When they don’t, he just looks at me with that soft, stricken expression I remember from the worst night of my life. The one after my father’s funeral, when I was thirteen and so numb I barely noticed my brother’s tears on my hand as we walked out of the chapel.
I start to shake. Not out of cold, but out of something deeper—a sense that I’m coming apart at every seam and nothing can hold me together. Liam must see it, because he gets up, crosses the distance, and sits beside me on the edge of the bed.
He doesn’t touch me right away. He just waits.
“Do you want to talk?” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
I want to laugh. “No,” I say. “But I will.”
And then I tell him. Not the story I give to friends, the one with the sanitized edges and the brave little jokes. I tell him about the hospital nights—the months of my dad’s stomach cancer, the way the hospital always smelled like burned popcorn and Lysol, the way the nurses smiled at us like we were tiny bombs set to detonate. I tell him how I started panicked at the sight of all the machines and tubes, how my dad shrank to nothing in the bed, how my brother wouldn’t come near the hospital after the first week, how I was the only one who stayed until the last hour.
I tell him about the sounds: the soft shush of slippers, the beeping of the monitors, the low groan my dad made when he tried to talk, the one I sometimes still hear in dreams. I tell him about the way the hospital light was always a little too blue, and how every time I see it now I want to scream. I tell him about thefuneral, and how the next morning, my brother and I woke up in a stranger’s house, because nobody else would take us in. I tell him how I lied to every foster parent after that, how I pretended I was okay, how I built walls so thick I sometimes can’t even feel my own heart beating. I tell him how my brother never recovered. How Jimmy’s homeless now, and I haven’t heard from him in years. My heart breaks at the telling because I wish I could see my brother just one more time. Just once. But I have no idea where he is and tears begin to run down my face.
When I run out of words, there’s just the hum of the radiator and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
He takes my hand. It’s not a big gesture—just his palm on mine, warm and dry and grounding. His thumb traces slow circles on my skin.
“Simone,” he says, and that’s all, but it’s enough. It’s the first time I’ve ever told the whole story to anyone, and the relief is dizzying. The fear is still there, but it feels lighter.
I let myself lean against him. My head fits into the crook of his shoulder. He doesn’t try to kiss me, or pull me closer. He just holds my hand and lets me be.
We talk, in fits and starts, until the sky outside starts to change color.
He tells me about his own father, about the way he used to sneak out of his house to walk the old man’s beat with him after midnight, about how he learned to read poetry by reciting it to his dad in the dark, about how he’s never felt good enough for anything in his life, not teaching, not relationships, not even his own fucked-up dreams.
He tells me about the years after the divorce, the string of nothing nights, the way he sometimes wishes he could just disappear.
We talk about pain. We talk about wanting to be whole, and what it costs to get there.
At some point, I realize I’m not shaking anymore.
I realize, too, that I’m exhausted. The kind of tired that goes down to the bone. My eyes burn and my mouth feels dry and every muscle in my body aches.
He lies down on top of the blanket, fully clothed, and I curl up beside him, my head on his chest. His hand never leaves mine. He doesn’t say anything else, but I feel his breathing—slow, deliberate, even—and it’s enough to lull me into a gentler kind of darkness.
When I wake up, the sky is the color of peach sorbet and I feel something close to peace.
I look at Liam, sleeping hard, the lines on his face deep and unguarded.
I don’t know what will happen after today, or after the surgery, or after the next time I inevitably ruin everything. But for now, I just let myself be held. I let myself belong, if only for a single sunrise.
Andie returns around seven,bagel in hand, hair wild from wherever she’s been. She clocks the two of us on the bed, my face mashed against Liam’s chest, and grins.
“Guess we survived,” she says in a droll tone.
Liam sits up, blinking. He looks as stunned as I feel.
I stretch, my body sore and loose, and smile at Andie. “You didn’t have to leave all night.”
She shrugs. “Looked like you needed it more than I did. I slept fine. You know me. I’m like a cat. I can curl up anywhere.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I almost laugh.
She tosses me the bagel. “Eat, or I’ll narc on you to the nurse.”
I bite into it, the carb rush grounding me in the moment.
Liam stands, stretches, and says, “I’ll wait outside. Give you some space to get ready.” He squeezes my shoulder, a silent promise, and ducks out the door.
Andie sits beside me on the bed, her eyes a little softer than usual.
