Page 70 of No Place Like Home
She nodded. “Why?”
“I have something called endometriosis. It’s when your uterus is messed up. I’ve had all types of tests and procedures done over the years.” Tears poured down my face as my voice caught. “I can’t get pregnant. I’ll never have babies.” There I said it.
“What?” Darlene’s voice went up a few octaves and she sat up straighter. “How long have you known this?”
I took a deep breath. “I found out when I was eighteen. I’ve had procedures done over the years to try and reverse it, but they never succeeded.”
“You’ve never said a word to any of us? Rowan doesn’t even know?”
I avoided eye contact and shook my head.
“Summer!” She grabbed my hands. “Are you sure there’s no way? I’ve heard—”
I stopped her. “There’s a ninety-eight percent chance I will not be able to get pregnant.”
“Ninety-eight isn’t zero.”
I laughed through the tears. Always Darlene finding the smallest ray of light in the darkest night. I shook my head. “Not gonna happen.”
“So, you’re using this as your reasoning to not love Rowan?”
“Yes.” I finally met her gaze. “He needs to be a father—and before you say anything, I know we could adopt, but I want him to have a chance to be with someone who can give him a biological child. He deserves it.”
“Shouldn’t you tell him this and let him decide for himself?”
A pit opened deep in my chest, and I swore I was going to be sucked into it.
I looked at her and the tears in her eyes caused my own dam to break. I couldn’t hold them in any longer.
She wrapped her arms around me and held me. “Summer, I wish you would have said something sooner.”
My shoulders shook with sobs. Years of dealing with this on my own and holding in the anger and frustration came out on Darlene’s shoulder.
Finally, my tears subsided, and I pulled away. She handed me a tissue and I dried my eyes.
“You need to tell him.” Her voice was soft. “It seems only fair. He thinks you don’t love him.”
I didn’t think my heart could break any more, but I was wrong. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t.”
Chapter 31
Summer
Darlene took me home Saturday night and I begged her to make sure Rowan kept his distance for the weekend. She was the only person I texted Sunday, though Rowan tried his hardest to get me to answer him.
I ignored him. I wasn’t ready to talk. I needed time, so I finally turned off my phone and hid it in my dresser drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.
By Monday morning, I was sinking in my depression, and ready to get out into the world. I grabbed my phone, which was now dead, plugged it in, and left it in my room for the day. My weekly Monday duties were calling, and without my phone I’d be able to focus on my work. I needed to place an order for product, and I wanted to talk with our salesperson to ask about the curling iron he showed me a few weeks ago.
I threw on my favorite gray sweats and black tank top and went to the only place that could give me peace and get me out of my own head—Shear Perfection.
No one was at the salon when I arrived, which was typical. Diane and Kaye didn’t show up on Mondays until around lunch, and knowing I’d be here most of the morning, they always brought food. I locked the doors behind me, turned the music up on the Bluetooth speakers, and got to cleaning. The music was loud. I didn’t want to hear the phone or anyone who might possibly come knocking or looking for me—especially not Rowan.
My heart clenched tight in my chest at the simple thought of his name. I was thankful he didn’t follow me home after the wedding. I needed space and time to get my feelings under control.
I realized while I spent agonizing time away from him, that I was falling in love with him too. Fuck, who was I kidding? I wasn’tfallingin love. I’dbeenin love with Rowan for, God, I didn’t know how long—and now he admits that he’s loved me forever? I brushed my hands over my face. I couldn’t hide my feelings much longer. Anyone who knew me would see right through me and my bullshit. But my being with Rowan would be such a bad choice for him. He was a great guy. He needed more than I could ever give him.
I threw myself into organizing the inventory, and, as always, it worked to calm me. I didn’t know what it was about the hair salon—whether it was the smells of the products, or the hum of the dryers that always took me away from life, but that’s how it had always been. There was something grounding about washing, styling, and running my fingers through someone’s hair, helping them create the look they wanted. Helping them to feel beautiful. Even filing and painting nails could put me in a place where I could be me and get out of my own head.
