Sam had woken up that Monday morning with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, like something wasn't quite right.
Around lunch time, it hit him that he thought that today was the anniversary of the miscarriage. Honestly, he should know. But he couldn't be one hundred per cent sure if it was today, or tomorrow. Maybe even the next day.
Sam wondered how Stacey felt. She must be crushed. He hadn't realized until now how close they'd been to the miscarriage date when they'd .... broken up.
Well, we didn't exactly break up. Sam was quick to edit his thoughts, even when no one could hear what he'd originally called it. We're ... taking time to be apart. There. That sounded better. Not as permanent as the words 'broken up' seemed to imply.
He thought of calling her, but what could he say. "Sorry about our baby... if it's today?" No way. He could call and pretend like everything was okay, but that would just be awkward.
He'd promised that they'd talk, and he still intended to keep that promise ... though they hadn't spoken yet. To be completely truthful, Sam still hadn't organized his thoughts well enough yet. He didn't know what he wanted. He was tempted to call someone for some advice - his mother, or Kristy, or someone, but he hadn't. He was a loser.
Sam settled himself on the couch in front of the tv where he'd sat so often next to Stacey, and tried not to concentrate on how empty the apartment felt around him. He stared at the tv, not paying attention to whatever mediocre sitcom was on, and instead tried to send messages to Stacey telepathically.