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People die every day. There are wars happening everywhere. What does it matter if our love was rejected? It’s no big deal. What does it matter if we were almost torn apart? We got out, didn’t we? We should have been happy. We should have thanked our lucky stars.
Yes, maybe we should have. Maybe we should have forgotten everything and moved on. But we didn’t. We chose to hold on to the hurt, the anger. We chose to hold on to our wounded love.
And if people die every day and wage war on each other, I’m glad we held on to the one pure thing in this world. I’m glad we held onto our love, gave into our emotions, rebelled.
I’m glad because we’re stronger for it. We lost all control and now we know what it feels like. We understand what it means to be angry. We understand that in the future, if we have to make a choice, we know to choose forgiveness.
We know to choose each other and ourselves, and this baby.
I put a hand on my swollen belly. Seven months along, I’m a whale these days. Nothing fits me. Nothing at all. I’m usually wearing this pink, fluffy bathrobe I found online and a maternity sunflower dress underneath. So damn comfortable.
I moved in with Abel a couple of months ago when I started falling sick a lot. Doctor said I needed my rest and Abel had been going out of his mind, watching me throw up after most of our dates, and not being able to stay the night with me.
Months ago, we talked about taking baby steps. I got this idea from Blu. And that was exactly what we were doing.
We were taking baby steps. We’d see each other every other day. He’d take me out when I was feeling up to it. But when I wasn’t, he’d cook for me. He’d stock my fridge and kitchen cabinets with saltines and crackers. He’d also label them because I lived in a shared apartment.
My Abel. He was thorough.
I also knew that every time he had to leave me and go back to the city, he was devastated. I was, too. In fact, that’s all I’d been for the past few months. Devastated and broken and heartsick. I never thought I’d leave Abel. I never thought I was capable of it.
But I guess, a mother is capable of anything. A mother is a goddess who can do anything to protect her child, including hurting herself.
I don’t think I have ever cried as much as I did in those months when I was apart from my husband. It wasn’t easy to wait for him. It wasn’t easy to listen to his voicemails, hear about his day and his accomplishments, and not tell him how proud I was.
But again, baby steps. Everything about our love story has always been fast and furious, filled with too much passion and intensity. We both needed a reprieve. We both needed pain-free moments.
When doctor said I might need to take it easy for a few days, I knew the time was right. It had been right for a while now.
So I broached the question, outside of the clinic, on the sidewalk. “So, uh, do you think I could, maybe, live with you for a while?”
“Yes,” he said before I even finished my question. Then, he blushed — my Abel blushed — and cleared his throat. “I mean, of course. For as long as you like.”
I bit my lips to stop my smile. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
At that, I couldn’t control myself and threw my arms around his neck and planted a hard kiss on his mouth. Oh, it was like coming home or finally, catching your breath after running for so, so long. That’s when we got the first snowfall of the season. I knew it was a good omen.
Since then, Abel has done everything he can to make our studio cozy and colorful. Yellow walls, orange throw pillows, sky-blue curtains. And books. So many books.
In a little corner, Abel has his easel set up. He still works the construction job but every day he gets better at his sketches. Soon, he’s going to be the biggest artist ever who won’t need a day job. At first, he’d only sketch my portraits and I can’t believe my face is up at some of the great galleries around town. But now, he also makes portraits of other people. Some of them are his friends from his work, and some are strangers that we see at the park, and are nice enough to sit for him.
I always knew Abel could never be invisible. His art won’t let him. His art won’t judge him, either, and neither will the people who love his sketches. For them, he’s simply Abel Adams, their favorite artist.
