Page 83 of His Pretty Little Duet

I come to on a hard mattress with a needle channelled beneath the skin on the back of my hand and the sound of beeping and shuffling feet. There is a bit of pain. No more than my monthly period. No lingering reminder of the baby.

Just nothing.

No Benji.

No baby.

Both are just gone.

Awareness spills into my heart; I was going to keep him. Maybe I could have gotten a job just like Jasmine did, find a little house on a cul-de-sac where he could ride a green bike with the tassels on the handlebars. I could have learned to bake. It doesn’t matter what. Cakes. Scones. I'd have taught him, too, when he was big enough to crack the eggs for me. I could havedone it. I don't feel useless anymore. I don't feel unworthy. I think I felt optimistic... resilient.

Just like Clay said.

Now though... No baby. No recording. No Benji. The whole event bled from me in that shower. The only sign anything happened is the thick pad I can feel between my legs and the cramps reminding me I’m soon to be even more hollowed out.

It is as if Benji and I never had a relationship, never made love, never cuddled after, no memory or consequence to hold on to. Now that I know it was him, that we made love the day he died, I try to imagine his smile when I told him I was pregnant. That we are connected in a very special way. And then I imagine him feeling this loss, too. So, it isn't another death, like my mother's, that I am left to feel the loss of alone.

Maybe wherever he is, he's sad, too.

With a reluctant sigh, I blink in rapid succession until my eyes adjust to the room. The sun cuts through the space, slithers of rays lighting up the dust as they float in the air.

Through the window, I can hear the soft coo of birds and the low drone of the normal humdrum world. Circling the back of my skull, a recent conversation, either a dream or?—

“Little deer.” Clay's deep timbre carries across from my right, and I roll to chase the sound. He straightens from his chair, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows beneath a black vest. After he moves to my side, the look in his eyes as he studies my face can only be described as shattered blue glass, shining as if wet. “Do you need some water?”

“I don’t need my dad anymore,” I mutter, although I know that entire idea was redundant and stupid for a while. When I stepped through that gate two weeks ago, I had no idea what would become of me. I never knew who he would becometome. I might have avoided falling, drowning in him, tumbling helplessly in love with the most unattainable man in the world.

What right does a girl like me have to be anywhere near a man like Clay Butcher, anyway? I know what it was... a sense of responsibility and pity on his part that tethered us together. That and my pretty body. And since love can’t be found in pretty things alone but in lasting connections—ours washed out in the shower—it is only a matter of time before he casts me aside like everyone else does. I won’t be cast aside—I’ll step aside.

I roll away from him and face the window, cuddling my waist. “I don’t need you either, Sir.” It’s a strangled lie. But I refuse to be his pretty little burden.

“Clay,” he grounds from behind me. I blink at the beam that slices through space like an ethereal light, taking with it another piece of my existence, another piece I didn’t know I wanted until I had it. And him, too.

Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply and feel my mind swimming in the past months of fatigue. I pretend to sleep, and my heart slows to a steady, boring beat. I hate it.

I hear him move and sit down on the chair on the other side of the bed. I wonder if he has slept at all... although I know the answer isno. After all, he operates best under a level of duress.

Over the next few hours, he doesn’t force me to speak or move or acknowledge him, letting my meek tantrum go unpunished, leading me to believe he has already started to care less...

Doesn't feel the urge to call me out on my behaviour. On my lie that I don’t need him.

A whooshing sound precedes gentle footsteps and a hushed voice. “Here.” Aurora’s gentle cadence dances around the room, pulling me from my half-slumber. “I got you a coffee. Has she woken up at all?”

“On and off,” he states, disembodied.

I hear her sigh. “You can bring her home, you know? The doctor said she doesn’t need to be here.”

“We will leave soon.”

“She’ll be more comfortable in your bed.”

“I doubt that.”

“Clay,” she drawls,his name soaring with sad understanding through the air. "It wasn’t anything you did?—"

“That’s enough.”

My throat tightens. Does he blame himself for my miscarriage? It didn’t even cross my mind that he may harbour guilt, and for what?

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