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“Here, let me help you.” I take her free hand and gently clasp my hand around hers.
I exhale a deep breath. The feeling of her hand in mine is so familiar and comforting in a way that Adelaide’s never was. Our hands fit so perfectly, as if they were made for one another. Her small hand twitches in mine and I squeeze, wondering if she may be thinking the same thing as I am.
“Come on,” I say, my voice raspy, and lead her back to the couch.
She follows me, and though I’m trying to play off the fact, I’m hyperaware of her proximity. That weird vibe between us for the past couple of weeks seems to be concentrated in the spot where we’re touching.
“Here you go.” I align her with the spot on the couch. “Can you see enough now?”
“Yeah, a little better. I have that annoying line in my vision, but it’s fading a bit.”
“Okay good.”
I use my flashlight to find all the candles in the room and light them. There are three, and though it’s a good-sized room, it’s enough light to cast a yellow glow over everything. I sit down in the chair again, close enough that our feet almost touch.
“So, where were we?” I ask, not wanting to have this conversation but knowing it’s inevitable.
“You were talking about security.”
“Right. I want to make sure you’re both safe, so as much as I know you’ll hate the idea, I’m hiring someone to take you to and from work and school and to keep an eye on the house to make sure no one tries to harass you. At least for the time being until we can figure out something more permanent.”
“You keep saying the two of us.” Her voice is low and unsure.
“What?”
“You only have to worry about Monica.” She must be able to see properly again, because her eyes flick up and hold my attention.
“You’re her mother. Of course I want to make sure you’re safe.” I’m trying to lie, but I taste the dishonesty on my tongue.
She’s quiet for a minute, holding my gaze. “Is that the only reason?”
Lightning lights up the room for a second, but in that second, fear and uncertainty cloud her eyes.
I’m quiet for a beat as my head wars with my heart. I should say yes. The smart thing to do here is say yes, but in this moment, it also feels like the hardest thing in the world to do.
“No, it’s not.”
Her chest lifts, diverting my eyes for a moment. Slowly, I take her hand, pulling her off the couch until she’s standing in front of me.
“Jimmy, what are you doing?” she whispers.
My hands grip her sides and I gently pull her forward, giving her plenty of time to push me away if she chooses. But she doesn’t. Thank God. Instead she follows my lead and rests her knees on either side of my lap in the center of the chair, letting her weight fall forward.
I lean in and inhale her scent. I’m not sure I realized until this moment how much I’ve missed her. She trembles and sucks in another breath.
She always uses the best-smelling shampoo. All those years ago, when her scent finally died off my bedding, I remember being so conflicted—one part of me was happy to no longer be tortured with her scent, and the other was devastated I’d never smell it again.
After a minute, I lean back into the chair and take her in. The way the candlelight kisses her face reminds me of the Lilah after rehab. She’s beautiful—inside and out—healthy and gazing down at me as though I’m her everything.
She’s silent, sitting back and allowing me the pleasure. She’s not fidgeting like she has been lately. She knows I’m hers. She feels what I do.
But it wasn’t until I put a voice to my emotions that I realized how much I need to keep her safe. Why her safety is as important as Monica’s. The pressure inside me releases, and I finally admit to myself that my concern isn’t just because she’s Monica’s mother.
It’s because she’s Lilah.
My Lilah.
No matter the time and distance and circumstances that kept us apart, some things never change. And what we mean to one another is one of those things.
