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Miscarriages are normal, the doctor’s voice echoes in my head. Almost one quarter of pregnancies end in miscarriage.

I grip the steering wheel as I drive home, willing myself not to cry. I think I cried all the tears in the world sitting on a bed in the emergency room. I feel empty inside, no matter how much reassurance the ER doctor gave me.

They released me, so now I’m pulling up outside my apartment. Alone. Only one heart beating now, only one person drawing power from my body.

That knowledge makes my heart seize up just a little. I push the thought out of my mind, but that just allows a thousand other little thoughts to pop up.

Could I have stopped it? I picture the way I fell off my bed the other day, and the way I picked up a stack of boxes yesterday at work. Either one of those could have been the catalyst.

I slowly inhale and exhale, trying to talk myself down. The doctor said that miscarriages are common, especially this early in a pregnancy.

Once I’ve calmed down a little, I get out of the car. It seems like a really long hike to get to my apartment, though I’ve climbed these stairs a thousand times.

Stress. Stress isn’t good on the baby. Stress is why… I know it is. And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself.

I come around the corner, and am surprised to find Charlie. He's sitting on my doormat, reading my Blick Art Materials catalog from my mailbox. He looks up at me, closing the magazine and putting it aside.

“You didn’t answer my calls or texts,” he says, as if that explains everything.

I rub my forehead, feeling the weight of a horrid headache approaching.

“I’ve been busy,” I say. “Can I get to my door, please?”

Charlie stands up, moving aside. “Are you going to let me in?”

“That depends. Are you going to scream at me? Or is that something that you only reserve for your family?”

I unlock my door, swinging it open. He glances downward, showing his shame.

“I promise, that won’t ever happen again.”

I stare at him for a long moment, at his downcast expression and his regretful posture. He usually takes up all the space around him, but now he’s meek.

Sweeping my hand out, I gesture toward the doorway. “Alright. Go ahead.” My heart is frantic, although outwardly I’m trying not to show it. It feels like it’s all just too little too late. I don’t think there’s any way to go back.

Charlie ambles inside, and I close the door behind us both. The click seems louder than usual. I put my keys down in the bowl and hang up my purse, then walk over to where Charlie has seated himself on the couch.

I look at him for a second, then sit on the bed, my butt pushing back my pillows.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“About what?”

“Just… tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. I want to know.”

Thump. My heart pains at this. I don’t want to tell him. “Really?” I ask.

“Really. Even if it’s all bad stuff about me, I want to know. I want you to get it out.”

His eyes plead with me, and I know I have to tell him. I can’t shoulder this burden alone, not with him here, asking what I’m thinking. I need to be strong and tell him what happened. I look down at the comforter, swallowing thickly and picking at the threads.

“You’re an asshole,” the words slip out before I can catch them.

“I deserve that.”

“I thought I meant-” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

“You do. You mean more to me. I didn’t mean what I said to Michael.”

“I heard what you said.” The memory comes back, and it hurts so damn much.

“I’m sorry, Grace.” He holds my gaze, and I feel it. I feel his sincerity.

It’s quiet a long time, the sound of my heart beating faster and faster filling my ears.

“Why’d you come back to the bar, sweetheart? I thought it was over. I never should have said it, but I thought we were over. I was angry, and I shouldn’t have said it. And I’m sorry. But I want you, and if you came in to see me I know it's because you want the same, please take me back.” His words are genuine and sincere. I can almost imagine how he’s rehearsed them. Had today not happened, I would be running into his arms. But that’s not how real life works.

“I came in to tell you… I…” I have to suck in a deep breath and stare at the ceiling to tell him. “I was pregnant,” I say. Even though I thought I cried all the tears earlier, my eyes well up.

Charlie blinks a few times. “What?”

“I was pregnant. With… with your baby. But I’m not anymore.” A tear escapes, making its way down my cheek. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. It’s the most clinical way I can get it out, but the words have left my lips and I watch his face as he registers what I've just confessed.

“What the hell, Grace? You didn’t tell me!” he says, getting to his feet.

“I know. I couldn’t figure out…” I pause, and take a breath. “Nothing sounded right.”

Even to my ears, it sounds lame. Charlie has a perplexed expression on his face. He paces a moment without saying anything and then comes over to the bed and sits down, the bed creaking under him.

He searches my eyes for a moment and then takes my hand, looking at me fiercely.

“What happened, then? Where— I mean, why is there… no baby?” he says, his brow knit. There’s pain in his question, and it makes me feel weak.

The damn holding my tears at bay finally breaks, and they’re soon running down my face. I sound hysterical as I answer, “I had a m-miscarriage.”

“When?” he asks calmly.

“Today! Now!” I say, flailing. I can’t help the emotion, but Charlie doesn’t react to the hysterics.

Charlie traps my hands and pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me. His comforting heat is more than welcome. I lean into him. He holds me for a moment, and all I want to do is climb into his lap as he kisses my hair.

“Are you… are you hurting?” he asks, looking serious.

I nod. “The doctor wrote me a prescription for pain medication, but I didn’t fill it.”

“You have the script, though?”

“It’s in my purse, I think.”

He nods, taking a minute to run his hand through my hair. It’s a soothing gesture, like my mom used to do to me as a child.

“Grace, I’m so sorry baby,” he murmurs, smoothing his hand over my back. “I honestly am.”

I bury my head against his chest, soaking his shirt with my tears. His scent is strong and masculine. Sucking in a deep gulp of air, I try to breathe it in despite my runny nose.

“I wish you had told me that all of this was going on,” he murmurs. “I could’ve… I don’t know… helped, somehow. I can’t do anything now, and it’s killing me to watch you suffer.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t,” I whisper. “I was going tell you when I went to the bar, until I heard what you said. After… I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

He shifts on the bed, moving around so that he’s laying down with his feet pointing the right way. He gestures for me to lie beside him, so I do. I lie down, and he spoons me.

For the first time since I realized I was having a miscarriage, my grief lessens just a little. The simplicity of it stuns me, lulls me into quietude.

He pulls the comforter up over us both, then wraps his arms around me.

“I’m going to hold you. I hope that’s okay,” he says, his breath warm against my ear.

I don’t say anything. No agreement, but no screams of protest either. Charlie has hurt me before, and I haven’t forgotten that.

But, for now anyway, his presence is welcome in my bed. As my eyelids grow heavy, I know that I'll have a lot to figure out later…

But at this moment, wrapped in Charlie’s arms, I feel safe and warm.