“And you have dealt with this all by yourself,” I say, tilting my head up to look into his face. The storm in his eyes is directed inward, roiling over the past, the present, and every failing he perceives himself to make. My heart jettisons right out of my chest and flops onto his in a bloody beaten heap. I feel every bit of his pain as if it were my own, though it won’t make it any better.
“I had some help,” he says with a wry smile, crinkles forming around his eyes. “My boss, Gustavo Espada, at the construction site was a good man. Gustavo floated me extra jobs when I needed it, gave me the time off I needed and gave me all sorts of random bonuses to pad my paycheck. In return, I was determined to become the best worker on his crew, and I did. By the time I was twenty, I was heading sites on my own. By twenty-three, he encouraged me to start my contracting company. He helped me set everything up and guided me through it even when I was terrified I was going to end up broke on my ass while trying to take care of my idiot brothers. JJ was in college, and he may be promiscuous, but he got scholarships. Still, I needed to help him through it while bailing Eli out of all the trouble he got into at high school. Idiot kid almost got kicked out. But I love managing my own company. Recruited some good men I worked with and it’s what I’m most proud of.”
“I think I'd like to thank this Gustavo,” I murmur into his chest.
He sinks his hand back into my hair, his fingers tightening before he drops a kiss on the top of my head. “He passed away last year.”
Oh witchtits. I bury my face into his chest. It’s too much. It’s too much for one person, even as large and strong as Ted is, I can’t help but be angry someone has to go through so much.
Ted holds me closer to him, and I smush my face into his warm skin, inhaling his scent.
“Can I tell you a secret?” His voice is rough with emotion.
Don’t fall in love, Goldie. Don't you dare do it. Tell him no, because if he gives you one more secret, it’s going to happen.
“Since you hate me already and probably can’t hate me anymore,” he jokes with a wry laugh.
I choke out a similar laugh, realizing my tears are flowing nonstop, covering his sternum, matting his chest hair.
His tone sobers again, and it sounds like there is gravel in his throat. “Sometimes. . .
This is what he was going to say before but stopped himself.
“Sometimes I wish it had been unexpected and fast.” His voice turns raw. “I know that makes me terrible. That I should be grateful for more time with my mother. But she was so sick, and watching her waste away for years was hard on me, on JJ and Eli.” I feel him swallow hard against me. “I’ve never said that out loud before.”
I want to jump in with reassurance, but I wait, listening with every fiber of my being.
At that, I push up so I can look down at him. It’s only then I realize how soggy my face is from the silent tears I’d been crying for him, for his mom, for his brothers. I wipe my face.
“Don’t do that,” I say almost angrily.
Ted releases me, arm held out away from me to give me space. His face pales as I react to his emotional confession.
“Don’t pile on yourself like that. Of course, you wish your mother didn’t suffer that long, that you and your brothers didn’t suffer through that. Have you been punishing yourself for secretly thinking that, while enduring and taking care of everyone around you? Well listen here, Tedophelia, you knock it off right now. Because I don’t think I’ve ever met a better person in my life.”
It’s true.
Ted’s face is a mixture of incredulity and surprise, leaving him unresponsive.
Witchitits, has anyone helped him take the load off before? It’s just been Ted processing everything on his own, carrying everything on his own.
Like you're not doing that, leaving things out when you talk to your mom and friends these days?
His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing away my tears. Why does it feel like my heart has been squeezed into a bloody pulp?
“Don’t cry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean too—“
Again, I should be worried about him touching my tears. Maybe they are a kind of poison? But I can’t bring myself to care right now.
“Shut up and take it,” I say with an edge of anger. I’m not sure what I want him to take. The reality that his burden is so heavy that it deserves to be witnessed, deeply felt? “You may be able to stuff all of this down, but I can’t. Not even if you want me to.” I’m sitting next to one of the kindest, most supportive beings, and suddenly I realize how frivolous I am. How stupid all my problems are next to Ted’s very real ones.
“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me,” he says in an almost panic.
I throw up my arms. “Why do people say that? Why do people avoid accepting sympathy, empathy so hard? Like it’s something to be avoided? I am sorry for you. I’m sorry you went through something so acutely painful for so long. Not because it’s my fault, but because I have empathy and I want better for you. I want a better past for you, I want you to not have suffered. Is that so bad? To accept that someone feels your pain?”
Even I don’t know what I’m going on about, as Ted tries to rub his hands along my arms with that panicked look on his face.
But then my nose starts to run. My hand rushes to cover my face. I can’t let him see me all sloppy. I start to get off the bed so I can run to the bathroom, clean up my face, and get a hold of myself.
