Chapter 52: Grief Wears My Name Twice. Part 2.

The chairs were arranged in a circle—too close for comfort, too open to feel safe. Renee picked the second seat from the door, planning to disappear without making a sound. Her coat was wrapped around her body tightly, her head lowered, dark hair hiding most of her face. She had decided to come early, claimed her a place in silence, and never looked up. Around her, voices stirred the quiet. Names were exchanged. Stories cracked open like fresh wounds—tender and bruised. Renee sat still, arms crossed over her, listening with her head low as pain swelled and danced around the circle. That's when she heard it. A man’s voice—familiar. Shaky at first, like grief sticking to every word. “It was a call I wasn’t ready for,” he said. “The woman I loved... she was in the hospital. High-risk pregnancy. She got released on bed rest, and I thought we were in the clear.” Renee’s heart froze. The voice was... Too familiar. “I was downstairs,” he continued, voice a bit rougher now. “She was finally resting. Jake and I—our partner—were in the kitchen talking when we heard the fall... We ran upstairs. There was blood. So much fucking blood. We thought she died. We thought the baby did too, well technically they did I guess.. We got her back on the way to the hospital… but the baby never made it...” Hearing Jake’s name hit hard like a slap from Leo.

Renee’s eyes shot straight up, her breath catching in her throat. The voice belonged to Mike. He hadn’t seen her and she had not seen him. He’d come in late, chosen a seat across from her, not even aware she was there. Her hair was longer now, her face partially hidden by the shadows and the collar of her coat. He spoke like she wasn’t there. Like she was the ghost in his story. And for a moment, that’s exactly how she felt. When the group leader asked if anyone wanted to respond, Renee said nothing. She couldn’t. She didn't know how. Not yet. Mike lowered his head when he finished, grief still glued to his body. She watched him silently, the pain in her chest now trippled. Because the man she hadn’t spoken to in months had just told the story of their shared loss—and neither of them had known the other would be here, how could they. And now that they did? Neither of them knew what to say. The stories around her blurred into white noise, but Renee could no longer sit still. Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor. Mike’s voice faltered.

“Renee?”

But she didn’t hear him. She walked fast, then faster, then ran, bursting through the doors of the grief group into the cool, unforgiving air. The moment it hit her skin, the sob escaped her throat—a sound that hadn’t seen the light of day since that night. Tears poured freely now, hot and wild. She stumbled into the grass near the parking lot, falling against the wall as her body convulsed with sobs. Her hands clutched the building like it might anchor her pain. But nothing did. Nothing could. Footsteps pounded behind her. A voice she hadn’t allowed herself miss. “Renee—” Mike stopped right beside her just as she nearly collapsed forward, barely catching her in his arms. His hands hovered, unsure if he was even allowed to hold her. “I didn’t know,” he breathed, chest pounding. “If I’d seen you in there—I swear, I would’ve left. I know you don’t want to see me. I—” Before he could finish, Renee turned, holding his face in both hands, and kissed him, gently. It was desperate. Messy. Full of everything she hadn’t said for months. And then just as quickly, she pulled away, breath still ragged from crying. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, trembling as she backed away, guilt flooding her eyes.

Mike didn’t move. Neither did she. They just looked at each other—broken and still deeply connected by something that Renee still couldn't say. Not yet. Not right now. But the kiss said what words couldn’t: grief still tied them together… even when they didn’t know what to do. Renee was the first to break the silence, her voice raw and uneven. “You don’t need to apologize,” she said quietly, still not looking at him. “None of this was your fault, it is your story to Mike.”
Mike didn’t speak. His eyes stayed locked on hers, waiting. She swallowed. “But you left. And I needed you. At first you were there then.. You weren’t there when I was ready to face the truth, and everything hit me at once. It wasn’t just that miscarriage, Mike.” Her voice trembled. “Losing that baby made me remember the first one—the one no one knew about but me and Leo. Two different men. Two entirely different reasons. Same gut wrenching pain....”

She stopped when she saw the shift in his expression. His eyes darkened—not with anger, but something, sadder. Like the weight of her words hit a place he hadn’t known was a place needed guarding. Renee blinked, pulling back emotionally. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— I wanted...” she stopped fumbling for the words. “Do you… want to get coffee?” she asked instead, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. Mike didn’t answer right away. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’d love that.” They walked slowly, standing at an uncomfortable distance, one they were not familiar with. The walk was quiet but not cold. A nearby coffee shop welcomed them with the warm scent of espresso, pastries and distant chatter. As they stepped inside, the air between them felt lighter… And yet one question lingered between every glance: Will they ever be the same again? They relaxed into a quiet corner booth, the sound of the café fading as they finally faced the conversation they’d both avoided for months. Mike reached across the table, his hand resting lightly near hers but not fully touching. Renee didn’t pull away. Instead, she took a shaky breath, and began to speak.

“I’ve held so much inside,” she confessed. “The miscarriage with Leo… the one with you. Different, but the same heartbreak. I thought I could carry it alone. I wasn’t ready to let anyone in—not even you.” Mike’s eyes softened. “I was scared, Renee. Scared I’d make it worse somehow. That I’d lose you too.” They talked for what felt like hours, the heaviness of grief transforming into a shared understanding. With every word, a quiet peace settled between them, familiar and bittersweet. The weight of silence lifted, replaced by something fragile but real. Renee glanced up, catching Mike’s gaze. The distance that had grown between them began to shrink, their hands finally finding each other across the table. It was tentative, a whisper of what once was—but it was enough.

Before she could stop herself, a mischievous smile curved Mike’s lips. “Want to get out of here?” he murmured. Her heart skipped. Without thinking, she nodded. Together, they slipped from the booth, eyes locked, silent words were spoken. Sneaking off to the bathroom, laughter bubbled between them, relief and desire mingling in the quiet space. Grief had brought them back—not as they were, but as who they could be. And for the first time in a long time, hope felt possible again. Grief fades—passion ignites in whispered, stolen bathroom moments.