“Brant, don’t you think we should talk? Don’t you want—”
“No.” He cut her off. “I don’t want. Not anymore.”
“Brant.” She reached for him, only to have him step away from her. “It’s been four years—”
His laugh was cold. “Four years, two months, one day.” He paused. “Seven hours, three minutes, two seconds. I know exactly how long it’s been. It’s burned into my memory just like it nearly burned you alive and took your sight. I know, Nik. We both live with it in different ways. You may have lost your vision, but I have mine, which means when I look in the mirror all I see are reminders. Count yourself lucky.”
The door slammed behind him as a tear slid down her cheek and then another.
She remembered a time when Brant was caring, when he wore his emotions on his sleeve, when seeing him angry would have been laughable. This Brant Wellington had his feelings on lockdown.
Nikki hated that day. The day things started to change, the day the light left his eyes, because it was the same day her vision left hers.
“We have to talk about this,” he pleaded as Nik fought to get out of bed. How long had she been sleeping? Days? Hours? At least when she dreamed, she dreamed of their child.
But every time she woke up:
Emptiness.
Their baby was gone. Dead. Buried in the cold, hard ground.
“No.” She put a pillow over her head. “I can’t…it hurts too bad.”
“Nik.” Brant’s voice was filled with pain. “I’m hurting, too.”
“I gave birth to a dead baby!” she wailed. “You didn’t even stay to hold my hand!”
Brant shook his head. “I couldn’t. I—”
“All you had to do was stay, I begged you to stay, and you ran!”
“Because I was losing my mind!” he yelled back. “Afraid this was it, that I was going to lose you, too, lose everything! How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? I am, Nik! So damn sorry!”
“You broke us!” She threw a pillow at his face. “You did this!”
“I love you.”
“Don’t!” she sobbed. “You don’t get to say that to me, not now.”
“I do.” He was on his knees by the bed. “I love you. So much. Please, just get out of bed. I have a surprise for you.”
“No.”
“Nik, please.”
Maybe it was the pleading in his voice, or maybe it was the fact that she knew she couldn’t stay in bed forever—stay angry forever, stay hurt forever.
Slowly, she pushed away from the mattress and grabbed his hand as he led her into the bathroom.
There were at least thirty candles lit, rose petals covered the floor, and the bath was filled with steaming, scented water.
An expensive bottle of champagne she knew they couldn’t afford rested in ice near one single wineglass filled halfway with orange juice.
“One meeting, and I’ll be home, all right?” He kissed her temple. “We can talk, maybe make dinner? Just…take a bath and relax.”
“I don’t know if I can make it past this,” she admitted. “I don’t know how.”
“Together, Nik.” He tugged her against his body. “We do it together.”
He didn’t kiss her again.
There was no yelling.
They simply stared at each other, so many words left unsaid, so much hurt between them, because that was what you did, you lashed out at those closest to you, and they’d done their fair share of lashing out ever since they’d lost their little boy.
He’d yelled.
She’d yelled.
And now, the silence.
With a nod she turned around and started stripping.
It was the last time she would ever see his face.
Chapter Eighteen
Brant stormed out of the spa, yelled at Annie, even though she wasn’t doing anything except her job, and headed for the bar.
George took one look at him and poured him a shot of whiskey. Once Brant took it, George handed him soda water.
“Whiskey. Not water,” Brant barked.
“Ah.” George refilled the shot glass. “Finally drinking to remember, are we?”
“It’s all the same.” Brant lifted the shot glass to his lips and tossed it back.
“Nah, people who drink to forget, they’re calmer about it, happy drunks that turn into blubbering messes once you get alcohol in their system. You’re angry before you’ve even touched the stuff, which means you’re remembering, and by the look on your face, you want the memories, you punish yourself with them.”
Brant scowled and slammed the shot glass back down on the bar. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”