As the kiss continues, my need for her rises to desperate heights. I lift her onto the desk, moving my mouth to drag down her neck. She is panting for breath. Then I am reaching for the hem of her shirt, shoving my hands up toward her stomach. Instead of finding smooth skin, it was rough. It is a scar. I vaguely remember seeing it at the ultrasound, but I was too distracted by our baby’s heartbeat to remember to ask her about it.

I pull away and look down at Brooke. Her eyes are dilated filled with lust and anger. It seems to take her a minute to realize I was stopping. My hand is still on her stomach as her eyes focused behind those sexy spectacles she wears. Neither of us moves, just stayed there, panting for breath.

After a minute, I move my hand upward, dragging her shirt with it, revealing her stomach inch by inch. It is slightly curved from the baby, and I feel a sense of pride. But it is quickly overshadowed by the large scar running diagonally across her stomach.

I reach out with my other hand to trace it. It is about two fingers wide and straight. Very straight. As if it was done intentionally, almost surgical.

Brooke’s hand covers mine, pulling it away from her stomach. She tugs her shirt down and moves to stand up. I take a step back, giving her some space. “Where did you get that?”

She shrugs. “I fell.”

“It’s very straight, Brooke. You didn’t get that from a fall.”

“What’s it to you, anyway? It’s not like you actually care.”

“I care.”

She scoffs. She moves to the left, trying to get around me, but I grab her wrist. “Who did that to you, Brooke?”

“Let go of me.” She tugs at her wrist. When I don’t let go, she tugs harder. When she goes to tug again, I let go of her wrist but underestimate the timing and force of her tug. She stumbles backward, her glasses falling to the ground.

Panic filled her features almost instantly, and she dives down to her knees looking for them. Her breathing picks up as she blindly scrambles around. Her leg pushes back when she leans forward, and she knocks a glass figurine from the bookshelf behind her. Her whole body flinches, and she throws her hands up to cover her head at the sound of the shattering. I lung forward.

“Brooke.”

“I’m s-s-so sorry. I’ll clean it up.” She reaches out and places her hand right into the glass shards.

“Careful, Brooke. Your hand.” It is in that moment I realize she really could not see. I did not know how badly she needs her glasses before.

“My glasses. My glasses.”

“They’re right here, Brooke. Just be still.”

I kneel next to her and pick up the glasses from the mess of shattered glass. The lenses have spider cracks running through them.

“They’re broken,” I say softly.