Page 39 of Brood
“My period started,” I manage to say.
I’m proud of myself for not crying. For being able to articulate clearly.
I hear his thick exhale. He’s disappointed too. I know it.
Iknowit.
“Okay. It’s okay. We’ll keep trying.”
I nod and swallow over the lump in my throat.
He stands still for a minute. Then he goes to the bathroom and returns to the room, toeing off his shoes.
To my surprise, he climbs into the bed with me, spooning me the way he did after Gus’s attack.
I whimper and nestle back against him. “I was really hoping this month.”
“I know. I know.” He presses his lips against my loose hair. I never rebraided it after my shower. “I was hoping too. But no one I can remember has gotten pregnant in the first six months of trying. It’s still early.”
“I know.” I turn my head and am vaguely surprised to find Will’s face right there. Only an inch or two away from mine. “But I thought we could do it.”
“We will.” He nuzzles the side of my face. His bristles scratch my skin, and the sensation is oddly comforting.
“I feel like a failure.”
“You’re not.”
“I feel like one.”
“That’s because you have unreasonable expectations for yourself. But getting pregnant isn’t something you can accomplish by the force of your will.”
“I know.” I frown back at him. “But I don’t think my expectations are unreasonable. I’m usually good at things.”
He chuckles softly and tightens his arms around me. “I know you are. I was talking to Grearson last week, and he was saying you always had to be the best back in school.”
A giggle surprises me. Grearson was my lead teacher when I was a kid. “Why were you talking to Grearson about me?”
“I ran into him, and he was asking how you were and how married life was for us.”
“Oh. How did you answer him?”
Will pauses only briefly. “I said you were as good a spouse as anyone could hope for.”
A shiver of pleasure fills me, temporarily distracting me from my crushing disappointment. “You said that?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I thought you might say that I was prickly.”
His body shakes with breathy amusement. It’s subdued like mine—still tempered. “Of course I wouldn’t say that.”
“But you think that.”
“Sometimes.” He nuzzles my neck. “But that’s private. Just between us. No one else gets to know about your prickles.”
For some reason, I almost start crying again. My body shudders as I hold them back.
He brushes his lips against my hair again and murmurs something. I can’t hear it well, but it almost sounds like he says, “They’re mine.”
