Page 167 of Seizing Control: Part Two

After washing up, I venture into the private NICU that my first love has created for our twins. It’s an amazing feat, and I can’t quite believe that he pulled it off. From the dual entrances to the soft colours on the walls and the door that allows access to Garrett’s playroom as well, Lazarus has thought of everything. The machines that line the wall, contingencies in case something goes wrong, are brand-new. With an alcove with a tea-room and a small lounge for the nurses on duty to use, I am awestruck that is part of my home.

“He’s perfection,” Ziva whispers. She’s stripped off to her thin undershirt and is holding my son against her chest. “You did well, little Cherub.”

“I appreciate that—because it feels like I’m failing everyone most of the time.”

“Failure is good for the soul, I’ve been told,” she muses in a reedy voice. Settling into the chair next to Asher’s incubator, I push my arm through the closest hole and curl my hand over my daughter’s chest. “I’m not sure if I agree... my soul doesn’t feel good, despite all of my failures.”

“Zricha,” I whisper her nickname to regain her attention when her expression turns blank, and she doesn’t say anything else. It has the desired effect, even if the bleakness in her eyes when she tilts her head to look my way breaks my heart. “How are doing? Like, really doing... underneath the brave face and the fake smiles. Tell what keeps you up at night?”

“I miss him.”

“Rio?”

“Yes.” When she sniffs, my eyes begin to burn as well. I am an emotionally wreck, so the sight of one of my oldest friends struggling is painful. “We only had three months together, but they were the best three months of my life.”

“I’m so sorry.” Empty platitudes are the last thing someone in Ziva’s position needs. I know this from personal experience. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to form the words needed to soothe her sorrow because they don’t exist. “Tell me about him... if you want, that is.”

As the grieving woman launches into the fleeting love story she shared with the man she fell head over heels for, despite all the issues standing between them, I am dragged back to my eighteenth birthday. The first surges of love she describes are the same ones I felt for Zeke. With the benefit of hindsight, I know that I also had them for Slash, even if they were buried under the delusion of youth.

My romance novels never prepared me for the possibility of loving two men.

Different but equal.

Maybe if my mum was still alive I wouldn’t have fallen for Alex’s carefully laid trap.

I guess, there’s no way of ever truly knowing that...

“When the masked men dragged him out of the old church, I tried to save him,” Ziva’s tearful confession rips me out of my dark thoughts. “I shot the one with the compass inked on his inner wrist.” My heart skips a beat at her mention of the familiar tattoo. “It wasn’t enough. They filled the room with smoke and dragged Rio out before I could get off another shot safely.”

My pulse in pounding as I ask, “Did you recognise them?”

“No. It all happened so fast.”

As my mind whirls with the implications of her description, I am dumbfounded. Struck mute, our conversation stymies. The silence that dawns is broken by the normal sounds of medical monitors and Ziva’s soft sobs. I do my best to find the words to direct our discussion elsewhere, but it proves impossible because I’m stuck on two unanswered questions.

Why would Atlas be in Philadelphia?

More importantly, why would he be involved in the abduction of Oriol Costa-Rey?

“I’ve got to go,” Ziva announces about twenty later.

“I’m... you... it sucks,” I tell her.

“That it does.”

Once I’ve removed my razorback singlet and attached the breast pumps so I can express while I undertake kangaroo care with Ezra, the black-haired woman passes me my son. I lean back in the comfy chair, holding him close while he shuffles his limbs to find the perfect place to rest his head.

“The worst part is that I can’t tell him he’s going to be a dad.”

“What the hell?” Ezra makes a whining sound when my exclamation disturbs him. He blinks up at me, obviously annoyed, with eyes that are almost identical to his father’s. Subtly shaking myself, I peer at Ziva. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yeah,” she reluctantly admits. Holding her hand up, she wards off my excitement. “No one else knows, not even Serena... truth is, Cherub, I’m not sure if I’m going to keep it.”

As much as it hurts my heart to hear her considering abortion, I know it’s not my place to judge. I’ve always wanted to be a mother. My friend has been clear for years that she has never seen motherhood in her future. She has her own demons to battle, and I am intimately acquainted with the strength it takes to survive a fight with your own head.

It’s a point she reiterates with a simple remark, “I’m a mess. I’d be a disaster as a mother.”

“That’s not necessarily true, but I support you with whatever you decide.”

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