Page 147 of Playing Her Game

A shaky laugh escapes me through the tears. "Neither am I."

He brings both hands to my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. His own eyes are bright, his expression stripped of anything he might have tried to hide from me.

"But listen to me," he says. "You don't have to earn my love by giving me a child. You don't have to prove anything to me. I want a family with you because I want a life with you. You are the life I chose with or without. That’s forever Anna.”

I close my eyes for a second, letting his words reach the part of me that has been bracing for the worst since I saw the positive test.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to protect me from how you feel," I whisper. "You can be scared. You can be upset. You can tell me if you need time to process this."

"I'm not going anywhere." His forehead rests against mine. "We follow the specialist's guidance. We take this one step at a time. We ask questions when we have them, and we deal with what comes when it comes."

"What if it doesn't work?"

His eyes close briefly. When he opens them, the fear is still there. So is his certainty about us.

"Then we'll face that too. But I can promise you that you won't face it alone."

I lean into him, pressing my face against his chest. His arms close around me, and I feel his heart beating hard beneath my cheek. He's frightened. I can feel it in the way he holds me, in the way his hand moves over my back as if he's trying to comfort both of us.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

The loss is still waiting for him outside this alcove. The questions about the pregnancy are still waiting for me. Nothing about our future has become certain simply because I've finally told him the truth.

But his arms remain around me, and when I lift my head, he kisses my forehead and keeps his hand against my cheek.

"We'll figure out the next step together," he says.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

For now, that's enough. Not a promise that everything will be all right. Not an answer to every fear I've carried here.

Just Rez, holding me close, and the knowledge that I don't have to pretend I'm not afraid.

EPILOGUE

Rez

She's loud.

Of course she's loud. My daughter has been in the world for only a few hours, and already she's making sure everyone knows she’s here. Her tiny face scrunches, her mouth opens, and a furious little cry fills the room. I look down at her, at the shock of dark hair on her head, the impossibly small fingers curled against the blanket, and I can't stop smiling.

"She's got lungs," I murmur.

Anna laughs from the bed, exhausted and pale and more beautiful than anyone has a right to be after what she's been through.

"Wonder where she got that from."

I look at her. "Not me."

Her laugh turns into a wince, and I'm beside her before I can think, one hand reaching for hers while the other supports our daughter. Anna rolls her eyes at me, but her fingers close around mine.

"I'm fine, Rez."

I know that tone. I've heard it through appointments and examinations, through days when she wanted to get out of bed and nights when she was too frightened to sleep. I've learned that fine can mean a dozen different things, and I've learned to ask what she needs instead of deciding for her.

So, I kiss her forehead and settle back into the chair beside her bed, our daughter tucked against my chest.

Margarethe Annaleise.