He Comforted Her While I Lost Our Baby

The fever hit me on a Tuesday.

I woke up shivering under two blankets in our Los Angeles apartment, my skin burning and my head pounding like someone was driving nails through my temples. The thermometer read 103.2. I stared at the number and thought about calling in sick to work, but then I remembered I'd already used my last sick day three weeks ago when Vincenzo needed me to cover a client dinner he couldn't make.

I called him at noon. My voice came out thin and cracked. "Vin, I'm really sick. Can you come home?"

There was a pause. I heard keyboard clicks in the background. "How sick?"

"Fever. 103. I can't really get up."

"Okay." More clicking. "I'll wrap up this call and head out. Give me an hour."

"Thank you," I whispered.

I lay back down and closed my eyes. The apartment was too bright. Everything hurt. I thought about the first time I got sick after moving to LA, back when we'd only been together a year. Vincenzo had driven three hours through a rainstorm to bring me medicine and homemade soup because the delivery apps were all delayed. He'd stayed the whole night, checking my temperature every few hours, bringing me water before I even had to ask.

That felt like a different lifetime. A different version of him. Or maybe just a different version of us.

My phone buzzed. I reached for it, expecting a text saying he was on his way.

It was Delaney.

I didn't open it. I knew what it would say. Something about the crib she'd ordered, or the paint color for the nursery, or some other small crisis that needed Vincenzo's immediate attention. There was always something. Always.

Five minutes later, Vincenzo called.

"Hey, so Delaney needs help with something."

I didn't say anything. I just waited.

"She's trying to put together the crib and one of the parts is missing, and she's really stressed about it. You know how she gets when she's stressed, and the doctor said she needs to avoid—"

"You said you'd come home."

"I will. I just need to stop by her place first. It'll be quick. Thirty minutes, tops."

I looked at the ceiling. There was a water stain in the corner that had been there since we moved in. We kept saying we'd get it fixed. We never did.

"Okay," I said.

"You sure? You sound upset."

"I'm not upset. I'm sick."

"I'll be there soon, Clare. I promise."

He hung up. I set the phone down on the nightstand and pulled the blanket up to my chin. The shivering wouldn't stop.

Eleven minutes later, my phone buzzed again.

This time it was a text from Vincenzo. Not words. Just a link.

DoorDash. Chicken soup. Already ordered. Estimated delivery: 40 minutes.

I stared at it for a long time. The blue hyperlink. The little logo. The automated efficiency of it.

I didn't open the link. I just turned the phone face-down