Lourdes

This is my worst nightmare. No, this is a million times worse than my worst nightmare. I know what Amira is going to say next before she says it. I’m tempted to act like a child and cover my ears so I don’t have to, but there’s no point. She’s going to sing it from the rooftops, and I’m going to puke.

“Fuck off, Amira. You know it can’t be mine. We’ve slept together a total of two times since we got married six months ago,” Liam says.

“Oh, handsome, it is yours though. You were home at the beginning of the year. Remember that hot little number I was wearing for you when you walked through the front door? I do. I remember how you tore it off me and bent me over the couch and—”

“Shut up, Amira!”

That’s my cue. I grab the barf bag they gave me at the hospital and retch into it. Acid burns its way up my esophagus, and I gasp and go again, and again. They weren’t exaggerating about staying calm and stress-free for forty-eight hours after treatment.

Liam is at my side right away, sliding his arm around my waist and speaking comforting words in my ear. Nothing he can say or do is going to make this better though. When I think I’ve got it under control, I hear Amira in the background mutter something about being a wimp because I haven’t gotten over my morning sickness yet. If it were only just morning sickness.

Liam turns to her. “Amira, you need to seriously shut the fuck up and leave. I don’t believe that baby is mine any more than I believe I married you willingly.”

I want to defend myself but I can’t speak yet. I still feel like throwing up, and I don’t want to look at her again. Once was bad enough. Her disapproving eyes, her enormous belly, her ugly, jealous snarl, and finally, her smug, wicked smile when she dropped her bomb on us. She is pure evil, and according to her, she’s carrying Liam’s baby just like I am. There is one big heart-wrenching difference though. Her baby is healthy, and she is much further along than I am. There are so many things that could go wrong with my pregnancy because of the cancer and the chemotherapy. He might be better off staying with his wife, who is obviously going to have the healthier of the two kids.

“I’m not going anywhere, Liam. You two are done playin’ house. Your real wife is home now. The tramp has to go,” she says, swiveling her neck back and forth and waving her finger in the air.

Liam is on his feet so fast it almost launches me out of the bed. He’s crossed the room, and before I can yell for him to stop, he’s raising his hand to slap her, but he freezes when he realizes what he’s about to do.

Amira is finally stunned into silence, she’s never seen Liam this angry.

“I told you to shut the fuck up, Amira, and I meant it. You don’t get to walk in here after five months and make demands. I told you I wanted a divorce, my lawyer sent you the papers to sign, and you knew Lourdes was pregnant. I think it’s been pretty clear how I feel about you—or how much I don’t feel for you, rather. So if you don’t want any more trouble, turn your ass around and go back to wherever you came from until you sign those papers,” he says, spitting the words at her through his teeth like venom. If he spoke to me that way, I would be scared, so I look up to see what her reaction is.

She is still standing there with wide eyes and her mouth hanging open, until Liam yells, “Now!” and she jumps in her very insensible heels. She’s a bitch, but I have to admit she’s a gorgeous, sexy pregnant woman in her skintight black sweater and leather pants with five-inch strappy heels.

Turns out she isn’t as immune to Liam’s anger as I first thought. Tears brim in her eyes, and she proves to be much more sensible than her shoes when she backs out of the bedroom. Liam waits until she’s a few steps away from him to follow. I listen to her heels clack across the hardwood floors and up the stairs until the front door slams violently shut.

Liam doesn’t return, and after thirty minutes, I go looking for him. I search every room in the house. No Liam. I wonder if he went for a walk, or worse, if he went with Amira when she left. I’m on my way to find my phone to call him when I spot him standing outside. It’s another crappy day, the first since I learned I had cancer. I still think Mother Nature and I have a special connection going on. When I’m grey, so is the weather.

Liam is standing on the deck, with his hands deep in his pockets, in the rain. He’s soaking wet, facing away from me and toward the pool. I pad across the floor and watch him through the glass door for some sign of life, but he’s still as stone. I slide the door open and join him without looking at him. I just stand next to him in the downpour and wait for him to say something. It doesn’t take long.

“You should go inside.”

“So should you,” I say and lick the rain from my lips. I look at him now. He has droplets dangling from his long eyelashes and running down his face, his clothes are saturated, and it’s chilly for LA. I want him to go inside.

“Come inside, Liam. Dry off.”

“You go. I’ll be in soon.”

He sounds so far away and hollow.

“I’m not going in until you do,” I say.

He sighs and looks down at the decking under his feet, and I narrow my eyes to be sure, but I think some of those raindrops are tears. My heart hurts when I realize he’s not being stubborn or pouty. He’s suffering.

“Oh, Liam, God, I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping in front of him to wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in his wet shirt. He doesn’t return the embrace at first, but when he feels me shivering, he scoops me up like I’m nothing and carries me back inside.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Lourdes. It should be me apologizing to you for bringing you into this mess. You don’t deserve to have to be in the same room as that vile woman, and yet here you are, being victimized while you fight for your life and for our baby’s life. It’s not right.” I look up at his angular jaw and see his red-rimmed eyes as he steadily makes his way to his bedroom—his and Amira’s bedroom. I’ve never stepped foot inside their room. There has never been a reason since he moved all of his things downstairs weeks ago.

He sits me on the edge of the bed and kneels between my legs, wrapping his arms around me and pressing his face against my baby bump.

“You can’t control that woman. I don’t expect you to, Liam. And she is still technically your wife, and this is her house, so I can see why she would be upset.”

He pulls away and takes my face in his hands. I lift mine and wrap my fingers around his wrists and look deeply into his tortured eyes.

“You are my wife in my heart, Lourdes. You’re my other half, my soul mate, not her. Do you know that the French don’t say I miss you? They say tu me manques. It means you are missing from me. I don’t ever want you to be missing from me. You are so essential to my survival that I would cease to exist without you. I’m so afraid of losing you, of losing our baby, but it seems like we can’t catch a break, ever. We keep getting right to the edge of happiness when another wall is built, blocking us out.”

Two huge tears stream down his cheeks, and I’m done. I’m exhausted, full of poison, empty of nutrients, and emotionally shot from everything that’s been going on in our lives. I just can’t cope another second.

I reach for the hem of Liam’s shirt and pull it up over his head and toss it on the floor in a slushy heap. I raise my arms and he does the same for me. I reach behind me and pull down the deep blue comforter and stand up. We both finish undressing and crawl in the bed, facing each other tangling our limbs like a pretzel. Liam pulls the comforter up around us, and we begin to warm each other, providing one another with what the other needs most—heat, love, understanding, and most of all, relief.

Sometimes you just have to stop the world for a while and step away to heal before going on. This is one of those times. Liam is tortured by the thought of losing me and by the possibility that Amira’s baby is his. He’s reeling inside at the thought of our baby not surviving my treatment. He rages about being stuck in a marriage with a psychotic bitch. But we’re taking a time out to refuel so we can start again tomorrow. Johnny Depp’s quote, It’s just a bad day, not a bad life, pops into my head. We are going to take this one day at a time until there are more good days than bad.

“This is our few moments of good today. You promised me we would always have at least a few moments everyday that would be good, remember?” I ask.

“I do, thank you. I wish I could give you more than a few. You deserve twenty-four hours a day of happiness.”

I snuggle against his chest. “I don’t need that many. As long as you’re by my side, I’ll take the good with the bad.”

“Even when there’s so much more bad than good?” he asks.

“Even if there’s only a shred of good,” I answer, because right now, that’s about all we have.