If that’s the case . . . we’re failing. Things can’t be much worse for us right now, and he’s withdrawing. “He won’t talk to me.”

“Then you make him talk.”

I’ve been putting off the talk about where we, as a couple, go from here. Part of me is afraid of what words will be spoken. If he doesn’t return my love, can I withstand another devastation? I don’t think I can. Between the healing my body is doing, the hormones that are wreaking havoc on my system, and Wyatt’s mood . . . I can’t.

I would rather suffer in silence than be deafened by the truth.

I WAKE WITH A GASP. Sweat trickles down my skin, my breathing is accelerated, and my heart is pounding. I hate this dream. I look over to the other side of the bed, and once again, Wyatt’s side is empty. It’s the fifth night in a row I’ve had this terrifying dream. The car tumbling, the pain of hitting my head, the haunting sound of the monitors beeping, listening to them telling me I’ve lost my baby. Then, I find that my nightmare is my reality.

My feet hit the cold floor, and I go in search of Wyatt. He’s lying on the couch with the television on.

I stand here for a few minutes, but he doesn’t notice my presence. He doesn’t look like the same man from only a few short weeks ago. Wyatt was always smiling, full of joy and warmth. Now he’s cold and distant, not in a way that was even before the accident though. He was still him, just with something on his mind.

This is a man drowning in grief. I have to pull him out.

I know this. I have to find a way to get him to meet me halfway so we can get past this awful phase. I’ve been here before. I know what it looks like and where it can lead. I won’t let the man I love get lost in the abyss.

I pull my sweater around myself a little tighter and brace for a conversation we need to have.

I can’t live like this anymore. I need my Wyatt back.

“Hey,” I rasp. My throat still dry from sleep.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, sitting straight up.

I shake my head. “No. I had another dream.”

He doesn’t say anything as he presses his lips together. I move around the side of the couch, wanting to sit with him. We haven’t really spoken at all the last four days. He’s been at the ranch or his brother’s houses. When he gets home, he’s not really here. I’m lonely and sad.

“The accident?” Wyatt guesses.

“Yeah.” I curl up on the opposite end of the couch with what feels like an ocean between us. Three weeks ago, I would’ve practically been in his lap. “I woke up looking for you, but you were gone again.”

Wyatt leans his head back against the couch. “I started watching this movie. I didn’t even realize how late it was,” he explains.

When I look at the screen, there’s no movie playing. It’s an infomercial about skincare.

“Have you slept at all? It’s been a few nights of this.”

The dark circles under his eyes tell me he hasn’t. “I can’t.”

I shift closer, hoping maybe my touch will thaw him a little, but he moves farther away. “You can talk to me, Wyatt.”

“I’m fine.”

Right.

“It might help?” I continue to urge. “We both lost, Faith. We’re both in this together. It might help you to talk to me.”

When I say her name, his eyes cut to me. The look he gives tells me we’re still in the anger stage.

Awesome.

I start putting my steel walls up. I know this is going to be ugly, but I can’t let it continue on like this. He’s not the only one living in this purgatory of sorrow. I cry every day—mostly in the shower so he won’t hear me if he’s home. I wake up every morning with my hand on my belly. I’m hurting too, but I’ve been here before, and it’s not a place I want to visit again. We have to move forward in some way or another.

He lets out a short breath through his nose. “What do you want me to say? I’m not sleeping. It’s not like you should care anyway.”

Okay. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Why do you think?” His tone is clearly disturbed. “Go back to bed, Angie.”

Breathe, Angie. Do not play into this. It’s anger and part of the process. Remember that.

“No. We’re going to talk. I think you should tell me why you’re not sleeping. I can’t know what’s going on in your head when you won’t talk to me.”

His light brown eyes study my face. I won’t crack or back down. I need him to talk to me. If he doesn’t, this will never be resolved. So I hold strong. I glare right back at him, hoping to instigate an actual conversation.

“You wanna know?” he taunts.

“Yes.”

He laughs. “All right, darlin’. I’ll tell you why I can’t sleep. Because when I close my fucking eyes, I see you dying in front of me. I remember what it felt like to find out that our little girl died. Then, I see your face when I told you Faith was gone. I see every goddamn minute and every goddamn tear you’ve shed. I can’t be around you, because each time, it’s all there again. I don’t want to sleep, because it’s a horror movie that won’t stop playin’. Is that what you want to know? I can’t look at you, Angie!”

That hurts more than I care to admit. I know I’m supposed to be levelheaded, but I slip.

“So this is my fault?” I stand with my arms wrapped around my stomach. “I’m causing you this pain?” Tears rush forward as his words cut me deep.

He’s on his feet in a second. “No!” he bellows. “It’s my fault! I was driving that car. I didn’t get you out fast enough to save her. I didn’t see the deer. None of this is your fault! But God! I can’t look at you and not see it all! Don’t you see? Don’t you see this is killing me?”

I hold back every tear that wants to escape. He’s finally talking, and I’m going to keep him going as long as I can. I know he’s struggling with guilt. I can feel it in the air. I wont let him sink. I’m trying to cling to him, and he’s got his arm out so far I can’t touch him.

“It was an accident! A horrible, horrible accident! One that took so much from us!” I can’t stop the tears now. “It wasn’t your fault! It wasn’t anyone’s fault!” Wyatt starts to walk away, but I rush after him. “Don’t walk away, Wyatt. Don’t do this, don’t walk away from me.”

He stops moving at my pleas. “I need to get out of here.”

“No!” I yell. “No more hiding. This isn’t you! This isn’t the man I’ve spent the last three months with. It was an accident.”

He scoffs. “You can’t believe that. I see it in your eyes. I see how you look at me now.”

My hand covers my mouth. He’s nuts. “I don’t blame you! Not one time have I ever said losing Faith was your fault. Not once have I even thought it. It was a deer! A deer ran into our car on the cold, wet road. It wasn’t your fault!” I walk toward him, but he steps back. “You can’t even let me touch you.” The words aren’t an accusation, they’re the truth. “You haven’t hugged me, kissed me, slept next to me, or anything since the burial.”