TheodoreI watched her. White, delicate, lying on the bed like a broken doll. Her cheeks were sunk, her lips chapped. She didn't resemble the Quinn I once knew--the Quinn who mouthed off, laughed too loud, or scowled at me when we were being testy.Now she was silent. And something inside me ached.“You have to eat,” I said again innocently, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. I wasn’t mad at her — I was mad at everything else. The world. The pain. The powerlessness I felt watching her.She looked up at me, turning her head. The sadness in her eyes was sharper than a razor.“Why should I eat?” she said, and her voice was timid, almost childlike.I stepped closer. “For the baby. For you.” I made my voice soft, tried to sound like the man she once believed in. But my words tasted wrong in my mouth.She shut her eyes, and opened them, with a pained expression. “Theo,” she said softly, “we’ve done everything together. You were always there. You used to look after me ... not loc
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