Page 194 of Time Stops With You

Surprise knocks me back a step.

Mrs. Davis continues flatly. “The pregnancy tests came back negative, but Nardi was so sure it was a baby. She went to the doctor to confirm, thinking they’d see something in her blood. The tests came back positive… for fibroids. They needed to remove her womb. But that silly girl refused to get surgery because she’d lose Malcolm if she ever told him she couldn’t have kids.”

My eyes dart back and forth. Just imagining Nardi going through that difficult journey alone destroys me.

“What happened?” I whisper.

“The pain got worse and she was rushed to the hospital. They performed the surgery to save her life. And then Malcom left her.”

I clench my teeth hard enough to crack them right out of my gum. The urge to find Malcom and break his neck rises in me.

“She lost everything that day and she was never the same. Never.” Mrs. Davis shakes her head slowly. “But she got through it somehow. She pulled through all on her own.”

“Nardi’s strong,” I croak, fighting to breathe evenly.

Mrs. Davis’s eyes sharpen. “Strong doesn’t mean she’s unbreakable. Nardi’s more fragile than she lets on. Losing you…” Her voice trembles. “You’re going to put weight on glass that’s already been shattered once.”

For a long, long time, silence stretches between us.

I hear Mrs. Davis’ heels clicking on the tiles as she draws closer to me. “Is there any hope that you can stay alive,” she pleads. “Any at all?”

In that moment, I wish I could say yes.

For Nardi.

For Josiah.

For this family I interfered with and ruined.

“No,” I whisper.

With a firmness in her voice that speaks of resolve, she tells me, “Then don’t hurt Nardi any more than you already have.”

“How do I do that?” I ask hoarsely.

“Right now, she’s living with empty, useless hope. Take that hope away from her. Be as ruthless as you can.”

My head whips up and a protest dangles on my lips.

Mrs. Davis lifts a hand to stop me. “It’ll hurt. It’lldestroyher, but I’d rather you break Nardi’s heart now instead of later.”

Twenty

NARDI

I go to work late on Monday, having slept through most of Sunday and then snoozing through my alarm.

“Are you okay, Nardi?” my co-worker asks, scooting her chair over to me as I hurry in. “You’reneverlate.”

“I know.” I throw my purse on the desk and start my computer.

“How was your vacation?”

“It wasn’t a vacation. It was sick leave.”

She narrows her eyes, inspecting me. “That explains it. I thought you’d look happy and relaxed after using up all your vacation days.” Scrunching her nose, she murmurs, “But you look so much worse.”

“Gee, thanks.”

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