I bury my face against his chest and whisper it again and again. He stands unmoving and stiff. My heart breaks a little more. He wants me to go.
I start to pull away, but suddenly Josh moves, his arms come around me and he pulls me close and drops his face to my hair. Then, I feel his shoulders start to shake with choked tears as he silently mourns his dad.
His hands move over my back and he clings to my dress and pulls me closer. I hold him as tight as I possibly can.
We stand in the center of the darkened room holding each other. The only light is a small desk lamp illuminating the drawing table. I bury my face into Josh’s chest and he drops his chin to rest on my head. Minutes pass. We don’t speak, and I don’t want to move.
But finally Josh pulls away. When he does I notice the chill in the room and wrap my arms around myself. He gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry about that. I guess it hadn’t really hit me that he’s gone.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and takes a step back. “How are you?” He looks down at my arms crossed over my abdomen. “How’s the baby?”
My skin goes cold and I turn my face to the side. I’m weak, aren’t I? Because it’s so hard to say this out loud. And I don’t have any pithy quotes or positivity to make it better either.
“Gemma?”
I look back at him. He’s a better person than I ever knew, than I ever gave him credit for. I wish I’d seen it two years ago, or two months ago, or heck, even two weeks ago.
“Did you get to tell your dad?” I ask. I hold my breath. I hope he at least had that.
Josh nods. “He was really happy. I told him you’d give her his middle name. Charlotte for Charles.” He gives a wry smile. “You don’t have to. Obviously he’s not here to know the difference. But it made him happy to think you’d do it.”
My heart beats a painful tune in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He shrugs and gives me the ghost of one of his former smiles. “No worries. Like I said, you don’t have to—”
“She didn’t make it.” I hold my breath to keep from crying.
Josh stops and his brows lower in confusion. “What?”
I shake my head quickly and pull in a sharp breath. “I miscarried. I’m…miscarrying.”
He stares at me, and the look he gives me makes me realize for the first time how much he wanted her. How much he cared.
He wasn’t just a donor.
He wasn’t just a friend.
He loved her too.
“How? Was it…？”
I shake my head. “No. We didn’t cause it. Dr. Ingraham said it’s common. That about twenty percent of all IVF pregnancies result in biochemical pregnancies. He said…” I stop, because I can’t remember what he said. And it doesn’t matter what the percentages are, because a percentage is just a percentage until it happens to you.
“You’re bleeding right now?” Josh asks.
I look at him and nod.
He closes his eyes. His lips tremble, then he presses them into a firm line. After a moment he draws in a deep, shuddering breath. When he opens his eyes again, he steps forward and runs his finger over my cheek to catch a tear.
“I had that comic I wrote for her. Do you mind if I read it, before…？”
I look at the table and the papers laid out. “Of course. Of course.”
He walks to the table and pulls off the top sheet. The one I saw with the girl and the rocket ship and the stars and planets.
We walk to the couch and he sets the paper down between us.
“Before you were born,” he begins. His voice is deep and raspy, “your parents didn’t know you, but they imagined you.”
Before you were born, I loved you.
I listen as Josh reads the story of the little girl that builds an imaginary spaceship and travels the stars. Her spaceship is powered by her dreams and by her parents’ love.
“I can’t wait to see the heights you reach. And the people’s hearts you touch. I can’t wait to meet you in this big, wide universe.”
Josh sets down the paper and looks up at me. “Okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Do you think it’s stupid that I loved her?”
Josh shakes his head. “No. But if it was, we can be stupid together.”
Josh takes me and pulls me across the couch to settle against his chest. He rests his hands over my abdomen.
“I’m not sure that loving anyone is worth it. You always get hurt, don’t you?” I say.