“I was really hoping this medication would help,” she says, her words forlorn.
“It probably just needs to pass,” I assure. “Side effects usually subside over time.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She flicks a piece of lint off my shirt. “I know this has been really difficult for you, what with me being in therapy and trying to find the right meds, and I’m sorry. You didn’t sign up for this when we got married?—”
“I signed up foryou,” I interrupt. “This is just a speed bump.”
“What if it isn’t?” She looks up at me with glassy eyes. A tear slips out and slides down the side of her face, seeping into her pillow. “What if I’m this stupid, useless depressed blob for the rest of my life.”
“Honey,” I say softly. It’s been a while since she’s spoken so openly about her fears, the things that haunt her about her depression, and I want to bury myself in all of it. Use this chance to finally understand her. “You’re not stupid. Or useless.”
“But I’m depressed,” she quips.
“We’re working on that.”
She nods, and our hands find each other. This time, it’s her touching me. I feel her thumb brush gently over my knuckles, small circles like she’s testing the waters. “It’s been nine years, and I still wonder. I think about how different our lives would’ve been.”
It’s there. The small window with the jamb and sill painted over and over, causing it to stay glued together and closed for almost a decade. We’re finally attempting to pry it open, crowbar in hand.
“I know I shouldn’t think about it,” she continues, her gaze lost and hazy. “I see Sophia, and I know I should be thankful that we have her and that she’s healthy, but I can’t help but wonder…”
“I know,” I finally say after a quiet pause. “I wonder too.”
She looks up at me. “You do?”
“Yeah,” I croak.
She doesn’t ask me to elaborate or clarify exactly what it is I wonder. We both know.
CHAPTER NINE
Kendall
THEN
“So,he did all of this while he was still alive?”
I nod against James’s chest, his arm lazily draped over my back drawing soft circles between my shoulder blades. “It’s kind of romantic, no?”
“And a little morbid,” he adds. He scratches his temple. Almost as if he isn’t sure whether or not my movie choice is in fact a little romantic. Our conversation is put on a brief pause as the screen fills with a tearful woman, her hands trembling as she reads a handwritten letter from her deceased husband. It’s the third movie we’ve put on today, and it’s barely four o’clock. Dinner is somewhere on the horizon, but with the continuous consumption of popcorn and candy and other snacks of the salty and sweet variety, I don’t know if an actual meal is in our plans. But we have absolutely nothing—zero, zilch, nada—on our itinerary. We’re lazing around our weekend with the sails of spontaneity to guide us. And since Tommy is out with Sylvia, we have the whole place to ourselves, depressing romance movies and all.
With the last bits of summer coming to an end, this has become a common ritual for our days. I’m not complaining, not in the slightest. It’s a helluva lot better than stressing aboutthe school year ahead. Which I will do eventually, just not this minute.
“I think it’s kind of sweet,” I argue. The woman, Holly, now clutches the letter against her chest, and I gesture a loose hand in her direction. “He knew his cancer was going to eventually end his life, and he wanted to make sure he was there to grieve alongside her.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t it be better to just move on? He’s basically forcing her to hold on to him.”
“But…she would’ve held on anyway.” I look at James, and the confusion lining his face turns into a sweet smile when his eyes meet mine. “I think it’s nice. Like he’s right by her side to hold her hand and be there for her when she misses him.”
He bends down to kiss my forehead. “I’ll make sure to leave you a hundred letters when I go first.” His promise, though a little bleak, holds so much weight. So much possibility. “I’ll even send you on a wild goose chase. Really add to the ‘could he still be alive’ paranoia.”
I nudge him with my shoulder,tsking at him with a playful shove to his side. “Don’t make fun of my movie.”
“I’m not making fun of your movie,” he says. “I think it’s really endearing that you enjoy watching movies about love and all the happy, sappy stuff.” He loops his hand around my nape, running his thumb over my jaw. He knows I love it when he does that. His way of leading what is about to be yet another breathless kiss.
When he does kiss me, it’s all lips and tongue. I feel his chest guide me onto my back, and I’m placed in a position where he’s in control of everything. The kiss, my hands, my body. He hovers over me, his hips pressing me further into the plush cushions, and my feet naturally find their way hooked around the back of his thighs.
“I was watching the movie,” I tell him between kisses, a protest I know is as measly as it is pointless even before I whisper it against his lips. His hand slides under my sweater, tickling the sensitive spots hidden from the outside world. I’m completely naked underneath. No bra or shirt, the only way to relax on a lazy weekend. He takes the chance to explore. Test and tease.
