It’s nice to see him playful again.
“Yeah, and I love it when you smile.”
His hazel eyes soften, his fingers squeezing mine. “I’m sorry I’ve been insufferable,” he replies.
I shake my head. “No, you’ve not been, not at all. I’ve just been worried about you, we both have.”
His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, they’re a little cracked. I reach for the small tin of Vaseline. Taking it from me, he twists off the lid and dabs some on his lips and I almost laugh. Something about the way he puts it on his lips, almost passive aggressively.
“Here, give me that.” I rub the pad of my little finger into the balm until I have a nice amount and then apply it. I do the motion of rubbing my lips together and he follows suit, but it’s almost awkward.
He sighs. “I hate being laid up and unable to do anything,” he admits. “And this,”—he gestures to his t-shirt-covered chest—“is going to take some time to get used to.”
If the roles were reversed, I’d likely be no different, and yet I can’t begin to understand how he feels.
“It makes me think of my mum.”
I nod, holding his gaze. “You never really talk about her,” I reply.
His teeth begin to bite at the chapped skin on his bottom lip, and I gently tug it from between his teeth.
“I know. It’s just hard, even now I struggle. I loved her so damn much.” His voice catches, and I see the tears glisten in his eyes.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” I say, my hand moving to his again.
But he shakes his head. “No, I want to. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about her, it’s just most of the time I physically can’t. Even now, after all this time, it still feels so raw. There are moments when she’s all I want to talk about, remembering something she said or would have liked, and then when I go to voice them out loud the words get lodged in my throat.”
I nod. “It’s the same when I think of my nan,” I admit, stroking my thumb over his wedding bands, loving the feel of it beneath my touch.
“Caleb knows a little about my life growing up, how my dad was an abusive cunt.” His voice is almost venomous when he mentions his dad, his disdain palpable. “He used to beat her so badly, Jessica. I wish she’d never met him, even if it meant me never being born.”
That admission brings all my emotions to the surface. “Please don’t say that,” I reply, my voice catching.
“I know, I’m sorry. I just feel guilty. She only stayed with him because of me, she was trapped. I often wonder if she hadn’t have had me, would she have left him?”
I don’t think there’s an answer to that. I watch him run his free hand through Aspen’s fur as she lounges next to him on the throw blanket. So much for the no sofa rule.
“As tragic as it is, I believe if the cancer hadn’t killed her, he would have.”
I know she died of breast cancer and his dad died about a year later, but that’s about it. “Best thing that could have happened to him,” Noah continues, “was driving into a central reservation. May he rest in hell.”
Noah rarely speaks like this, it’s such a contrast to the man I know and love, but at the same time, I get it.
“I wish I could have met her,” I say after he falls silent.
He smiles at that. “Me too.”
“What was her name?” I ask, realising I have no idea.
“Rose.”
I roll the name around on my tongue.
“Rose is a lovely, strong name,” I reply.
He nods. “Just like her, and like you,” he says, leaning in and ghosting my mouth with his.
“Has this made you think about her more? With your diagnosis and the surgery?” I ask, not wanting to shy away from what he’s been through and the parts of himself he tries to hide.
