Can you imagine anything more awkward than getting examined by the woman you just told off? I didn't think so. And of course here we are—Kerri's checking on my recent injuries—touching the areas that need to be touched and making notes on her clipboard. I can tell she's pissed off and hurt. She's not making eye contact and barely saying a word. She's being diligent in her exam but doing just enough to get her job done. I don't blame her. But what she doesn't know is that it's eating me up inside. This shit is like acid in my guts. I'm being eaten alive. I didn't want to end things but I had no choice.

What else am I supposed to do? It's for her own good—all of it. Either I do this and she lives, or I choose the alternative and she's in danger. "Does this hurt?" she asks, and I shake my head and tell her it's not bad, but actually, on a scale from one to 10, it's a fucking eight. I just want to be done here. Going through these fucking motions with her is worse than any of these physical injuries. I guess even the cheesiest love songs—like the ones that pop Country music artists sing about dead dogs and broken down pickups—are right. Love fucking hurts, and yeah, I used the L word. I did love her—I still do, and that's why I'm ending this shit. I want her to walk away from all of this alive. I won't let Grinder or any of those shitheads touch her. That much I've promised myself.

"Anything else?" I ask, eager to get the fuck out of here.

"You tell me."

I can feel the tension in her tone. And it's not just the way she says it but also the way her eyes are penetrating mine and threatening to peel me back, layer by layer. She lays those words on me and all of a sudden the air feels thick as peanut butter. It's like I can slice the air in this fucking room with a knife.

"I can't do this," I say, not really meaning it. At least, not 100%, but I hope I sound convincing.

"Convenient. You're such a coward. I don't know why I thought you could ever change."

I just look at her. I don't know what to say because all of the things that want to tumble out of my mouth like a sack of loose marbles—all of those words that spell the fucking truth—I can't say. So instead, I'm looking at her like a fucking idiot and she gives me this look with her eyes that says, well, what now asshole? "I'm sorry, I guess I deserve this place," is all I can say. I know it's lame but it's the best I've got.

"This is not the man I fell in love with."

And like a real ass I just shrug my shoulders. I figure the more I can piss her off, the better it'll be on her. Maybe she'll hate me enough to finally leave. The quicker she realizes this is over, the better. She can move on with her life and I can go on with worrying about covering my own ass in this shitty place.

"I don't know what you're up to, and I almost hate to admit this, but I'm not some switch that can be turned off and on. Maybe you are, but that's not me. I still think you have a chance of getting out of this place. We can make a life together."

No sooner do these words leave her mouth that I see the pain in her face. Tears are forming at the corners of her eyes and it takes everything in me to not reach out to her—to touch her—to hold her, and run my fingers through her hair. But instead of doing that I double down and tell her she's wrong.

She takes a step back and trips on the strap of her purse slightly, and kicks it out of her way. She turns her back to me; I can tell she's crying and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. And as her back is turned, I look down at the floor and my gaze lands on her purse. From where I'm sitting, I can look straight into it and at first, I'm not sure if what I'm seeing is what I think it is. I strain and lean in closer, moving quickly before she turns back around and catches me. Then I see it again—sitting right there on top of everything—and this time I know exactly what I'm looking at.

My suspicions are correct. The black and white square piece of paper that I'm looking at—the one with a grainy image that resembles the shape of an oversized gummy bear—it's an ultrasound photo. There's no doubt about it, and with this realization my heart catches in my throat and my stomach just about crashes to the floor. My head is like a car racing around a track a hundred miles an hour, and just when I think I'm going to get dizzy from it all and maybe pass out right here and crash on the linoleum—right in front of Kerri—it hits me.

I now know what I need to do.