He nods, and I feel his eyes all over me. Looking for any in, any sign that his little peace offering is working. I look up at him, and those cracks suddenly appear deeper. Unmendable. “How are you?”
“Miserable,” I manage through my self-wallowing sarcasm. A watery chuckle follows but is cut off when James swoops down and circles his arms around me. I sink into his chest, molding myself into the soft grooves of his body.
“I missed you so much,” he says into my hair. “I wanted to come earlier, but wasn’t sure if?—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “I think I just need some…time. I’m sorry I?—”
He pulls away and shakes his head, the apology dissolving into dust. Words that weren’t needed in the first place. “You needed some space. Iwantedto give you space.”
I run my hand through his hair, smoothing away a few wayward strands from his handsome face. A slow and tentative start to mend the ways we’ve broken and cracked over what was supposed to be our first Christmas together.
“Do you want to come inside?”
“Yeah.”
Our bodies move at a softer, gentler pace, our hearts thawed through a layer of cold formed in the midst of our shortseparation. I want him here, all his vulnerable edges fitting into mine, and a part of me is already scared for when he leaves.
As soon as I open my door, I’m infinitely grateful for Kyle and his persistence. The stale stench of stagnant, stuffy air still lingers, but at least there’s no evidence of unwashed dishes and littered trash. I watch James set the owl on my small dining table, and I pick up a forgotten candy wrapper under my coffee table. A silent, subtle gesture for him to join me causes a quiet smile to smooth out the crease between his brows.
“How are you feeling? Are you still in pain?” he asks.
“I’m better,” I tell him, finally feeling like I can be completely honest. “I stopped taking pain meds last week. And I’m not bleeding as much anymore.”
We both stand in front of my couch. A squeaky teeter-totter unsure of which direction it should lean to. I reach for his hand, willing to take the lead after giving him so little. We both settle into the cushions, both checking for damage. Surveying the aftermath of what feels like hell and back.
“Kendall, I’m so sorry,” he starts. “I should’ve been there at the hospital. I shouldn’t have left you all alone.”
“There’s no way you would’ve known,” I argue.
“But I should’ve told my work that I couldn’t leave you.”
All the coulda, shoulda, wouldas can’t change a thing. What happened was inevitable, and we both had to suffer through it. Me, with the pain of physically losing our baby, and James, with the guilt of not being there.
I scoot closer, shaking my head. Our bodies find this trembling rhythm, understanding that this wasn’t just a simple moment of regret and penance. It was so much more than that. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. This still would’ve happened.”
“I could’ve been here with you,” he protests. “I could’ve taken care of you and you wouldn’t have been all alone.”
“I had Sylvia,” I argue weakly. Although, a part of me wishes even she hadn’t been there. She shouldn’t have been the one to witness what I went through. It may not have been her own loss, but I’ve seen how it’s changed her demeanor and affect. She’s mourning too.
I take his hand in mine, turning it to bring my lips to his knuckles. I’m still wondering where we go from here. He mirrors my touch, pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist, equally gentle and provisional, all of it dependent on our next words.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. The small tells in his voice disappear. Ones that left me feeling so confused, so insecure. They’re all gone, in its place the sure tone of his words. “I know this was a lot for us, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
“Maybe this happened for a reason,” I say, throwing in my own two cents, as ridiculous as they might sound. “Maybe it’s a sign we aren’t supposed to be together.” A small, gnawing part of me wishes it was all untrue. Premonitions or omens or whatever the fuck. To hell with them all. But they’re all so hard to ignore.
“Ican’tlose you.”Can’t. Such a disparity from “don’t want.” Because he’s slipping out the ability to choose from underneath him. He’s telling me he doesn’t have a choice. It’s me, us, or…nothing.
“Maybe…baby steps,” I suggest. I want to tell him I don’t want to lose him either, but I don’t know if I’m there yet. Those words are more absolute than I’m comfortable with, and I worry they may be misleading. But the thought of never seeing him again sweeps through my foggy mind, and it causes an ache to spread to my limbs. I don’t think I would survive losing the babyandhim.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his head bobbing up and down with intent. “I can do baby steps.”
I nod too. I give his hand a gentle squeeze, placing our conjoined palms on the cushions between us. It’s a start. Asmall one, but one in the right direction, hopefully. It feels right, this way of healing. As if, through the gentle brush of fingers and knuckles, it’s enough to offer some kind of homeopathic tendencies. Maybe it’s the kombucha. Or it could be that of the eight billion people in the world, he’s the only one who understands what I’ve lost. Because it was just as much his loss as it was mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kendall
THEN
