“I’m sure. It’s too soon for us.”
He was right. It was too soon for them. And suddenly she was thinking of all their time together, all the years of loving him. She thought of their years together; the way he always rambled on about car capabilities and talked nonstop through movies, how he sang off-key and never seemed to know the words; mostly, she thought about the way he always seemed to know when she felt scared or lost and how he held her hand then, tightly, as if he could keep her steady. She’d always love him. “I love you, David,” she murmured, hearing the thickness of her voice.
“I love you, too.” He leaned forward, pulled her into his arms.
She was the first to pull back. He took her hand, squeezed it.
“This is the end for us.” She said it softly. Each word hurt to say out loud. She wanted him to laugh, to take her in his arms and say, No way.
Instead, he started to cry.
She felt the burning in her own eyes. She longed to take it back, tell him she hadn’t meant it, but she’d grown up now and she knew better. Some dreams simply slipped out of your hands. The worst part was that they might have made it, might have loved each other forever, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant.
She wondered how long it would hurt to love him. She hoped it was a wound that one day healed itself, leaving only the palest silver mark behind. “I want you to go to Stanford and forget about all of this.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, crying so hard she knew he’d take the out she offered. And though that knowledge hurt, it saved her, too, almost made her smile. Some sacrifices had to be made for love.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pink piece of paper. “Here,” he said, offering it to her.
She frowned. The paper felt whisper thin between her fingers. “It’s the title to your car.”
“I want you to have it.”
She could barely see him through her tears. “Oh, David, no.”
“It’s all I have.”
She would remember this moment for all of her life. No matter what, she would always know that he’d loved her. She handed him back the pink slip. “Kiss me, Speed Racer,” she whispered, knowing it would be the last time.
The minute Angie passed the nurse’s station, she knew.
“Mrs. Malone?” one of the nurses said. “Ms. Connelly would like to speak with you.”
Angie pulled away from Conlan and ran. Her sandals snapped on the linoleum floor, sounding obscenely loud. She shoved the door open so hard it cracked against the wall.
Lauren’s bed was empty.
She sagged against the doorframe. A part of her had known this was coming, had been waiting for it, but that didn’t make it any easier. “She’s gone,” she said when Conlan came up beside her.
They stood there in the doorway, holding hands, staring at the perfectly made bed. The scent of flowers lingered in the room. It was the only evidence that last night a girl had been here.
“Mrs. Malone?”
She turned slowly, expecting to see the plump face of the hospital’s chaplain. He was the first person who’d shown up in Angie’s room when Sophia died.
But it was Ms. Connelly, the woman who’d been appointed guardian ad litem. “She left about an hour ago.” The woman glanced down. “With her son.”
Angie had expected that, too. Still the pain came fast and sharp. “I see.”
“She left you a letter. And one for David.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the envelopes.
The guardian said, “I’m sorry,” and walked away.
Angie looked down at the stark white envelope. The name—Angie Malone—was scrawled across the front. Her hands were shaking as she took it, opened it.
Dear Angie,
I never should have held him. (Here she’d scratched something out.) All my life I’ve been looking for a family and now that I have one, I can’t walk out on him. I’m sorry.
I wish I were strong enough to tell you this in person. But I can’t. I can only pray that someday you and Conlan will forgive me.
Just know that somewhere, a new mother is going to sleep at night, thinking about you. Pretending—wishing—that she had been your daughter.
With love,
Lauren
Angie folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope. Then she turned to Conlan. “She’s out there all alone.”
“Not alone,” he said gently. She knew when she looked in his eyes that he’d expected this all along.
“Too alone, then.”
He pulled her into his arms and let her cry.
They found David in the waiting room with his mother.
At their arrival, David looked up.
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Malone.”
His mother, Anita, smiled. “Hello again.”
An awkward pause fell. They all looked at one another.
“He’s beautiful,” Anita said, her voice cracking only a little.
Angie wondered how it must feel to say good-bye to your son’s son. “Lauren has left the hospital,” Angie said as gently as she could. “She took the baby with her. We don’t …” Her throat closed; she couldn’t finish.