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Josh’s shoulders tense, his eyes locked on mine. Then he faces Tommy and touches his finger to his nose and then to his chest. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, Daddy,” Tommy says as Josh turns to me, his eyes distant while he mouths what must be Tommy’s routine words, “And I love Nanni and Ma’am and Mommy and Justin and Aunt Kimmy and Uncle Robby and Aunt Chloe and Uncle Hunt,”—Tommy takes a breath as Josh steps closer to me—“And most of all, I love My Becca.”
My stomach flips, my heart… I can’t even explain it.
I don’t know how long we stand there, a foot apart, his eyes never leaving mine. But it’s too long. Or maybe not long enough. He’s the first to break, looking away when he says, “You don’t have any bags.”
I don’t know if it’s a question or a statement, but I nod anyway.
“You um… you left some clothes here from…” His voice fades as he spins around and walks the few steps to his bedroom. I ignore the voices in my head telling me that I shouldn’t follow, that I shouldn’t let him close the door after me. “They’re in my closet,” he says, but he makes no move to get them. Instead, he just stands there, staring at me like he did outside Tommy’s room. I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks, the sweat forming on my palms, the beating of my heart crashing against my chest. The air is thick. My breaths are shallow as I finally get my feet to function and move around him to get to his closet. His bedroom’s changed since I’ve been in it last, the floor covered with boxes stacked three or four high, filled with brand new t-shirts, all sealed in plastic, sponsors’ logos printed on them.
“You can take whatever you want,” he says, moving around me. He reaches over me to get a box from high in his closet and drops it on his bed. A few of my dresses are in there, along with tops, bras and panties. My cheeks flame while I silently question why he kept it all. I look over at him, but his eyes are fixed on the box, his cheeks as red as mine if not redder. “You can stay here,” he says out of nowhere. “I mean, if you don’t want to be alone tonight. But you’re probably used to being alone, right? Because your dad and his job and all that… unless you’re not alone…” He exhales loudly.
“I’m alone,” Cordy says for me. Stupid Traitor Cordy.
His eyes lock on mine, then slowly drift down my body. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. Or not. Whatever you want.” He sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at me. Only now do I see the bags under his eyes, the struggle to keep them open, and I remember that he hasn’t slept at all in two days. “The doctor’s coming in at nine. Kim will be here at eight to take Tommy for the day. I want to be there before he sees her, make sure she’s up for it. Yeah… she’ll probably hate that I’m there but… she’s going to be okay, right?” His voice breaks. “She has to be okay.”
I reach for him, but he stands quickly, avoiding my touch. “I’m going to shower.” He opens a drawer in his dresser to grab a pair of boxer shorts, and without looking at me, he says, “I’ll be back.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, my mind racing with so many thoughts I can’t focus on one. At some point, I hear the shower run, and I rummage through the box of my clothes for something to wear. There’s nothing I can sleep in, so I grab a random shirt from one of his boxes and slip it over me, then I sit back down, and I wait. I don’t know exactly what I’m waiting for. I recall him asking if I wanted to stay here but I haven’t decided, so I spend the next few minutes trying to make up my mind. Before I know it, he’s walking back into the room in nothing but his underwear, a towel in his hand, roughly drying his hair. He freezes when he sees me, and panic sets in. Is he so out of it that he doesn’t remember asking me to stay? I start to get up at the same time he says, “I’ll just grab a pillow.” But the only part of him that moves are his eyes—eyes trailing from my bare legs, pausing at my waist, and then at my breasts before settling on my face. His eyes are no longer sad, no longer tired, and I struggle to breathe through the tension filling the air.
I reach for my phone on his nightstand and type: I should go. But without bothering to read what I’ve said, he takes the phone from me and throws it on the bed. Now he’s close. Too close. His hand cups my jaw and tilts my head up, shifting my gaze from his abs to his eyes. “Please stay,” he whispers. “I can’t be alone.”
15
