Love Turns
With Twisted
Fates
CALEIGH HERNANDEZ
DEDICATION
To my daughters
So much
So much
So much
So much
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue: My Dearest Izzy
Chapter One: We’ve Only Just Begun
Chapter Two: Waiting for the Sun
Chapter Three: Discipline
Chapter Four: I Like It, I Love It
Chapter Five: The Way You Make Me Feel
Chapter Six: Strong Enough
Chapter Seven: Wind Beneath My Wings
Chapter Eight: All Star
Chapter Nine: The Boy Is Mine
Chapter Ten: Witchy Woman
Chapter Eleven: Bad Moon Rising
Chapter Twelve: Friends Forever
Chapter Thirteen: I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing
Chapter Fourteen: Not What It Seems
Chapter Fifteen: Chick Habit
Chapter Sixteen: There’s Hope for the Hopeless
Chapter Seventeen: My First, My Last, My Everything
Chapter Eighteen: I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry
Chapter Nineteen: Mad World
Chapter Twenty: Sounds of Silence
Chapter Twenty-One: Tears in Heaven
Chapter Twenty-Two: Thief of Hearts
Chapter Twenty-Three: Don’t Speak
Chapter Twenty-Four: Mr. Brightside
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue:
My Dearest Izzy
New Year’s Eve 2006
I collect moments like these, moments that rip my soul out. At least, it feels that way.
I am compelled to witness the earth shattering whether good or bad.
This is bad.
I've read about pain like this in books, heard it in countless songs. My heart clenches, wrapped in the clutches of this moment, reducing anything and everything to what he says next. The idea that this moment could be my ending stills my breath.
This can't be my reality.
When we committed to death do us part, I certainly didn't expect for things to go like this. The walls are closing in. We are the Beauty and the Saint…People would tell us, “They write stories about love like yours.” Really? This doesn't seem very love story worthy. It’s hell. Yup, that's what this is. Hell.
What the fuck happened?
I can't help it; our time together runs as a montage through my mind.
Oh my god, it hurts.
The looping reel of memories is a gut punch, an excruciating reminder that after all we've been through those moments may have to last me a lifetime. Gaining control of myself mid-gag, I fight the urge to expel what I haven't eaten.
Help me. It’s a silent plea.
I thought we could survive anything.
Fuuuck. We had.
But then again, nothing could have prepared us for this. A piece of us lost forever. We’re both so broken. Lost in the reality that single twist of fate stuck us in. The music diminuendo, our song descending into the darkness where absence of light and sound is commonplace, the norm. The walls continuing to close in as song and sound fade.
He sucks in a breath, a momentary break in the impending silence and then nothing.
In an instant, my world was void. In the next, the silence deafening. His loss for words speaking volumes, screeching the noiseless answers to my painful inquiries.
“I’m so sorry, Izzy,” the pain and regret hanging from his words.
Those four words the confession I was desperately hoping didn’t exist. The bottom of my world dropped out and the air filled with an ear-splitting cry. The resonating pain in surround sound.
Left with the echo of the pain-filled howl, the soreness in my throat shakes me back to the present, the here and now. Those were my cries. That’s my pain playing a dreadful chord on repeat.
My face in the crook between my knees, hands over my ears failing miserably to quiet the silent screams waging war on my sanity.
Time silences the cries in my head replacing the raging pain with the inexplicable and irrational feeling of falling. I plaster myself cheek to floor in an effort to ground my unstable mind and body. The cool hardwood of our office has a temporary calming effect.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but my rapid sobs slow to painful hiccups.
Of course, every part of this is gonna hurt. Why should breathing be mutually exclusive?
Through the crack between the door and the floor, I can see that night has taken over the light. Numb to the pain, I peel myself from the floor. The sight that greets me in the mirror could be the public service poster for heartache and heartbreak, hair a tangled mess of short waves, face swollen from harsh tear-clearing swipes, and eyes battered from the incessant crying. Splashing cool water does nothing for me. Even the temporary sense of feeling refreshed this act normally brings is absent.
Resolved to my state of muss and disarray, I reluctantly drag myself one heavy foot in front of the other to our bedroom.
Our. That hurts. Is it my?
I shake and shiver attempting to exorcise the thoughts from my head.
I can’t go there again…so soon.
There’s a glow coming from Diego’s side of the bed. The small light draws my attention to his bedside table; it casts an eerie hue over the folded piece of paper with my name scratched on it. The sight falters all movement.
When is a letter in a dimly lit, empty, room ever a bearer of good news?
My curiosity gets the better of me. My legs are moving towards the truths the note contains before my heart is on board with the decision. There’s a disconnect between head and heart. With deliberate steps, I make it to the note; my heart keeping my hands from picking it up.
Unable to resist any longer, there’s a frantic hesitation to the way I unfold the paper; both hurried and purposely slow at the same time.
My Dearest Izzy…
Chapter One:
We’ve Only Just Begun
August 2006
My eyes are closed.
My eyelids feel like weighted blankets. It sounds like a subway train rushing through my head. The noise brings flickers of passing lights like from an express train speeding through the station not on the list of scheduled stops. The flickering lights become a blinding spotlight. I can’t resist the instinct to squeeze my already closed eyes tighter.
The sound of the train dissipates as I make out voices off in the distance. The voices are becoming more familiar, their tones fill me with involuntary panic when I can’t open my eyes. The broken link between mind and body is a frustrating realization.
What the fuck happened?
“Izzy, Izzy,” it’s Diego, I can hear the desperation in the pleas with each repetition of my name. “Grace,” he begs, “what’s wrong with my Izzy?” I can feel the squeeze—I can feel! I try to move my hand and fail. I can’t tell if it’s the breakdown in communication between mind and body or that my tiny hand is clutched in the grasps of my panicked husband. “Izzy—I think she moved!”
“Give her some air, dear,” I register Mrs. Pettinger’s voice. That’s right. We were walking her out. Our house.
With a gasp, I’m brought back to the land of the conscious. My eyes flash open, I’m thankful for the dim light being cast by the evening’s setting sun. Squinting, it’s a slow process to bring into focus the frightened faces of my husband and Mrs. Pettinger.
“What happened?” my voi
ce comes out a hoarse whisper. My head is pounding. Diego relaxes his grip on me and I attempt to shift. “Whoa,” I exaggerate. The room instantly moving on a pivot, I shut my eyes to wade out the tidal wave that the small movement set me on.
Confident that the room would no longer feel like I’m on a slow motion whirlpool, I open my eyes another time. This time when I focus on Diego’s face, he’s several shades lighter and beside himself with what I presume is worry. A barely perceptible amount of relief washes over his face just as I register the sirens of the approaching emergency services.
“Don’t move, Izzy,” he pleads. “They’re almost here.” The pain in his voice breaks my heart. It’s a mixture of desperation and confusion. His frustration is like a vice around my chest. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking he’s useless. While I might be the one with control issues, Diego hates feeling out of control where my aches, pains, and health are concerned.
I wish I could comfort him, but I’m beginning to freak out myself. I’ve only passed out like that once before. I had just donated a pint of blood at a local school’s blood drive. I don’t see how there would be any similarities.
Panic beginning to set in, I start to take stock of my body; giving myself a mental physical and searching for possible areas of pain, I’m desperate to discover the cause of my body shutting down. Diego shifts under me and slightly away, I’m looking for what would make him move away from me.
My eyes land on the emergency medical technician just at the opposite side of Diego. He’s wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my bicep. My focus switches to the other technician asking questions to Mrs. Pettinger and Diego.
Diego’s gaze is intently focused on the cuff around my arm. He’s oblivious to anyone else in the room. I will him to look at me. His continuously cracking facade is unsettling. It stirs up images that I can’t even put words to in my head. I need his rational way of thinking to chase away thoughts of nevermores and happily never afters.
A sob escapes from my closed lips and Diego’s eyes are instantly on me. He’s trying so hard to put on a brave face for me, but he’s losing the battle in his brow.
They want to put me on the gurney. I can feel Diego’s reluctance to let me go. My breaths have quickened and shallowed. I’m gasping for air. He’s too far away. I frantically flail my hand around searching for Diego.
I search the faces around me for his. When I find him, he’s back and above my shoulder. I reach my hand up and in his direction. He takes it and our gazes connect. My eyes plead with him to tell me I’m going to be okay and then to make it true. The tears are a steady stream of panic and worry. This is as controlled as this will get.
We’re moving out the front door. Once beyond the stairs, the wheels on the gurney are down and they’re rolling me the rest of the way to the ambulance. Diego is matching their pace step for step, making sure to keep a hold of my head and my attention.
“She’s being taken to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital—”
“I’m going with her. I’m her husband. She’s my wife,” Diego’s voice is all kinds of firm with a hint of desperation.
“Yes, sir, but if you wanted to let Mrs. Pettinger know,” he points in her direction. I can’t see her from my position in the ambulance, but I’m worried with the suddenly sad look on Diego’s face.
Unable, unwilling or both, Diego fails to remove himself from my weak hold on his hand. He calls out to Mrs. Pettinger from his place on the bench beside me, “Grace, they’re taking her to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.”
That’s right. Grace.
The doors are closed on the ambulance. Diego is stoic, his face is less grief stricken and more pensive. This time when the emergency medical technician begins to ask him questions, he’s able to focus on the younger man’s inquiries.
When we arrive at the hospital, there is a team of doctors and nurses. They’re rattling off questions for the technician. He’s answering back just as hurriedly. Their exchange is a rapid fire of medical terms and measurements. The rather foreign language sparks the panic waiting on the fringes of my mind to pull me under. Diego’s reassuring squeeze of my hand abates the impending labored breath and accelerated heart rate.
The team of nurses and technicians situate me in a room and all but one leaves when the tasks are done. I’m still mesmerized by the flurry of activity from when we arrived. I think the nurse is explaining some tests they’ll be doing, something about the results taking a couple of hours.
“Mrs. Santo, do you think you could answer a few questions for me?” the remaining nurse asks.
“I can certainly try. The nausea and dizziness are gone. Is it possible to get some water?” I all but beg. My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert.
“Why, of course,” she replies cordially and shuffles out of the room.
Ha ha! Why is it nurses seem to shuffle?
She’s back faster than I’d think possible with a little plastic pitcher filled with crushed ice and water and a foam cup with a bendy straw in it. She fills the cup just past halfway and hands it to me.
The first sip is a balm of ice water to my chapped mouth. I slurp the last drop before Nurse—I scan her uniform for her badge— Kitty is finished sorting the monitoring devices on me. My cup is being pulled from my hand as Diego refills it for me, his quick attentiveness indicative of his need to feel useful—or more specifically, not useless.
“Okay, Mrs. Santo—” Nurse Kitty starts and stops.
“Please call me Izzy.”
“Okay, Izzy, how much do you weigh?” We continue through a series of questions and answers about what could have caused the black out. “When was your last menstrual cycle?”
Initially, her question is of no consequence, but as I sit here and contemplate the answer to her question, I can feel my pulse begin to race with the possibility.
“Could I be pregnant?” I squeak out.
I feel Diego’s eyes on me before I see them. The panic that once occupied his face is replaced with hope. Where he was rigid and stiff as a board, the man looks giddy, practically ready to jump out of his skin.
“Well, I suppose it’s a possibility. Do you know when your last menstrual cycle was?”
“It was about four weeks ago,” I say slightly hopeful, slightly terrified.
“Would you say you were fairly regular? Do you know your cycle length?”
“Yes, I am. About thirty-two days is my cycle.”
“We’ll do a blood test.”
I can’t avoid the panic that grabs hold of my heart. “If I’m pregnant, does that mean there’s something wrong with the baby?” I finish the question before I realize I’ve asked it out loud.
The hope that was just highlighting Diego’s face is now masked in fear. I hate that I’m the reason that mask is there. Unable to bear the guilt I feel for putting the sullen back in his face, I shut my eyes expelling the pools of tears building with my panic. The sob that breaks free is a muffled gasp. I know it doesn’t go unnoticed by Diego; he’s swiping the stream trailing down my cheek with a finger. “Now, Izzy don’t you work yourself up. We’ll get you sorted out and you’ll be as right as rain.”
Nurse Kitty’s words of comfort fail to do what they were meant to do. I’m still a ball of nerves so tightly bound that even with the slightest bit of bad news and I will lose my shit. There’s no way to avoid it. With each passing second in the proverbial dark, I feel my grip on reality slipping.
Diego and Kitty have continued the discussion, but their conversation is more a string of muffled noises rather than words to me. I can feel the darkness of worry pulling me into the abyss of what-ifs and worst case scenarios.
“Okay, that’s it my dear,” declares Nurse Kitty. So lost in the unknown, I didn’t even realize she’d drawn my blood to run the necessary tests. “Rest and leave the worrying for when there’s something to worry about.” She pats my arm, giving me a knowing look.
It’s hours later when a doctor returns with informatio
n my from the blood tests they ran. Mrs. Pettinger, Grace, is waiting in the waiting area. Even at Diego’s insistence, she refused to leave until she heard my prognosis.
“Mrs. Santo,” he says my name like Santa except with an ‘o’ at the end, “I’m Dr. Elliott Sledge. How are we feeling now?”
I shrug my answer, because physically I feel fine, but emotionally, mentally, I’m falling apart.
“Well, the good news is you’re not dying,” he deadpans. My eyes go big and my jaw drops. Diego squeezes my hand and I meet his eyes. Breathe, he mouths. “You’re just pregnant.”
What the what? Diego and I are now sporting matching expressions of stunned silence. Sensing that we’re in a bit of shock, Dr. Sledge continues. “Mrs. Santo—”
“Is the baby okay? Is it bad that I passed out?” before the doctor could really continue, I unload a series of questions laced with the concern of what happened and how it affects this new revelation.
“Mrs. Santo,” he says soothingly, “the baby would not be affected by you fainting. In fact, it is likely because of the baby that you fainted. Tell me, do you have a history of anemia?”
Nodding, I inform him that I did have a history with anemia, but that I haven’t had an issue in over fifteen years.
“Our preliminary tests show that your hemoglobin levels are low. This is normal in pregnancies, but you’ll need to see your regular doctor to determine the cause of your anemia,” he’s jotting something down on his pad. “In the meantime, grab yourself an iron supplement in addition to the necessary prenatal pills.” He continues with some ideas for foods that I could eat to help. The very mention of meat makes my stomach turn.
“If you’re feeling better,” Dr. Sledge breaks through my thoughts, “you’re free to leave. I’ll leave your release papers at the nurse’s station.”
“Are you sure, Dr. Sledge?” this time it’s Diego with the concern in his voice.
“Yes, Mr. Santo,” he assures my husband. “It is not uncommon for a pregnant woman to be anemic or faint as a result of the anemia.”
I can feel the relief the words give Diego as he relaxes his vice grip on my hand.
Love Turns With Twisted Fates (Truth About Love Book 2) Page 1