He nods. “Of course.”
I nod too, my gaze angled toward the ground in a diffident gesture.
“I’m glad I came here.”
I don’t expect this small extension of his thoughts. Our conversations usually end long before they’re ready to, and he’s giving me a few extra inches. Only, I didn’t realize how badly I needed it.
I step closer to him and take his hand in mine. “Me too.”
He places a tentative kiss on my forehead, and I think maybe okay isn’t too bad of a place for us.
I move gently around Sophia before pulling the covers over her a little tighter. She stirs, but with the darkness still covering the guest room, she stays asleep. I pull a sweater over my head and pad downstairs.
I catch James zipping up his duffel bag as I land on the last step and the floor creaks, announcing my presence.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi.”
“You’re up early.”
“I was hoping to catch you before you leave.”
“You caught me just in time,” he informs me. “My rideshare’s going to be here in about ten minutes. I was going to wait outside.”
“I’ll wait with you.”
We step gently through the house, not wanting to wake anyone. James already said his goodbyes to Tommy and Sylvia last night. I did too. Or at least some variation of one while we had an audience. Now, with nothing but a thin layer of fog and an empty neighborhood, it’s easier for us to drag out our goodbye. A real one.
“Do you have a lot going on at work?”
He shrugs. “A little. Nothing I can’t handle.”
We’re sitting on the stoop with his bag at his feet. It feels like a lifetime ago I showed up here, shuffling up these exact steps to Sylvia’s doorstep with a wilted smile on my face and a travel-weary child in my arms. There’s a space between us that hasn’t quite gone away, wide enough for a swift breeze but narrow enough for us to close it with the smallest of altruistic gestures.
“I’ll probably book our flight back for the end of next week,” I start to say.
“Okay,” he says in that considerate tone I still can’t seem to decipher.
“Is that okay?”
“Of course.” He links his fingers in front of me. I watch as he runs his thumb over his wedding band, causing it to twirl around his knuckle. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” I confess, feeling silly for thinking he might be mad. But when our relationship has grown to be built around precarious conversations and baseless assumptions, I can’t help it.
A car pulls up to the curb in front of us, and the driver inside waves a hand in James’s direction. We both stand and James walks to the passenger side door, ducking his head through the open window. After a quick exchange, he meets me back at the foot of the steps.
“I just asked him to give me a minute,” he explains.
“Have a safe flight,” I tell him, unable to meet his eyes. “And text me when you land.”
He looks at me, and a shadow casts over his brow. His furrow deepens with resolve, and next thing I know, his hands are on me.
“Everything I told you,” he says, his fingers cupping my chin. “None of that’s changed.”
My lips tremble, and he smoothes it away with a soft brush against my jaw. I don’t know how to tell him I believe him, but…it’s me who I don’t trust. I don’t know how to let my heart be open and willing to take this heavy path of recovery. But I want to be. I want us to figure this out, and the only way to do that is ifIcan figure some things out on my own. Like how to trust himandmyself.
“I know that,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “I just need some time to really believe it.”
