Comeback Route (New Hope #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hide and Seek - Imogen Heap

Payton, Now

Grace is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. The harsh lights are reflected in her dark, watery eyes. Her fingers are laced over her solar plexus, and her feet are in stirrups. A man is seated at the end of the hospital bed, snapping latex gloves on.

"I'm going to numb the area," the obstetrician states. A nurse passes him a long syringe. "You'll feel a sharp sting, but it'll fade quickly."

Grace's brows pull together, forming a wrinkle above her nose. She inhales sharply, pressing her shoulders into the stiff mattress. I'm seated in a plastic chair beside the bed, feeling more useless than ever. I place my hand on Grace's bicep, but she doesn't notice the contact. She's so, so pale.

I glance at the doctor, who is removing a barbaric tool from a sterilized bag. The tool is made of metal, and shaped like a duck's bill. He inserts it into Grace, twisting a knob to dilate her cervix. He proceeds to scrape the walls of her uterus with a curette, removing any remaining evidence that our son was there.

This is medieval fucking torture. It's scarred into my brain, and I'm not even the one having the procedure done. How has medical science not made this process less traumatic?

Grace blinks, and the tears that had pooled in her eyes drip down her temples, disappearing into her hair. I dust my thumb beneath her bottom lash line. She swallows, and turns her face to me.

I'm sorry, she mouths.

I lean toward her, my mouth at her ear. "This is not your fault, baby. These... these things happen."

She unlaces her fingers, asking, Can you hum the song?

I rub my lips together, hoping the melancholy doesn't bleed into my voice. I'm five seconds away from breaking apart, but I have to stay strong for her. So, I run my fingers through her hair, humming the song I serenaded her with at the karaoke bar.

The doctor continues his work, fully engrossed. The nurse occasionally glances at us, her expression reeking pity. But Grace and I are in our own little bubble, detached from what's going on at the other end of the bed. Grace closes her eyes, and I repeat the melody on a loop. My phone vibrates consistently in the pocket of my slacks. Grace's family is blowing up the line, but I haven't had a chance to answer.

Obviously, the gossip rags have leaked the images of me carrying Grace into an ambulance. Whatever headlines they've come up with—drug overdose, eating disorder, domestic violence—won't be any worse than the truth. I'm sure everyone is beyond concerned, but by the time the surgery is complete, my phone has stopped ringing.

"Okay, Grace. We're all done," the doctor states, sliding the absorbent pad out from under her. He rises from his stool, extending the bed so Grace can close her legs. She does, wincing slightly. "You may experience spotting over the next few days, as well as soreness and mild pain. You can take over-the-counter medication for that. I've updated your records, and sent an email to Doctor Richter. You'll want to keep your appointment with him."

Grace listens, but instead of responding, she simply closes her eyes. I nod for her, and the obstetrician leaves the room. The charge nurse follows him, informing me she'll be back in an hour to take vitals.