Page 77 of Love, Lies, and Celtic Knots

“Dammit!” I yell, yanking at it harder, my tears blinding me completely. The car jerks as the wheels catch gravel, and I lose control.

The world tilts, spins. A scream tears from my throat as the car careens off the road, crashing through bushes and trees. The last thing I see is the sky flipping upside down before everything goes black.

I drift back to consciousness slowly, the world around me hazy and unfamiliar. The scent of antiseptic fills my nose, sharp and clinical. My eyelids feel heavy, my body weighed down by something deeper than exhaustion. The steady beeping of machines echoes in the quiet room, each sound grounding me a little more in reality.

My head throbs. My limbs ache. Everything is dull and distant, like I’m floating just outside myself. I blink up at the sterile white ceiling, my thoughts sluggish as I try to piece together where I am—why I’m here.

A soft knock at the door pulls my attention. A doctor steps inside, his expression calm but unreadable. He stops beside my bed, checking something on the monitor before meeting my gaze.

“How are you feeling?” His voice is low, careful.

I swallow, my throat dry. “Like I got hit by a truck.”

His lips press into a thin line, a small nod acknowledging the pain I haven’t fully registered yet. “You’ve been through a lot,” he says. “But you’re lucky. No debilitating injuries. We were able to repair everything robotically without having to open you up. You’re going to be okay.”

Okay.

The word sits strangely in my mind.

His expression shifts, something heavier settling in his eyes. He hesitates, just for a second, before continuing. “But… I’m sorry. The baby didn’t survive. And the damage was significant.” A pause, a breath. “The surgeon doesn’t believe you’ll be able to have children in the future.”

The air in the room vanishes. The world shrinks down to the space between us.

He says something else—I see his lips move, hear the murmur of his voice—but the words don’t reach me. My chest tightens, my fingers clenching into the stiff hospital sheets.

The baby is gone.

And I will never…

A sharp, stinging pressure builds behind my eyes, but I refuse to let it spill over. Instead, I stare past him, past the too-bright walls, past the hum of machines that keep reminding me I’m still here.

I don’t feel lucky. I don’t feel okay.

I feel hollow.

His words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I feel like I’m drowning. My hands instinctively go to my lower belly, now so achingly empty.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No.”

The doctor tries to comfort me but looks uncomfortable. His voice is gentle, but he looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than here. Me too.

They wheel me up to a shared room where I give my body a few days to heal. No one visits me. When the doctor announces they plan to discharge me the next day, I wait until he leaves the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

After he leaves, I sit up slowly, my body screaming in protest. My body isn’t ready to be discharged, but I don’t have a choice. I’m taking my future into my hands—right here, right now. Iremove the IV from my arm, ignoring the sting, and pull off the monitoring equipment. Before the machines can wail in protest, I turn them off. I don’t want to be here.

I grab my shoes but don’t see my clothes. Taking the shoes with me, I slip out of my room and down the hall to some kind of lounge area. I find a set of scrubs that look like they’ll fit and put them on. I head to the staircase. I’m in pain and walking is difficult, but I need to get out of here… now. I don’t stop moving, not until I’m outside, the cold night air biting at my cheeks.

I hitch a ride back to the winery with a trucker who doesn’t ask questions. When we pull up, the place is dark and quiet. I sneak around to the back, where Ryan’s truck is parked.

The keys are in the visor. He always keeps them there. Thankfully, Ryan always parked his truck so it was pointed straight down the drive. I release the emergency brake and take it out of gear so that it rolls down the driveway. Once I’ve put a bit of distance between me and the house, I start the engine and drive to the foster home I’ve been stuck in for years.

I climb through the window and gather my things—a duffel bag, some clothes, and the few keepsakes I’ve held onto. No one stirs as I leave, slipping out the same way I came in.

Back in the truck, I grip the steering wheel tightly, my hands still shaking. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t stay here.

As I drive away from Pelican Point, the only thing I feel is the loss of my baby and Ryan. One I will never get back and one I vow to get revenge for.

The future I thought I had is gone, but I will find a way to make a new one.

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