.
I would ignore the fact that I absolutely loathed myself in this moment—and probably always would.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Adam
“Do you want to talk?” I whispered.
She shook her head. She was shaking in my arms but she didn’t cry. That was a good sign, at least. Wasn’t it?
“Tighter,” she whispered.
I lowered my arms around her waist and tightened my hold around her torso.
“Talk to me,” I urged quietly.
She shook her head. “I’ll be okay. She just caught me by surprise.”
“Emilia…”
“I’m fine,” she countered. “See?” She pulled out of my arms and, running the backs of her hands over her eyes—and in the process smearing her mascara—she leaned back and looked into my eyes. She wasn’t crying. But the pain was there, deep and lurking behind the fake smile hovering on her mouth.
I rubbed my hand along her back. “Have you thought about…finding someone to talk with about all this? Like your oncologist suggested?”
She stiffened, staring at the ground and I saw the color wash out of her face. “No.”
I swallowed, suddenly clueless and afraid of how to proceed. “But it might help—”
“Do you think I’m screwed up?”
My jaw tensed and then I relaxed it with a deep breath. “I think you’ve been through a lot in a very short amount of time.”
She turned and looked at me. “I can handle it. I’m tough. I’ve been through shit before. I’ll bounce back.”
Something dark and heavy weighed down on my chest. I wished I could be as optimistic. But I had no reply for her. I couldn’t force her to get help. I hoped, rather than knew, that she was right. She didn’t remember it, but I did—that firm declaration that she deserved to die because of what she’d done.