Abruption (19 page)

“Don’t move.”

I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Not to mention the view I had of his naked physique strolling toward the bathroom was insane. I sat up a touch and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch in time to watch him strut back without an ounce of insecurity.

“Don’t listen very well, but what should I expect from my stubborn girl.”

The stubborn part was a given, but the
my girl,
aww. I liked that
.
Way more than I should have.

“I was sweaty. You left me and I got chilly.” I held the blanket up for him to crawl under.

He grinned at me, clearly enjoying the peep show. “And you’re …”

“Waiting for a warm body.”

He tossed the two big cushions from the back of the couch on the floor and dove on the inside of me, snuggling up to my side.

“I could do sweaty again,” he said, giving his eyebrow a waggle.

“Ready so soon?” I teased back.

He nuzzled his chin into the crook of my neck, mumbling, “Maybe this round you can teach me in the language of love.” I couldn’t distinguish if it was the way he dragged out the “o” in love or his flexed jaw tickling my sensitive skin that had me laughing harder.

“Okay, okay.” Without thinking I blurted, “Come un raggio di sole, che hai illuminato la mia vita e mi ha fatto ridere di nuovo.” He retreated slightly, cocking his head to one side. “Sono pazzo di te,” I finished, meaning every single word.

“Have I told you lately how sexy you are?” He propped up on his elbow and stared down at me with those hypnotic liquid blues. “Are you going to tell me what you said, doll?”

His tickle softened to a caress across my chest. Gah! He was being so sweet. I felt myself getting pulled under. Sinking in a tidal wave of charm and sincerity, it would be so easy to drown. But no way was he getting the translation.

“We’ll see,” I whispered, looking away to focus on a small crack on the ceiling and pretending I didn’t just hand him a small piece of my very fragile heart. Even if it was in Italian.

“Hey.” He brushed a stray hair off my cheek. “Where’d you go?”

I blinked away the suffocating enormity of everything I was feeling and gave him a small smile.

He sat up and pulled me into his side, wrapping the blanket around us and giving me another pass. “You’re not what I expected.”

My smile turned almost immediately to a smirk. “Oh really.”

“I mean that in the best way possible. You are so full of surprises. You’re the exception.” His half-laugh never met his eyes. He tried to play it off, but I saw it. I knew what it was like to slip and show your pain.

Trying to keep it light, I sassed back. “Exception? Care to elaborate? Is there some type of rule book, a men’s guide to women that you’re following?”

“Now
that
would’ve been helpful.”

Past tense. Now that made me pause, instantly disliking the woman or women responsible for the disappointment that flickered past his eyes. Without knowing her, I was sure his wife in heaven shared my disdain.

“Your next play written in black and white hardly seems fair to the female race.”

“Fair, huh.” He began drawing lazy circles with his finger down my arm, as his voice drifted away. “People spend most of their lives believing fair is getting what you deserve, when in reality, fair is merely getting what you can handle.” The air shifted; it was heavier, thicker, his pain more pronounced, deeper than a man scorned. He sounded like he’d repeated that mantra a million times before, yet the words held no inspiration. They felt empty and meaningless. And I understood. Oh, God, did I understand.

What you can handle.
I lost count of all the days I woke up unsure of what I could handle. I imagined Guy had his share of similar mornings.

“What makes me the exception?” I asked again, not because I thought I was special, but because I wanted him to share his pain. He’d yet to really speak about
her,
but I longed for him to know it was okay. “Please, tell me?”

His gaze met mine. He was considering opening up. I could see it. Then he kissed the tip of my nose. “I finally dug myself out of you thinking I’m a dick, don’t really want to revisit that, doll.”

I sensed his resolve slipping, so without thinking, I went for it. “It has to be hard … you may think I don’t understand, and I probably won’t ever. Everyone’s loss is different—it’s personal and untouchable. I promise you I get that. But what you’ve done for your children, the way you love them and take care of them all by yourself … as hard as it is, you’re doing it. Every single day. I know in my heart she’d be proud.”

“Not so sure they aren’t better off.” His reply was immediate, his tone saturated with something I couldn’t put my finger on. He wasn’t making any sense.

“I don’t understand ... better off?”

“Yeah, better off without her.”

My breath hitched. I wasn’t expecting that. There was no way he was that cold, yet
her
rolled off his tongue with an arctic chill. What child was better off without their mother? The mere thought hammered against my armored heart. I gripped his thigh with one hand and swallowed past the lump in my throat. “You don’t mean that.”
Please say you don’t mean it.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he sat forward and slowly dug the heel of his hand up and over his face, raking his scalp. The look on his face could have been mistaken as bitterness, but I saw through his exterior, or maybe I needed to believe that. He wasn’t angry or hateful. He was hurt. The silent kind. The kind that slowly singes everything you ever thought was good and burns so raw that you question if there would ever be anything powerful enough to douse the flames.

He stood, slipped on his T-shirt and boxers and started to walk away. Without looking back, he asked, “And what if I did?”

I heard rummaging through my kitchen cabinets, followed by the clink of ice hitting the bottom of a glass. I shimmied on my own shirt and underwear, righted the couch pillows, and counted my deep breaths. One one thousand, two one thousand, three.

Stupid exercise, never worked.

And what if I did?
played on repeat. But I didn’t believe him. Not for a second. No way he hated the mother of his children, there was more. Had to be. There was always more. The
more
was the hardest part to share.

A muffled ding coming from somewhere on the floor broke the combustible silence. “That my cell?” He walked back across my living room carrying a drink on the rocks for himself and a glass of red for me. “Couldn’t find tequila, or I would’ve made you a margarita.”

Oookay … guess he was following my lead with the infamous alcohol diversion.

“It’s on my list. The wine is perfect, thank you.” Instead of pushing further, I sipped the cabernet hoping to numb the throb in my throat. He’d share
more
when he was ready, right? I was such a hypocrite.

A second ding rang through on his cell by the time he picked up his jeans and dug it out of his pocket. “Have to make sure everything is okay.” With Finn being so sick lately, I couldn’t help but share his concern. I hated that they had to live with the
what now
possibilities that threatened Finn. Fortunately, two huge toothy smiles filled his screen, and with pressing play, their high-pitched squeals echoed in unison, “Miss you, Daddy!” The timing couldn’t have been any better.

“Looks like Finny is enjoying his ice cream cone.”

“The smeared chocolate across his cheeks and nose give it away?” he asked, breaking into a well-needed grin. Even if it only lasted a second. “At least they actually took them to do something this time.” He grumbled it more to himself than toward me.

I’d never been married so I wouldn’t know, but
challenging
in-law dynamics were common enough that I wasn’t completely shocked by Guy’s last comment. That didn’t mean I didn’t wish for better for him and them. Tragedy should tighten family ties, not tear them apart.

In an attempt to steer the conversation, I said, “Might be more on his face than in his belly.” I laughed, hoping he would join me. No such luck.

He sat back down on the edge of the couch still staring at the picture. “These two”—he tapped the bright screen, downed the rest of his drink, and leaned into the cushions—“are the reason I take my next breath.”

Without warning, my stomach clenched, and my throat constricted, making it nearly impossible for air to pass. Familiar voices danced in my head like a bad song on repeat. The harder you tried to forget, the louder it played.

“Jules Marie, we’re worried about you.”

“You get up every day and go about your life, but it’s like you’ve forgotten to breathe.”

My internal answer.
“Because maybe I don’t want to take my next breath!”

Oh God, not now
. I hadn’t had an attack in months.
Not now
.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I can do this. I can do this.

I met him against the back of the couch and coaxed him to lie against my chest, praying he wouldn’t notice my erratic heartbeat since his was firing almost as rapidly. He melted in, willingly wrapping his arms around my waist, hugging me. Betrayed by my tears, I focused on the ceiling crack and concentrated on my breathing. That’s all I could do. Remember to breathe.

My fingers tangled in his hair, massaging in count with my respirations. I hoped exhaustion and straight vodka would work in my favor, and he’d believe I was giving him a
minute
even though I was the one desperate for it. I squeezed my eyes shut, ignored my tears, and concentrated on regulating my pulse. I had become a pro at keeping them hidden. This one took me by surprise.

Time passed. I wasn’t sure how long before my episode dissipated, and the tension in Guy’s shoulders loosened, giving me the full weight of his body. With a contented sigh, his breathing evened, and I sensed sleep finally embraced him.

My porch light filtered in through a crack in my curtain, illuminating his profile. The tiny creases at the edge of his eyes now but a memory as the muscles in his face relaxed. I ran my finger along the fine stubble at the edge of his jaw line and traced along his lips. He was beautiful like this.
Weightless
. I wondered how often this happened. Probably never. He carried too much on his own and harbored a pain deep enough to shield with resentment. I stared out the window high to the heavens and silently whispered to a woman I’d never met. “
You know he didn’t mean it. He just misses you. It’s hard to be ... left behind.”
I wondered if I could be the one to share his weight. Was I strong enough to handle more?

Seven years was a long time. I lay there trying to convince myself that maybe it was long enough to try and move on, or at least stop pretending for everyone else’s sake. But I knew I’d never
truly
move on, my wound was irreparable. There wasn’t a stitch strong enough to piece my heart back together. I was okay with that. But looking at Guy and feeling his warmth, I contemplated whether my steel armor could carry a little more—enough to help him begin to heal.

I wasn’t going to give up. Not yet.

I repeated my mantra:
I can do this
.

My lids grew heavy listening to his soft snores, as an unexpected sense of peace filled in around me.

I could ignore it, trample it, crush it with my fears.

Or feel it.

Be comforted by it.

And revel in its warmth.

Before drifting off, I whispered in English this time, “Like a ray of light, you have brightened my life and
you
made me laugh again.” I kissed the top of his head and dragged my fingers through his messed hair one last time. “I’m crazy about you.”