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An internal war is raging right now between begging her to talk and screaming not to push her. But why the fuck do I need to tiptoe around this? The only way to deal with problems is by facing them head-on. She told me that. We can’t keep going like this or we’re going to spin out of control. And everyone knows how much I love that feeling.
When we get into the apartment and take our shoes off, Amelia heads for the bedroom, but I follow her and grab her arm before she gets there.
“Ames, we need to talk.”
She looks up at me, eyes hollow. “No, we don’t. Not tonight.”
“Then when? Because you’ve been saying ‘not now’ and telling me you’re fine for months, when we both know that’s a lie. I’ve done my best not to push you, but this is getting ridiculous now. I know you’re struggling, so let me in. I’m here for you.” I run my hands down her arms. “I’m always here, babe.”
She blinks a couple of times. “Yeah. I know.” She turns to walk away, but I grab her arm again. “What do you want from me, Miles?” Her voice is sharp and filled with pain.
“You. I want you to let me in. Let me see the parts of you that are hurting.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I care about you. I want to help you.”
“You can’t help me. There’s nothing to help. It’s the reality of my life that I have to learn how to deal with. You can’t control my pain.”
What the hell?This is so much worse than I realized. “I’m not trying to control your pain.” Though I’m getting pissed, I keep my voice soft and calm.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re trying to control how I deal with it. You want to force me to talk as if that will magically fix things because you can’t handle it when things aren’t perfect or don’t fit into a neat little box. Well, guess what? My life is messy. And it’s not fucking fixable!” An angry sob heaves in her chest, but it doesn’t stop her. “How are you going to fix my dad being gone? How are you going to fix my mother slowly slipping into the recesses of her own mind until she’s gone too? Do you have a magic fix for that?” She covers her mouth, trying to hold back her sobs.
Adrenaline rushes through me as I watch her. Fear and uncertainty ravage my mind. I don’t know what to do or say. I don’t know how to help her. I don’t want to fix it. I want to be there for her while she works through it.
“I’m not trying to fix anything, Ames. I only want—”
“I need space.” She steps back, holding up her hand, and my heart seizes. I close my eyes for a second, trying to take a calming breath, but there’s no calm here. The air is charged with hurt and anger.
“What does that mean?” I ask. My throat is dry and scratchy, like it’s lined with sand. I swallow a couple of times trying to push past this sensation, but my anxiety is winning this war, beating down everything else in its path as a panic attack looms beyond it.
“It means space. From you. From… us. I can’t think or breathe or process anything with you here hovering over me.”
Anger courses through me again. And confusion because I don’t understand. I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong or what I’m supposed to do differently. “I’m not trying to hover. I’m trying to talk to you. I’m trying to support you. I thought this is how a relationship was supposed to be! You’re supposed to rely on me. Lean on me. Let me help you through this.”
“I don’t need help!” She inhales sharply, panting as she tries to hold back her tears. “I need time and space to figure out my own feelings.”
“Then I’ll sleep in my bedroom. I’ll give you space.”
“No. I won’t—” She stops and takes a deep breath, looking frantic. I hate it. “That won’t work. I need more than a room’s separation or sleeping in different beds. I need time apart.” Her breath shakes, and tears fill my eyes. There it is. The knife to my heart. “I’m going to get a hotel room or go stay with Dani for a little while.”
I stare at her for a moment, my mind running at warp speed, trying desperately to find a way out of this. The right words.Something.But I’m not that lucky.
There’s nothing. She’s right. I can’t magically fix things. I hate this. I want to scream and fight and find a fucking solution, but I can’t force her. My anxiety rips through me and that desire to control everything overwhelms me, but I can’t control her.
“No.” It’s barely a whisper, but this is the one thing I can still do to take care of her, even if she won’t let me in any other way.
Her eyes widen, pain filling them like this is gutting her as much as it is me. “Miles, don’t—”
“You should stay here. I’ll go. You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t have to leave your home. If you need space, I’ll go.” The words gut me as they come out of my mouth, but since the beginning, I’d do anything for her. This is what she wants, so I’m doing it. Even if it hurts so badly, I feel it in my bones.
She stares at me for a second. “Oh.” There’s a long pause, like she’s trying to figure out if it’s some kind of trick. I wish. I wish it was some sort of reverse psychology that would change everything, but it’s just me still trying to take care of her, even as she rips my heart from my chest. Who the fuck am I kidding? I handed it to her a long time ago. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I nod sharply, unable to take my eyes off her. “I’ll go pack some things.” My skin crawls as every cell in my body screams this is wrong. I shouldn’t be leaving. I swore I wouldn’t. I take a step, but pause. She needs to know I’m not. Moving a step closer, I look into her ocean eyes. The unrelenting pain in them kills me. “This isn’t me leaving. I told you when we looked at this apartment that I was never walking out on you or our child, and I’m not. I’m only doing this because you’re asking me to. Don’t think this is forever because I’m not letting you go. I’m not giving up on our future or our family.” I hold her gaze for a moment longer, then walk down the hall to my bedroom. A bedroom I’ve never slept in. My clothes are the only things living in this room.
I dig out my duffel bag, and as I open my top drawer, tightness creeps into my chest. This is the last thing I want. The crushing pain in my heart mixes with the feeling of helplessness I can’t shake, and it’s hard to breathe. Closing my eyes, I count backward from ten, gripping the edge of the dresser and moving my fingers over the smooth wood. I stand there breathing slowly even after I’ve finished counting, and for some reason the song my mother always sang me pops into my head.Songbird.I never realized how much it comforts me until lately, like it’s a safe space inside my brain.
It plays on repeat as I pack my things. Only a week’s worth. We have a baby appointment on Friday, so I can come back then to get more stuff. I slam my last drawer shut. Jesus, this is ridiculous. And the last fucking thing I want.
