Andrew's palms were sweaty as he stood outside in the courtyard. He craved a cigarette to ease his nerves, though he'd long since abandoned the habit in favor of preserving his voice. He'd put off speaking to Molly for two days, dreading it.

You have to do it, he told himself. The longer you wait, the harder it will become. Its gonna suck hairy monkey balls either way. Just do it.

He took one last deep breath and turned to go inside. Molly was in her office working, taking notes from a text book and rummaging through research on her desk with her laptop open on the side. He wanted to freeze her like this, to have this moment last forever. It would be easier if he could. He steeled himself and knocked on the door softly.

She looked up in surprise, and for just a moment he thought he saw the old Molly. She disappeared just as quickly as she appeared, though.

"I'm going for a drive," he said. "Could you come with me?" he asked.

"I'm busy," she replied, turning back to her work.

"Please, Molly. Its important," he implored.

He expected her to put up a bigger fight than she did. "How long will it take?" she asked, pushing back from her desk.

"Not long," he replied.

His heart beat hard in his chest as they got into his SUV. They drove in silence for several minutes, the countryside slowly turning into Greystones and then Bray.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see," he answered, not trusting himself to say anything else.

Molly settled into her seat and stole glances at Andrew as he drove. He kept his eyes on the road, his fingers tapping out a rhythm in time with the Beatles song playing on the sound system.

He'd gone over exactly what he wanted to say in his mind and rehearsed it over and over. He didn't expect much pushback from her, given how little she'd been interacting with him lately. Still, he felt like he needed to say it just so they were both on the same page. The standoff needed to end and he was just trying to do it in the nicest way possible.

Molly looked around as Andrew parked in the lot near the beach. "The beach? Why did you bring me here?" she asked.

"Come on," he instructed, getting out and shutting the door after him.

Molly followed him down the sidewalk to the steps that led to the beach. He steadied her with a hand on her lower back as she walked ahead of him in the sand. When they'd walked twenty feet or so, he sat in the sand facing the waves. The sea air whipped through his hair and he tugged his hat down further on his head. The sand was cold under his jeans, but he didn't pay it much attention. She sat next to him with a sigh, resting her forearms on her knees as she looked out at the rolling ocean.

Just do it, he thought, twisting his tongue against his teeth.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked again.

He sighed. "I figured if things are going to end between us, it should be where it all began."

She recognized the beach now. He'd brought her here on the first day he'd shown her around Bray. They'd sat in the sun and talked. It was the first time she felt like someone saw her in a really long time. His words took a second to sink in.

If things were going to end, it should be where it all began.

He was ending things. Her heart sped up slightly.

"You're not happy here, Mol," he started, staring at the waves. "I can see that now. Even before the...even before, you weren't happy, not completely."

Molly looked away from him at the mention of the miscarriage. As long as she never heard about it, she never thought about it. If she didn't think about it, then it was easy to act like it never happened.

"You can stay as long as you like, I don't mind," he continued. "I'll pay for everything to get shipped back to L.A. I just...I can't keep doing this when you're so unhappy."

She nodded and surveyed the sand around them. It was mostly empty, save for an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand and a lone swimmer wading into the frigid water. A sudden urge to explain herself came over her and she inhaled sharply.

"I am so furious with you," she said, looking away from him. "I am so -," her breath hitched in her throat, surprising her. "You manipulated me, Andrew," she managed, her throat tight with tears.

"I know. I'm sorry," he replied. It was the most she'd spoken to him in weeks. "I'm so sorry."

Molly wiped at a lone tear that had begun its descent down her cheek. "I am so furious with you," she repeated. "I hated you."

He nodded, though she didn't see it. Several seconds passed between them as the waves crashed against the shore.

"I'm furious at myself," she added. "I never wanted the baby. I never wanted it, even after you convinced me. I shouldn't have agreed to keep it."

He put his hand on her knee and was surprised when she didn't flinch away.

"But I feel so guilty, Andrew," she sighed, wiping her face again and sniffling. The dam broke and everything came spilling out. "Its my fault. I didn't want it and its my fault it ended."

He tilted his head. "Honey, its not your fault," he said, moving closer to her. "It just happens."

Molly shook her head. "Its Roma. I didn't want it, so the spirits cursed it. They took it from us."

Andrew didn't put much stock in Roma superstition, but he knew how complicated it was for her. It made sense that she'd turn back to what she knew and was familiar with in a crisis.

"I'm so sorry," she said as a harsh wind blew. She tasted salt in the air and it mingled with the tears on her face. "I'm so sorry." She brought her knees to her chest.

He wavered between putting his arm around her and staying strong. They still wanted different things. She'd still betrayed him on a foundational level. She'd still hurt him by cutting him off for weeks. Jon was right: she was not the same person he'd fallen in love with that summer.

"I'm so angry with you for making me feel like this," she continued. "You made me care about it. And I'm in so much pain, Andrew. It hurts so fucking much. But you caused this. You convinced me and now I'm stuck dealing with the aftermath."

"I didn't cause this, Molly," he replied evenly. "I was more upset with you for hiding it from me than for wanting an abortion. You still could have gotten one after we talked."

"But you'd have ended things then if I did," she remarked. "Right?"

"I honestly don't know," he answered, chewing on his tongue. He'd been too gutted by her betrayal to consider any alternate options or reactions. Now, after seeing the ultrasound and hearing the heartbeat, he knew he wanted that in his life. "Molly, we want different things."

She looked at him and he winced at the tears running down her face. He felt his stomach roll and he ignored the cramping pain that was moving up his chest. He could not let a chemical reaction dictate what he did any longer.

"I want kids. Not right now, but someday," he continued. "And I cannot force my will on you. You've made it abundantly clear that kids aren't part of your plan. I can't even be angry with you about that; its your choice and trying to change your mind on it was out of line. I just..." he rubbed the back of his neck. "I just don't see how we can go forward from here."

Molly inhaled sharply. She'd been expecting him to get to this point sooner or later. She'd been pushing him away for weeks now and he was by far the most patient person she'd ever met. But now, in the face of it, she felt a panic rise up at the thought of losing him.

You've pushed too far this time. He's done, she thought.

"What if...what if we just...talked about it?" she asked tentatively. "What if we just talked about how to move forward?"

He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. "I'm not sure what good that would do, Mol. Its not just about me wanting kids and you not. You...lied by omission, Molly. You kept something major from me and then tried to deal with it without ever telling me. That's...that's a major breach in trust. I don't know if I can ever trust you again." He picked at his cuticles. "And these past few weeks...they've been hell. I understand you're hurting, but I've been hurting too. And I didn't have anyone to turn to. We're...we're supposed to have each other and you shut me out. For weeks. You're still shutting me out. Its just...I can't do it anymore. I love you, but I can't do it anymore. Not like this."

He forced himself to stare out at the ocean as his words sank in. His heart felt like it was clawing its way out of his chest and his entire body was aching. Still, Jon's words hung in his mind and he knew he was doing the best thing for himself. He needed boundaries and he needed to stop letting the idea of Molly determine how he reacted to the real Molly in front of him.

"Andrew, please," she said softly. "I need...I need help. I don't want to be like this anymore. Help me."

He sighed heavily and closed his eyes again, letting his head fall back. If only she knew what this was doing to him. If only she knew how badly it hurt for him to sit next to her and say these words. If only she knew how much pain he was in, restraining himself. When she cried, he was drawn to her like a shark to blood in the water.

Molly didn't realize how far she'd gone. This wasn't what she wanted. She didn't hate him anymore. "I'm sorry I pushed you away. I know you don't trust me. But - but I can earn it back. Or I can try."

Andrew bit his bottom lip and considered what she was saying. Any changes she made would need to be major and he didn't trust that she'd actually follow through.

Be fair. She did therapy with you before and you saw proof that she was changing, the logical side of his brain said. She did what she said she'd do. You can't blame her for having a breakdown after the miscarriage.

"Molly, I...I want to give you another chance, I really do. But I'm scared that you're just saying these things to get me to change my mind, not because you actually want to change," he replied.

She swallowed and nodded. "So let me prove it," she sniffed. "If I can't do it, then I can't. But give me a chance to try. Please."

"Can I think about it?" he asked cautiously.

He needed to buy himself time to think when she wasn't right next to him and his brain wasn't running rampant with her pheromones. He'd worked himself up to ending things, thinking she was indifferent. And now here she was, telling him she felt guilty and responsible for the miscarriage, which surely had to be fucking with her head. She was begging him to give her a second chance. Molly didn't beg for anything; she took what she wanted and didn't care what anyone thought. Begging meant she was genuine.

"Yeah, of course," she said. "I'll do anything, Andrew. I swear I will."

He didn't doubt her. He just wasn't sure it would be enough now. They sat in the sand for another few minutes in silence. Several seagulls flew overhead calling to each other.

Molly sighed. "I've been unfair to you, Andrew. I know I shouldn't have shut down. I just didn't know what to say. Or do."

He nodded. The wind whipped her hair across her face and he automatically brushed some back from her eyes, surprising both of them with his action. He stilled his hand when he remembered. The chill of the sand was starting to seep through his jeans.

"I need you to come back to therapy with me," he said as the idea hit him. "I need you to go on your own as well," he added.

"Okay," she replied.

"I need you to communicate with me and actively engage with me. I feel like I'm drowning here, Molly," he continued. "I know you're busy with school and your dissertation. But I feel like we're just roommates who never talk anymore. I need you to try harder."

It felt good to tell her exactly what he wanted. For a long time, he was worried that being that honest would make her shut down. But now he had nothing to lose. He'd already reached the point of accepting they were over. There was no point in holding anything back.

"I will," she said softly. Her voice was almost lost in the crash of waves.

"If I'm honest Molly, I don't really know if any of this will work," he admitted. "I feel like I've been more emotionally invested in this relationship than you have for so fucking long. I don't even know if this is still what I want." He chewed on his tongue.

His words cut into her and she looked away to hide more tears. It hurt to hear him say those words after so long of never having to doubt him. She always thought he would be okay with anything, stay faithful 'til the end. She had taken him for granted and now she was paying for it. After the miscarriage, she hated him with a passion, but then she'd been hormonal. By the time she realized how far it had gone, Andrew didn't seem interested in her anymore. Now it was too late.

You have to fix this. Do whatever it takes. Fix it, you idiot, she told herself, looking back at him.

He looked east to the sea and she could tell he was broken. He was exhausted and had dark circles under his eyes. He'd gotten fairly thin, like she had, and she wondered if he'd also been skipping meals as a way to punish himself as she did. She was destroying him and he was letting her do it because he loved her that much. She had to change or all of the sacrifices she made would have been for nothing.

Their first therapy session with Deirdre was two days later and Andrew was surprised to find Molly ready and waiting in the front room when he escorted the older woman inside.

"Molly, its good to see you again," Deirdre remarked, setting her mug of tea down and sitting in her usual armchair. "When Andrew told me you were joining us, I was pleasantly surprised. I was slightly worried when you disappeared after the miscarriage."

The bluntness of Deirdre's words stung and Molly blinked in surprise. Andrew sat on the other end of the sofa and rubbed his palms on his knees. "Y-yeah. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," the other woman said. "It might be shocking, but I'm not going to shy away from the miscarriage. It happened. It was traumatizing. Ignoring it and acting as though nothing happened is not going to help either one of you process it. I assume you're here because you want to discuss it and work through it."

Molly nodded but didn't speak.

"I understand this is a sensitive topic, Molly. But you're not here to have a chat, you're here for my help. Its not going to be pretty or comfortable, but if you're willing to try, I'm willing to help," Deirdre said. "That said, you have to participate. You have a lovely house Andrew, but there are better things I could be doing with my time than sitting here, all the same."

Andrew cleared his throat and jumped right in. "I...ehm...two days ago, I told Molly that I thought we should end things," he started.

Deirdre raised her eyebrows. "Why is that?"

He sighed and looked over at Molly. She could see the pain on his face. "Since the miscarriage, she shut down. She lashed out at me at first and now she's refused to talk to me. She's sleeping in another room. She looks at me like she hates me sometimes. I just...I can't take it anymore."

"How did that make you feel, Molly?" she asked.

Molly blinked back tears. "It felt horrible. I didn't realize I had pushed him that far."

"Were you trying to push him away?"

Molly swallowed. "I don't know. Maybe?"

Lies. You were trying to punish him by pushing him away, she thought. Be fucking honest.

"Yes, I was trying to push him away," she admitted. "I was trying to punish him."

Andrew inhaled sharply but didn't say anything.

"Why were you trying to punish him?" Deirdre asked, opening her notebook.

Molly looked at Andrew and swallowed thickly. "I was angry with him. Furious, even. I felt like it was his fault."

"What was?"

She sighed. "Everything."

He looked out the window, biting his lip.

"Can you elaborate?" Deirdre requested.

Just say it. Its hardly like you can make things any worse.

"I...didn't want the baby," Molly began. "I planned on getting an abortion -," she started.

"Without telling me," he interrupted, an edge in his voice.

"Andrew..." Deirdre warned. He sighed and crossed his arms. "Continue Molly."

"And he convinced me to keep it. So I did," she said. "But all I could think of the entire time I was pregnant was how much I didn't want the baby. I felt like I couldn't tell Andrew because I had already betrayed him once by planning the abortion and hiding the pregnancy. If I told him I changed my mind, he'd have probably left me. So I didn't say anything and just hoped my feelings would change as time passed."

"You were perfectly happy, talking about the baby on Valentine's Day when we went to dinner," Andrew said.

"My feelings did change, toward the...end," she replied. "I was starting to feel a little bit better about everything, like it was all actually possible."

"So what changed?" Deirdre asked.

Molly sniffed and dug her fingers into her palm. "I lost it," she replied quietly. "In Roma culture, there are superstitions about pregnancy loss. Most say that its the mother's fault for not wanting the baby enough or for not taking care of her spirit well enough. Or because she's got an impure spirit. I thought that it was my fault because I didn't want it."

"Did you do anything to deliberately cause yourself to miscarry?" Deirdre asked.

"No! I never even considered it after I decided not to have the abortion," Molly insisted.

"Then you didn't do anything wrong, Molly," Deirdre said gently. "Your baby just stopped developing. It happens. No one knows why. You can't blame yourself for it."

"I told her this," Andrew remarked. "She still treated me like it was my fault."

"Because it was!" Molly shouted in frustration. "It was your fault I actually thought this could work! You filled my head with all these ideas and when things went to shit, it hurt!" She swiped at her eyes and turned to face him. "Then I felt guilty for not wanting it and like I was a failure, Andrew! You made me feel like the baby was all that was important. And when the miscarriage happened, I literally felt like my heart was ripped from my chest. I didn't know what to do."

A sob escaped her lips and Andrew sighed.

"Molly, why do you think you lashed out so badly at him? We you aware you were doing it?" Deirdre asked.

"I wanted to hurt him as much as I was hurting," Molly answered after a second. "I was angry at him for making me care so much that it hurt like it did and still does. I know how much he loves me...or did...and I thought that if I could make him hate me like I hated him, he might understand how badly I was hurting." She sniffled and wiped her face again. "But I was mostly angry with myself. I felt guilty for not wanting it. And angry for getting my hopes up and for being so weak that losing a baby I didn't even want sent me into such a tailspin."

"Is that why you're starving yourself?" he asked softly. "As punishment?"

"I'm not," she lied with a scoff.

"You haven't eaten more than four bites of anything in front of me since all this began," he replied. "I do the shopping. I know how much you're not eating."

"Molly, you need to understand that punishing yourself for this loss is not going to change anything," the older woman said slowly. "There was nothing you could have done that would have prevented this."

In the deepest recesses of her heart, Molly knew this was the truth. But it did little to assuage her guilt.

"Can I ask why you chose to sleep in another room?" Deirdre asked, sipping her tea. "Was it purely because of your feelings toward Andrew? Or was this another way of punishing yourself?"

"You were traumatized, weren't you?" he asked quietly. "You didn't want to go into the bathroom when we got back. I saw it on your face."

Molly trained her eyes on the floor. She had avoided the master bedroom and the bathroom that lay beyond it as much as possible. She couldn't get the image of the blood running down her legs out of her mind, like a regular Lady Macbeth screeching about her stained hands. That new behavior wasn't about self-flagellation, but rather about her fear and the panic that gripped her as the events continued.

She nodded slowly. "Its like every time I look at it, I can see...I can see it happening all over again."

"What is keeping you from entering your bedroom?" Deirdre asked, making notes.

Molly looked at Andrew fully for the first time since the session began. "It reminds me too much of us when...when things were good. It hurts too much."

Sleeping in his bed alone was foreign to him in the beginning of this mess. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been alone in his own bed since Molly had reconnected with him. He'd gone straight back to the tour after Christmas and she'd returned to the house with him at the same time when the tour was over. But the sleepless nights had slowly given way and he'd remembered how to be alone again. It hurt, but he was managing.

"Andrew, how does all of this information make you feel?" Deirdre asked.

He sighed. "I knew some of it before. I guessed at other bits."

"I didn't ask if you knew about it; I asked how it made you feel," Deirdre repeated firmly. "Tell Molly how all of this makes you feel."

Andrew thought for a second, trying to find the right words. "It makes me feel guilty as well. But also angry and frustrated and...and I'm so angry at her."

"Tell her," Deirdre insisted. "Not me."

"Molly, it hurts," he said, turning toward her. "I understand how you could feel like I manipulated you into having the baby - and I freely admit that I probably did. And I have my own guilt for that. But I'm not going to take responsibility for you thinking that caring for your unborn child makes you weak. I didn't make you care; you did it all on your own. The only thing I feel bad about here is that I manipulated you into having a baby you clearly didn't want, and for that I am incredibly sorry."

"And the frustration?" Deirdre prompted.

"How could you blame me for this, Molly?" he asked, his voice cracking. "How could you possibly ever think that I'd want you to hurt like this? How?" The room was silent for a second and he spoke again. "I don't want to end things with you, Molly. I really don't. I fucking love you and you know how much seeing you in pain hurts me. But you keep fucking lashing out and punishing me. What the hell am I supposed to do here?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know what else to do."

"You didn't know what else to do?" he snapped. "We're a couple! We're supposed to handle these things together, as a team, Molly! How can I trust that you won't just withdraw into yourself again the next time we have a problem this big? I can't! And I refuse to do all of the emotional work in this relationship anymore!" he exclaimed.

"Okay, Andrew, take it down bit," Deirdre said, motioning for him to calm down. "Molly, do you want to end things with Andrew?"

"Of course not! I love him!" Molly replied softly, tears in her eyes.

"Alright, then how can the pair of you work toward rebuilding your relationship?" the therapist asked. "I will tell you right now that there is no 'going back to how things were'. There is only ever going to be a 'before the miscarriage' and an 'after the miscarriage'. If you're going to be successful, the pair of you each need to find a way to move into the 'after' portion of your relationship, otherwise you will never get out of this."

"I need her to come to therapy on her own," Andrew said. "She needs to meet me halfway in the emotional work. I'm burnt out and I feel like she never actively puts me as a priority. She never did before this. I need to be a priority now."

"I moved my entire life to be with you!" Molly countered.

"No. You moved your entire life to be with me and had a back up plan if things didn't work out," he corrected her.

"How can you say that? You literally said you didn't want me to move if it meant giving up my dreams and plans. I was the one who told you that I had a back up plan in case things went wrong," she replied. "You practically insisted that I have one because you felt guilty about me moving everything."

"Molly did you feel obligated to move?" Deirdre asked.

Molly sighed. "When I ended things with him in Los Angeles, I realized I made a mistake. So I came here for Christmas that year hoping I could change things and fix things. I realized I pushed him away and I wanted to try to fix it. He told me he needed proof that I was serious about us, so I decided to move here and attend Trinity. I felt like I didn't have a choice. If I didn't move, we couldn't exactly move forward in our relationship. So I had to make the sacrifice to come here."

Deirdre nodded and made several notes. "Andrew do you feel that Molly moving here was the only way to make things work between the two of you?"

"I couldn't move to Los Angeles," he answered. "I couldn't leave Ireland. So yes, it was the only way for us to make this work. We'd tried long distance before and it just didn't work. Between the time differences and her schedule, I felt neglected. I needed her to show me I was important enough to her."

"You keep saying you felt neglected, Andrew," Deirdre remarked. "You've said it multiple times in the past as well. Have you considered that there may be a link between the neglect you felt as a child because of your father's illness and the neglect you feel now, with Molly?"

He inhaled slowly. "Probably, yeah," he admitted.

He tried not to think about that dark part of his childhood, when his mum was overrun with doctors' appointments and juggling medication for his father and he and Jon were left to their own devices. It was easier that way.

"Perhaps you need to examine those feelings of neglect independently of your relationship with Molly to find their true origins and learn to manage them yourself," Deirdre suggested. "Because it is unfair to Molly for you to put that on her."

"I know," he said softly.

"Molly," Deirdre started, turning toward her. "Do you regret moving to Ireland?"

"No," she answered without hesitation. "I moved because I love him - you," she added, looking at Andrew. "I have never had a second thought about it."

He felt his heart thaw slightly. At least there was that.

"When was the last time you two actually spent time together?" Deirdre asked.

Andrew thought. "It...it would have been the day the miscarriage happened," he said, remembering their evening stroll along the water and the way the sunset made Molly's skin glow even more.

"I want you to try something for me," the therapist said, shifting in her seat. "Date each other again."

"What?" Molly asked.

"If you're going to reconnect and move past this, you have to actually...reconnect," Deirdre explained. "Spend time together. Do things you used to like doing together. You have to re-establish the connection you had before. But I want you to plan them, Molly."

"I can do it-," Andre started.

"No. Molly will do it," Deirdre insisted.

"But she's got exams and her dissertation to deal with," he protested. "I can do it."

"Its fine, Andrew," Molly said. "I'll manage it. You can't complain about doing all the emotional work and then take away the chance I have to do some of it, too."

Again, the ice around his heart thawed slightly. Perhaps there actually was a chance after all.

***ONE WEEK LATER***

"Hey, dinner's ready," Molly said as she stood in the doorway, wringing her hands nervously.

Andrew looked up from his notebook. "Yeah, I'll be there in a second."

She nodded and turned to head back to the kitchen. While she waited, she opened her text book and reread the last three pages in the chapter. She picked up her pen and made several notations in the margins, chewing on her thumbnail as she wrote. After class that day, she'd rushed to Tesco on the way home to grab ingredients for dinner that night. When she reached, she immediately put the chicken in the oven and began prepping the potatoes as she studied a chapter on the Common European Asylum System.

"What are we having?" Andrew asked as he came into the kitchen.

Molly closed her book and moved to the table, bringing a bottle of wine with her. "Roast chicken and potatoes with a mixed green salad," she said, pouring wine into his glass and refilling her own.

"Is it edible?" he asked cautiously, pulling out a chair for her. She glared at him over her shoulder. "I only ask because I know your track record in the kitchen," he added, sitting in his own seat.

"Yes, its edible," she replied, annoyed. A smile hinted at the corners of her lips and she felt her stomach do a tiny flip when he stuck his tongue out at her playfully. "At least, I hope it is," she smiled nervously.

"It looks great. I'm sure it tastes fine," he assured her, pulling his napkin off the table. "How was your day?" he asked.

She nodded. "It was...good. Long," she said simply. Her mind was elsewhere and she forced herself to focus on their conversation. "I'm getting close to finishing my dissertation. Professor McKeeley signed off on the first draft."

"That's great!" he replied.

There was a nervous tension in the air as they began eating. In the week since their therapy session with Deirdre, Molly had made a conscious effort to speak to Andrew more. It was awkward at first, but things had begun to thaw and he felt a little better. There was still a lot that was unsaid between them, though.

"Thanks. I'm hoping to get into editing it and making a second draft this week," she answered.

"I'd love to read it, if you wouldn't mind," Andrew said, smiling politely.

"Sure," she nodded.

They sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke. "This is really good. You're getting better at cooking," he offered.

"Tell me how you feel in the morning," she quipped, making him chuckle.

"I'm sure its fine," he said.

"How was your day, then? What did you get up to?" she asked, hoping to steer the conversation a bit more.

"Oh, ehm... I went with Jon to an art show in Wicklow. A friend of his has an exhibition on right now," he said slowly. "Then I came back and took Clemmie on a long walk to the beach. Afterward I did a bit of writing."

"Really? That's good," she replied. "Any new songs?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. It was more sort of journaling and bits of lyrics. Nothing, really."

"You'll have to handle dinner tomorrow night," she said quickly. "I've got class in the morning, then I'm meeting with Michael at Pavee Point to help with the fundraising lunch. Then I'm going to try to do a bit of research and work in the library. I have a paper to finalize when I get home, as well."

He surveyed her over his wine glass, a smile on his lips. "Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?" he asked suddenly.

Molly blushed and nodded. "Yes. Once or twice."

"I mean it, Molly," he insisted. "I could never do what you do. I don't know how you have the time or the patience. I am really proud of you."

"Thank you," she answered, taking a sip from her glass and scratching her neck.

She wondered if she was making him happy again or if everything had been pointless. Things still felt off - not that she had expected a major change overnight, of course. But she had hoped he'd be a bit more open with his thoughts.

"How am I - how are things going?" she asked nervously, pushing her potatoes around her plate. "Am I...am I doing well, so far?"

He swallowed slowly, buying time. "Its...its a good start," he said carefully.

Yes, he was impressed with how well she'd made the changes, but she hadn't really shown it was sustainable yet. He was cautious about assuming this was the new normal for her. He could see how eager she was to please him and it was a nice reversal of roles.

His response hurt her, but she hid it well. "Is there...is there anything I could do differently?" she asked.

He looked at her over his wine glass. "Just take care of yourself, Molly. You haven't eaten a thing yet. I just want to see you happy again."

She nodded and picked up her knife, cutting into her chicken. They ate in silence for several seconds. "I have my first therapy session with Deirdre tomorrow, before ours," she said suddenly.

He paused, fork midway to mouth. "Good. How - how are you feeling about it?" he asked.

"Nervous, if I'm honest," she admitted. "But I want to give it a try."

Andrew smiled. "I think it will help both of us to see her separately."

Molly nodded. Her eyes trailed across the table to his long fingers resting next to his plate. He caught her gaze and moved them closer to her, brushing his pinky finger against hers. The heat of his touch sent a shock through her body and she jerked her hand away slightly in surprise. He entwined his little finger with hers.

"We can do this, right?" he asked softly. "We can fix us?"

"We have to try," she replied, her voice small.

***THREE DAYS LATER***

Andrew looked at his blank journal page, twirling his pen in his fingers. Deirdre's instructions had been very clear to both of them: To heal their relationship, they needed to heal from the miscarriage.

"Some people journal their feelings. Others make a memorial of some sort. Others choose to do acts of service," Deirdre told them. "Whatever it is, it needs to reflect your grief in a manner you feel comfortable with. It needs to help you feel like that part of you can begin to heal and move on."

They were each supposed to do something on their own and then do something together, as a couple. Writing was the easiest thing for him, so he'd chosen to write about his feelings. Only, so far the page was empty. It was just for his eyes, but he was still hung up on how to start. He heard Molly moving around in the kitchen and he left his study to greet her.

She moved with ease, putting away the shopping. There seemed to be a lightness about her that wasn't there before, as if something had been lifted from her shoulders. She looked over her shoulder and smiled lightly when she saw him.

"Hi," she said, stocking several apples in the fruit bowl. "I got you more Barry's."

He blinked. "Ehm - thanks." He moved to lean against the island.

Something was different about her. She was more relaxed than she'd been in weeks. Granted, he could still feel the tension rising off her in waves. But it had eased ever so slightly. He let his eyes roam across her body, taking in the change.

"What?" she asked.

Its her hair. Its shorter. She cut it, he realized.

It was, indeed, shorter. He could tell, even though it was in a ponytail. It used to hang down past her shoulder blades and now it stopped at her shoulders.

"You cut your hair," he remarked.

Her hand shot to her pony tail and she nodded tentatively. "It...felt like a good idea," she said slowly.

He closed the gap between them and reached for her ponytail. "May I?" he asked.

She nodded and he eased the elastic out of her hair, running his fingers through the sleek black strands. It was the most she'd let him touch her in weeks. She inhaled sharply and looked at his face as his eyes took her hair in. It fell just past her shoulders in soft waves, freshly blown out.

"It looks good," he said, smiling at her.

Then it hit him: Molly had cut her hair because of the miscarriage. It was how she was choosing to manage her grief. It certainly seemed like it had lifted her spirits slightly.

You should do it, too, a voice in his mind said to him. Embrace her culture a little bit. It might bring you closer. It might also help you, too.

The idea of chopping off the hair when someone died seemed a bit ridiculous to him when Molly had first told him. Sure, he could understand the symbolism of it, cleansing the spirit and all that. But now, now that he'd suffered a loss, he could feel how beneficial it might be.

"Thank you," she whispered, dropping her eyes.

He inhaled sharply. "Do mine?" he asked casually.

"What?" she asked.

"Mine. Cut my hair," he said.

She backed away a step. "I don't...its not a joke, Andrew."

"I don't think it is," he answered. "We both...lost...something. We should do something together. As a couple. I want to." She made to move away but he stopped her with a hand on her forearm. "Please. I want to do this with you," he said.

Molly considered him for a second before nodding slowly. "Okay. But you have to do everything I say," she said.

He nodded. "Whatever you need."

Ten minutes later, Andrew found himself sitting on one of the bar stools in the courtyard, a sheet draped over his shoulders and tucked in on itself. Molly stood behind him with a spray bottle and a pair of scissors. His hair hung down past his shoulders and he was due for a trim anyway, but he was glad to embrace one tradition of hers.

"I'm not a professional hairstylist," she warned him. "If its crooked, you can't blame me."

He smiled lightly. "Just cut off the bottom inch or two. I can always have it fixed if you mangle it," he joked.

Molly sprayed the bottom of his brown hair with the spray bottle, dampening the ends until they curled in on themselves more. A bird flew into one of the trees nearby, calling.

"Is there...is there something I should do or think about?" he asked carefully, looking straight ahead.

She cleared her throat. "You're supposed to think of the person you lost and all the happy memories you have with them." She picked up the scissors. "There's not really a ritual for a-a miscarriage."

He heard her voice catch on the word and a slight twinge came from his chest. "What did you think about?" he asked softly.

She inhaled slowly. "I thought about what could have been; that little child running down the beach, like you said. Christmases. Sunday dinners with your family. Everything that could have been, but won't ever be," she sniffled. "And then I let it all go. I pushed it from my mind and focused on reality." Her voice was tense in her throat as she fought to keep it level. The knot made it hard to swallow. "Are you ready?" she asked, clearing her throat.

Andrew nodded, closing his eyes. He pictured the child - their child - running along the sand. Its laughter floated up above the waves and back to him on the sea breeze. Then he imagined all of the things he wanted to do with it: teaching it guitar, showing it all of the places he'd grown up in, giving it a full education on the blues with his own father by his side. He felt Molly begin to cut and he tried to focus on the image in front of him.

The child with Molly's eyes and hair and his smile looked up at him with his first guitar in its hands, passed down on a Christmas morning. The headphones were too big for their small head and slipped off the black curls as they listened to Otis Redding and Aretha Franklin. He clenched his eyes shut as he felt the cold metal of the scissors against the back of his neck while Molly pulled the hair with her fingers.

Let it go, he told himself, breathing out slowly.

He pushed all of the images away and it was like they were moving in reverse in his mind's eye. When everything had gone to black, he opened his eyes again. Molly had stopped cutting and she was standing behind him. The light from the afternoon hurt his eyes at first and he blinked rapidly before bringing his hand to the back of this head. The cut seemed straight enough. And even though he'd only lost an inch or so, he felt so much lighter.

Molly sniffled again and he turned to look at her. Tears were flowing down her face and he felt the instant urge to touch her, to comfort her in some way. But fearing it might break some sort of protocol with the ritual, he kept his hands to himself.

"What now?" he asked.

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Now we burn it."

"Oh, okay," he replied, standing.

The sheet had collected most of his hair and he went to pick several chunks up.

"Stop!" she said sternly. "You can't touch it. I'll get it."

He held the sheet as she collected the damp strands as best she could and deposited them in a metal bowl. "Did you burn yours?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I was going to tonight. But I can do it now." She produced a sealed plastic bag with a ponytail of black hair about six inches long secured with an elastic. "Could you take it out?"

"Yeah, sure," he said quickly, taking the bag and emptying it into the bowl on top of his.

"Spread this around the bowl," she instructed, pointing to another bag of broken glass of different colors and shapes.

He did as he was told, sprinkling the bag's contents on the table around the bowl. It glittered in the sunlight. She poured rubbing alcohol on top of the hair and lit a match, tossing it into the bowl. The alcohol caught instantly and she took a step back and began to whisper in Romani.

Andrew watched the ritual with fascination. Molly had never done anything like this in front of him. It was almost as if he was watching some sort of ancient rite as she prayed over the bowl in her own language. It felt as though centuries of history were at his back, generations before him watching.

"Give me your hand," she requested, holding hers out, palm up.

He did it without questioning, staring at the fire blazing in front of him. The knife pricked his skin suddenly and he winced as she held his thumb over the burning bowl and squeezed out several droplets of blood. She did the same with her own hand. He sucked the wound softly, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. After a second, she stopped whispering and just stood there, watching as the flames died down. The fire burned itself out within another minute and Molly let out a sob, surprising him.

"Molly?" he asked, closing the small distance between them.

She wiped at her face as more tears fell. He brushed his hand against hers and entwined his fingers in hers. She looked up at him in surprise at this action.

"What?" he asked.

"You're crying," she remarked, swiping a tear from his cheek.

He blinked rapidly and brought his fingers to his face. Tears came away and he sighed. The entire experience had been far more emotional than he'd expected it to be. He thought he'd do something just to humor Molly, to show her he was trying to accept the changes she was making. He didn't think he'd be so moved by chopping an inch of hair from his head and burning it in a bowl in the back garden, but he was. He felt lighter and happier. And best of all, he felt closer to Molly than he had in weeks.