Chapter 3

We worked through the campaign during the day, our arguments turning into inside jokes, our meetings stretching past office hours. At night, we texted until one of us fell asleep. Sarah sent me photos of her sketches; I sent her screenshots of spreadsheets with stupid captions. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

Then she told me she was pregnant.

We were at the café, our usual table by the window. She set down her caramel oat milk latte and looked at me with wide, scared eyes.

"Joe, I need to tell you something."

The way she said it made my stomach drop. "What?"

"I'm pregnant." Her voice trembled. "I found out yesterday. I didn't know how to say it."

I stared at her. The words didn't make sense at first. We'd been careful. We'd only been together for a few weeks. But the look on her face told me it was real.

"Are you..." I swallowed. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know." She pressed her hand to her stomach. "I'm scared, Joe. I'm really scared."

I reached across the table and took her hand. "We'll figure this out. Together."

She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. I wiped them away with my thumb, smudging the paint that was always there. Green again. She'd been painting a lot lately, she said. It helped her think.

We spent the next two weeks in a haze of doctor's appointments and whispered conversations. Sarah was terrified. I pretended to be strong, but at night I lay awake staring at the ceiling, imagining a future I hadn't planned for. A baby. Our baby.

It was terrifying. It was also the most hopeful I'd ever felt.

Then the bleeding started.

Sarah called me from the bathroom at work, her voice breaking. "Joe, something's wrong. There's blood. Lots of blood."

I ran. I don't remember the drive to the hospital. I just remember her face when I found her in the emergency room, pale and shaking, her hands clutching her stomach like she could hold the life inside her.

"It's going to be okay," I said, even though I didn't believe it.

She looked at me with hollow eyes. "Don't lie to me, Joe. Not now."

I sat beside her and held her hand while the doctors did their tests, while the machines beeped, while the world narrowed to the sound of her breathing. Mark showed up at some point. He brought coffee that neither of us touched. He sat in the corner, quiet, his usual smile gone.

Hours later, the doctor came in. She was young, with kind eyes and a voice that tried too hard to be gentle.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "There's no heartbeat. The pregnancy has ended."

The words didn't land at first. They hung in the air, abstract, like a line from a movie. Then Sarah let out a sound I'd never heard before—a raw, animal cry that tore through the room.

I pulled her into my arms. She buried her face in my chest and sobbed. Her body shook with each breath. I held her tighter, but there was nothing I could do. No argument to win, no problem to solve. Just this.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

We stayed like that until she went still. The nurse came in with paperwork. Mark drove us home because I couldn't see straight. The apartment was dark when we walked in. Sarah went straight to the bedroom and curled up on the bed, facing the wall.

I stood in the doorway, watching her. The paint smudge on her cheek was gone. She'd washed it off at the hospital. She looked smaller without it. Younger. Broken.

"Do you want me to stay?" I asked.

"Yes." Her voice was muffled. "But don't talk."

I kicked off my shoes and lay down beside her. I didn't touch her. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe. After a while, her breathing evened out. She was asleep. Or pretending to be.

I didn't sleep. I lay there and thought about the baby we'd never meet, the future we'd already started building, the way Sarah had smiled when she told me she was pregnant. That smile. I'd never forget that smile.

Around 3 a.m., she turned over. Her eyes were red and swollen.

"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't do this."

"Do what?"

"Any of it. The campaign. The future. Being strong." Her voice cracked. "I feel like I'm dying."

I pulled her close. She didn't resist. She pressed her face into my chest and cried again, softer this time, like she was running out of tears.

"You don't have to be strong," I said. "You just have to be here. With me."

"What if I can't?"

"Then I'll be here for both of us."

She looked up at me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face blotchy, her hair a mess. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"I love you," she whispered.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. We hadn't said it yet. We'd been dancing around it, saving it for the right moment. But there was no right moment. There was only this.

"I love you too," I said. "And we're going to get through this. Together."

She nodded, her hand finding mine under the covers. We lay there as the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, holding each other, grieving together.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I ignored it. It buzzed again. Sarah shifted, and I reached for it.

Mark: "How are you holding up?"

I typed back: "We're broken. But we're together."

His reply came a moment later: "That's all that matters right now. I'm here if you need anything."

I put the phone down and wrapped my arm around Sarah. She was asleep again, her breathing slow and steady. I pressed a kiss to the top of her head and closed my eyes.

The campaign deadline was in two weeks. I didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the woman in my arms, and the long road ahead of us.

Tomorrow, we'd start walking it together.