I hate to admit it, but I think she might have been right. Because as much as these past few days have hurt, I’m starting to feel lighter. More capable. Like I could take the next problem and deal with it instead of running away, like Charles said. Even if I desperately don’t want to.

“I had a miscarriage,” I blurt out.

Fuck, I need to get better at doing that. For a person who deals with words for a living, I sure don’t know how to talk. Yet this time was somehow easier. I’m getting used to saying it aloud. Maybe that’s part of the healing, too.

Trina’s eyes go wide, and her hand clutches mine on the table. “What? When?”

I clear my throat, determined not to be an awkward mess about the rest of this conversation. “Five years ago. In New York.”

Her entire expression shifts from shock to horror, and I’m suddenly wishing I could melt into myself again. But I take a deep breath and watch her carefully, readying myself to take on whatever emotion comes next.

“You were having a miscarriage when we handed you that deal.” She states it like a fact, then uses her free hand to cover her red-painted mouth. “Holy shit, Scarlett. No wonder. Why didn’t you say anything?”

I shrug. I don’t have an answer for that. Words escape me yet again.

Trina must realize I’m not going to respond because she drops her hand from her mouth to the table. She still hasn’t let go of mine with her other hand. “Ryan’s?”

I nod.

“Does he know?”

“I told him yesterday.”

“Well.” She laughs without an ounce of humor. “You’ve had quite a couple of days, then, haven’t you?”

The smile that breaks my lips open feels like a rainbow after the rain. I should have known a long time ago Trina wouldn’t blanch at this. She is as steadfast and supportive as they come. But I didn’t think I could trust anyone back then. I’m glad I can now.

“Second time in my life that’s been true.” It’s a dry joke, just like hers.

Trina nods thoughtfully, her warm hand still resting on top of mine. “Lots of parallels, I suppose.” When I blink at her in surprise, she winks. “I can be literary, too, you know.”

I laugh, then, and it sounds crackly, but it feels good. Swiping at my eyes, I realize I’ve been crying. When did I turn into such a weeper?

“So, what are you going to do about it this time?” she asks. And here we are, at the precipice of the question she probably called me here to ask. She knows I don’t want to do this again. Our terms were to never rush a release or have another press tour like that.