I hear commotion outside, trash cans clanging together and angry curses from my stepdad yelling at their neighbors to come and get their dogs. A tradition at this point as generations of their chocolate labs have been trespassing into our backyard for over a decade.
I quickly replace the sponge in its spot next to the counter and do a once-over. I flip the switch for the light and make my way to the living room.
“How you doing?” I ask James, running a hand down his neck. His focus is deep on the screen, but when I trace soft circles behind his ear, his attention shifts.
“Good,” he answers, kissing my cheek. “You good?”
“Yeah.” For the first time in a really long time, I feel like I’m being completely honest.
It isn’t much, but a weight feels lifted. Or at the very least, lessened. I hadn’t realized how talking to my mom could be this helpful.
James takes my hand at the same time I settle in next to him on my mom’s beige-colored couch, fully equipped with lace throw pillows stitched with cozy quotes like “Home Sweet Home” and “Bless This Mess.”
We continue to watch my mom chase away the dogs, laughing at the way she gives a few of them a playful pat on their heads. When they come back inside—a little winded and bushed—my mom brews a whole pot of tea for everyone, and we enjoy what’s left of the baseball game that was on the TV before we were interrupted. Dusk settles, and we get a glimpse of the sun peeking through the hills before my mom expresses her worries about James driving unfamiliar roads in the dark.
We make it back to our room with a foil wrapped up around some banana bread. Something she just “whipped up” because she had some overripe bananas lying around when in reality, I know she baked it for the sole purpose of sending me off with half the loaf.
“Are you still hungry?” James asks just as I sit cross-legged on our king-size bed and start peeling back the foil to my mom’s banana bread. He has his sweatpants rolled up in one hand, his feet pointed in the direction of the bathroom to shower, and it looks like he changes his mind with the way he drops them next to him and settles himself onto the unoccupied side of the bed.
“Just craving something sweet,” I tell him with a shrug. He pinches off a piece, and we nibble away at our dessert in silence.
“Did you have fun today?”
“Yeah,” I answer, throwing another crumb of bread into my mouth. “It was really nice seeing my mom.”
“She really misses you.”
“I know.” I break off a larger piece and cradle it in my fingers. “I told her about the uh…the miscarriage.”
The word feels wrong, almost dirty. Like we’re in Bible study and I’ve just uttered a curse word only to wish I could take it back. Swallow it and pretend it never existed.
“What did she say?” he asks gently. He starts to quietly run his thumb over my shin, and I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. It’s instinct, his need to ease and comfort. And though I’m wearing jeans, I can feel his soothing touch through the thick denim material.
“That…I should move on on my own terms,” I tell him, through a shaky breath. “And that I shouldn’t be ashamed of how long I grieve.”
“You know it’ll happen for us when it’s meant to.”
I smile. “I know.”
But the part I can’t seem to move on from isn’t the “when” of it all, but the “if.” I’m sure I always just assumed it would happen. I’d find someone to spend the rest of my life with, buy a house, and have babies. The whole white picket fence life. But maybe it was a little arrogant for me to think that way. A little reckless and stupid. Because what if itdoesn’thappen. What if those few months we had with what was almost a daydream is all that’s meant for me? Forus?
I shove away those thoughts, knowing the spiral I can fall into if I think about those “what-ifs” long enough. James cups the side of my head with his fingers threaded into my hair, and his eyes carry this reverence I’ve never seen before.
“I love you,” he tells me, his voice hoarse.
“I love you too,” I squeak. He abandons the remains of our shared banana bread in the foil from his free hand, and he grips my cheeks. He kisses me, and I feel the rough crumbs against my skin. But I don’t care. With how he kisses me, I feel like all of those menial disturbances are blurred, misting away into the background so all I feel are James’s hands on me and his lips on mine.
“And I think you’re incredibly strong for getting through what happened.”
I brush off his words like they aren’t meant for me. They don’t fit. Like a shirt that’s too small or too big. Because I haven’t gotten through anything. I’m still in the thick of it, mournful heart and all. I turn my head, feeling suddenly shy. Like a fraud in my own body.
“Baby, I mean it,” he tells me against my chin, leaving behind another kiss, this time soft and reassuring. “I’m genuinely in awe of you.”
It’s those words that turn something in my heart, flipping it over to reveal the fleshy side that’s ready to heal. No more weeping wounds, just a part that might finally be ready to move on.
“You really love me, don’t you?”
His head rears back. “Of course I do. Why would you say it like it’s up for debate?”
