The Wife He Forgot Was The One He Loved Most Chapter 05
I woke up in a hospital bed. The air smelled of disinfectant.
Mixed with a faint, cloyingly sweet hint of honeysuckle drifting through the window.
Someone was holding my left hand. Ethan.
The circles under his eyes were dark. His hair was mussed, several strands falling forward across his brow.
I shifted my wrist and he startled awake.
He saw I was awake, blanked for a second, then swiftly reassembled himself into someone cool and distant.
“You’re up.”
I wanted to ask him whether the name that had torn out of him before I passed out meant he’d remembered something.
But the next second he let go of my hand, stood, and pressed the call button by the head of the bed.
The doctor arrived quickly, flipped through the chart at the foot of the bed, and shone a light into my pupils.
“Mrs. Sinclair, we ran your bloodwork. You’re pregnant. About six weeks and change.”
The whole world stopped.
Six weeks and change. Count backward—that was the night he came home from his last business trip.
Before I could get a word out, Ethan cut in.
“The baby…” His voice was hoarse. “Is it mine?”
I stared at him for two seconds and started to laugh.
“You tell me.”
He turned his face away. The tendons in his neck went taut. He didn’t say anything else.
There was a light patter of footsteps at the door.
Vivienne poked her head in, saw Ethan sitting by the bed, and her mouth curved up at the corners first.
Then she saw I was awake, and that curve froze for a beat before smoothing into a polite, tasteful concern.
“Ethan, I heard Anna was in the hospital. I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop by.”
She pushed the door open and came in, a bag of oranges in her hand, which she set gently on the bedside table. “Anna. Feeling any better?”
“Much better,” I said. “Just got an extra passenger.”
Vivienne’s lashes flickered.
She turned toward Ethan, softening her voice. “Ethan, you… you’re going to be a father?”
Ethan lowered his head. His Adam’s apple worked once, twice, before he managed a soft “Mm.”
Vivienne’s fingertips dug hard into the plastic bag of oranges. The juice bled out in a small dark patch at the corner.
Ethan’s phone rang. He stood up, took the call outside.
The door closed with a small, careful click.
Vivienne took half a step forward and leaned close.
“What are you so smug about? He barely remembers who you are. He’s only sticking around because of your belly.”
I looked up at her, and lowered my voice too.
“Vivienne. Six years ago, when you dumped him, it was Stella who told me which hotel you were checking into with someone else.”
A crack ran through Vivienne’s expression.
She straightened up and retreated a step to the window. Her face had gone frighteningly pale.
Ethan pushed the door open, a paper bag in his hand. The smell of chicken broth drifted out.
He set the bag on the nightstand and unscrewed the lid of the thermal container. Steam boiled up in a puff, parsley leaves floating on the surface, tiny beads of golden fat catching the light.
Vivienne pushed out a smile. “Ethan, why don’t I feed her? You take a break.”
Ethan set the spoon down in the bowl without lifting his head.
“That won’t be necessary. You should head home.”
Vivienne’s smile locked in place.
“We’ll talk later.”
His tone was flat, but every word landed like a dismissal.
Vivienne picked up her bag and left.
I spooned up two mouthfuls of the broth. The chicken was fall-off-the-bone tender, the corn sweet—clearly he’d let it simmer all afternoon.
“Come back to Ashwood,” Ethan said. “Your apartment has no elevator. All those stairs.”
“No,” I said, setting the bowl down. “The thirty days are up. We do what we agreed to do.”
“You’re carrying a child.”
“The child is yours, and you can contribute financially where you need to,” I said, corners of my mouth pulling up until they hurt. “I’ll raise it myself.”
Ethan looked at me. He couldn’t get a word out.
“You really want it this way?”
“Mr. Sinclair.” I lay back and pulled the blanket up to my chin. “You’re the one who didn’t want me.”
His lips moved. No sound.
A gust of honeysuckle blew in through the window. It stung my nose.
I turned to face the wall, and the tears came.
Late that night, Stella showed up.
She hauled in an armful of prenatal vitamins, a boxed set of organic snacks, and a few bottles of fresh-pressed juice, dropped it all on the floor, and squatted next to the bed with her eyes wide.
“Anna! You’re really pregnant?? I’m going to be an auntie??”
The pounding in my temples spiked. “Keep it down.”
Stella clapped a hand over her mouth. Then, as though remembering something, she turned to Ethan.
“Ethan, did you remember? How else did you know to bring her to the hospital?”
Ethan was at the window, back to us. His voice came out muffled.
“No.”
“Then how…” Stella trailed off, not really landing the question.
She looked at Ethan’s back, looked at me, and finally, deflating, got up and started toward the door.
At the doorway she gripped the doorjamb and called back one more time.
“Anna, don’t you dare leave Ethan! His head is still all mixed up! He used to love the stuff you photographed!”
The door closed.
Ethan walked over and tucked the corner of the blanket up around me. His finger brushed my chin, paused for a beat, then withdrew.
“Sleep.”
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere between sleep and waking, I felt someone take my hand.
A thin callus on the pad of his thumb. His grip was very tight, as though afraid that if he let go he’d never catch hold of me again.
I knew it was him.