Frankie couldn’t listen anymore. She raised a hand.
Ethel stopped talking—Frankie had no idea what she’d been talking about—and leaned in. “What is it?”
Frankie sat up, staring dry-eyed at the wall. “I’m not going to marry him,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Give it some time,” Ethel said. “Don’t decide now, after…”
“Say it. After losing my son.”
“Yeah,” Barb said, holding Frankie’s hand. “After losing your baby. I can’t imagine your pain.”
“Rye—”
“He lied to you, Frank,” Ethel said. Her voice had a sharp edge, but the tears in her eyes were obvious. “He had his men lie to you. Or he lied to them. Either way, he’s not good enough to lick shit off the floor, and if I ever see him…”
“I’ll help you kick his ass,” Barb said. “I’ll pay people to help us.”
“You can go home,” Frankie said. “There’s no wedding to stay for. Ethel, your husband and daughter need you, and Barb, I know Operation PUSH’s convention is coming up and Jesse Jackson is probably counting on you.”
“We don’t want to leave you,” Barb said.
“I’m fine,” Frankie lied. She touched the golden heart necklace at her throat. All three of them knew the truth: that it would be a long time before Frankie was really fine, but whatever that journey looked like, however she healed, it would fall on her to do the heavy lifting. Her friends could be there for her, help her stand, but she had to walk alone.
They kissed her forehead, Ethel first, Barb next, her kiss a moment longer. “We will call you tomorrow,” Barb said.
“And the day after that,” Ethel added.
Frankie was relieved when they left. She lay back into the pillows, feeling exhausted. And afraid.
The hospital door opened and she winced.
Henry stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. He looked as tired and beaten as she felt.
He came to her bedside, held her hand. She couldn’t find the strength to squeeze his hand back.
He smoothed the hair back from her face. She knew how badly he was hurting, how much he needed to share that with her, but she was a closed door.
She closed her eyes, hating that she would hurt him.
“Don’t shut me out, Frankie,” Henry said. “I need you … us. This happened to both of us. The doctor says we need to put it aside and try again. We can do that, can’t we?”
Forget it, in other words. The same old advice, given for a brand-new pain.
God help her, she wasn’t able to mourn with him. Even now, with loss all around her, in her own body, she couldn’t help thinking of Rye. His was the touch she wanted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice broke. “I should have been there earlier.”
She looked at him, felt a hot rush of self-loathing. “It would have happened anyway,” she said tonelessly.
“I know, but—”
“No buts, Henry. I don’t want to talk about the baby.” She took a deep breath. “I want to talk about the wedding. About us.”
“Us? Oh, babe, don’t worry about the wedding. We have time. Let’s just get our feet under us.”
She looked at him, seeing how deeply he loved her.
“Henry.” She sighed, played with her engagement ring—his grandmother’s. “You remember I told you about Rye? The man I loved in Vietnam, Finley’s friend?”
He drew back, let go of her hand. “Sure. The pilot who was killed?”
“He didn’t die over there. He’s been in prison. He got back to the U.S. yesterday.”
“Oh.” He said it lightly, and then he frowned, said it again. “Oh. You saw him?”
“I did.”
“And you still love him?”
“I do,” Frankie said, starting to cry. She wanted to tell him about Rye’s betrayal, about how the pain of it had somehow caused her miscarriage, and still she couldn’t stop loving him. But Henry was too good a man for that. If she told him the truth, he’d stay with her, give her time, tell her she deserved better than a man who’d lied to her. She had no doubt that there was no future for her and Rye. She didn’t fool herself about that. But just knowing that he was alive made it impossible for her to pretend to love Henry enough to marry him.
Slowly, she took the engagement ring off her finger, gave it back to him. “I can’t marry you, Henry.”