Free A Missing Heart by Shari J. Ryan

and I kind of hope he continues to do so because I’m not in the mood for this to escalate. “I’ll talk to you later.” Thankfully, Hunter ends the conversation and gives me a brotherly, knowing nod before heading out.
    Tori and I slide into the car, which reeks of hair product and nail polish. Almost the moment the doors close, I feel constricted, like I can’t breathe. “You said you can’t do this,” I remind her. “Were you trying to tell me something?” Or is it just the whole…acting like a normal human being thing you can't do? I’ll keep my last thought to myself.
    “I was trying to tell you that I don’t have the maternal instinct you want me to have or expect me to have. I don’t have the connections or feelings I should have for Gavin, and every day I wake up and hope those feelings have found me, but it continuously kills me to know they haven’t. I don’t know what is wrong with me or what’s missing, keeping me from loving him the way you do, but it makes me feel like a monster, AJ.”
    Her statement is so clear and concise, it’s like a bullet to my chest. The words could tear the child’s heart out if he were old enough to understand, which I’m utterly thankful he’s not. While this truth is all I’ve wanted to hear since Gavin was born, it’s exactly what I’ve feared knowing. I read about this, though. This was in all the postpartum depression pamphlets I read. She could be helped if she’d open up to it.
    “T, look, I know we’ve talked about this before and you shooed me off but I think you’re suffering with postpartum depression, babe. It’s honestly nothing to be ashamed of. I read it happens to a ton of new mothers. The docs can help you.”
    Tori huffs loudly, as if she’s annoyed with my accusation, the same way she was annoyed the last time I brought it up. She pulls the visor down in front of her face and lifts the cover off the mirror to reapply a thin coat of lip gloss. “I’ve been seeing a therapist twice a week, AJ.”
    “You have?” Why hasn’t she mentioned this to me? What is there to be ashamed about? I don’t get it.
    “I don’t have postpartum.”
    “Is your therapist an actual therapist?” I ask snidely, under my breath. At some point in the past three hours, we’ve gone from the couple who has never had an argument—thanks to my ability to sweep everything under the rug—to the couple who will probably never be civil again. At least that’s what the wrath of anger is making me feel right this second.
    “Don’t be an ass,” she says, slamming her visor closed. “I have a valid reason for feeling the way I do.”
    “Let me guess…that’s what your therapist said?” I’m going too far. I can’t help it. I’ll regret this, or maybe I won’t .
    “You know,” she squeaks. “Everything was so perfect between us when we agreed to keep things simple. You didn’t have to know every little thing about the way my mind works, and I didn’t have to spend time digging through your damn cobwebs to figure out that you have an empty brain.” And now we’ve switched over into child mode. I’m not biting the bait on this one.
    Well, maybe one little bite. “And if you remembered to take your birth control pill every night…”
    She reaches for the handle on the door while I’m driving her stupid little Audi. “Let me out,” she demands.
    “We’re on a highway right now. Don’t be such a drama queen,” I say, through laughter. My laughter is out of rage, not humility, but it’s the only reaction I can come up with right now.
    “Pull over or I will open the door,” she growls.
    “Our son is in the back seat, for God’s sake. Have a little pride in yourself.” If I were thinking clearly, I’d be cautious about what was coming out of my mouth, but like every other thing that has come out of Tori’s mouth in the past few months, this is yet another completely shocking move on her behalf. This girl was the calmest chick with the