Page 107 of First Comes Forever

Amani’s eyes are down, looking at her lap. “So I miscarried?” Her tone is off. She speaks in a raspy whisper, a sound I’ve never heard from her before.

“The pregnancy definitely won’t carry to term. I’d classify this as a chemical pregnancy versus a miscarriage. Honestly, most women don’t even notice. Had you not tested so early, you probably would’ve thought this was a late period.”

Amani glares at him from the corner of her eyes. “There was a lot of blood. My periods are never that heavy. We were startled.”

He exhales. “Many women go on to have healthy babies after chemical pregnancies. This is not something to be concerned about. Certainly not something worth coming to the ER for.”

She hangs her head and lets out a small scoff. “I’m so glad we waited four hours to hear that.”

Amani tries to brush it off, but I’ve hit my tipping point. I’ve been in go mode since the moment I pulled back the covers and saw the woman I love lying on blood-soaked sheets. I couldn’t fix it, so all I could think of was to get her to people who could fix it. Of course I understand we can’t fight nature, but this reaction from the doctor?

No.She’s been through too much. She’s had enough.I’ve had enough.

“What the fuck did you just say to her?”

Doctor Tubbman’s eyes pop into wide circles. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I seethe. “Did you miss the class where they taught bedside manner in medical school? Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t care if she came in here with a paper cut. She’s still a patient. And while this is a minor inconvenience to you, our entire world just came crashing down. So you can fix your attitude.”

“You need to calm down,” Dr. Tubbman says, pulling the stethoscope from around his neck. “I need to check her vitals, then you can leave.”

“Don’t touch her.” I stand, kicking my chair back. “You leave.Now.It takes a lot to get me to this point, but you will not disrespect my wife in front of me.”Fuck.I run my hand down my face. The word just slipped. “I mean my girlfriend,” I mumble.

Amani’s eyes snap to mine, and her face turns red as her eyes water. She does her best to hold it in, but fails, and completely loses it in front of me. Breaking into hysterics, she holds her stomach, bawling. All I can make out through her cries are“it’s not fair,”and“we got so close.”

It reminds me of the first time I knocked on her car window. Her outburst isn’t just sadness. It’s frustration, helplessness, and anger rolled into one. After yanking out my wallet, I pull out one of my black cards. I toss it on Dr. Tubbman’s clipboard. “Go ahead and bill me, you jackass.”

He watches, stunned, as I grab her purse, stuff her neatly folded clothes and sneakers in the largest compartment, then sling it around my shoulder. I pull back the blankets on the hospital bed and scoop Amani up in my arms. I whisk her out of the patient room without a second thought. She’s too fucking light. This should be far more strenuous, but she feels so small in my arms.

The pleasant blond nurse from before chases us down and races me to the emergency doors, stepping on the mat so the glass doors peel apart before we get there.

“I’m so sorry,” she says as we pass. Letting us go first, she follows us out. “I heard everything. There’s a place on the website where you can file a complaint. Tubbman is spelled with two Bs. This isn’t right.”

None of this is right.How did we get here? Eight hours ago, all my dreams had come true.

I know Amani has given up. My sassy, firecracker summer girl would’ve been kicking her feet, insisting I put her down so she could walk herself. She probably would’ve popped off on the doctor herself. Instead, she simply lets me carry her across the parking lot, resting her face against my chest, soaking my shirt with her tears.

I’m barely out of breath, fury and adrenaline fueling me.

“Which car is yours?” the nurse asks.

I nod toward my vehicle, parked only a few yards away from the emergency entry. “Over there, right up front.”

The nurse hustles to the passenger side door. When I’m close enough that the car unlocks, she opens the passenger side door so I can place Amani right in the seat. I wipe the wet streaks from her cheek. “We’re almost done with this night. Hang tight, okay? I’ll get you home.”

As soon as I step aside, the nurse squats down and gives Amani instructions about what to do if she feels any sharp pains or experiences clotting.

“Thank you,” Amani says, trying to smile, but her lips barely twitch.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” the nurse says. “I had two chemical pregnancies when my husband and I were trying. They were heartbreaking and you have every right to feel the way you do. No one should diminish that. But if it helps, I have two beautiful boys now. Six and three.” She pats Amani’s knee softly. “Give yourself time, but don’t give up, okay?”

Little does this kind nurse know, this pregnancy was Amani’s last chance.

After sliding into the driver’s seat, I turn on the car, cranking the heat. “Are you okay, baby? Look at me.”

She turns in my direction and forces a smile. “I’m okay,” she says, pretending like she didn’t just have a total meltdown.

I hold out my hand, and she takes it. She lifts her emerald green eyes that look a little dull against the light-gray sky. We’ve been here for so long, the sun is almost rising.

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