39. #2
I did not move.
When all three slept, Aurora stopped.
The silence felt heavy.
“She is too afraid,” I said.
“I know.”
“Child psychologist?”
“I’ve considered it.”
“May I search?”
Aurora hesitated.
“We search.”
We.
“All right.”
“Someone specializing in small children and trauma.”
“Yes.”
“Without turning it into a diagnosis.”
“Of course.”
“And first we speak to the pediatrician.”
“All right.”
Aurora slowly removed Cecília’s hand from mine.
Placed the stone near the pillow.
We left.
In the corridor, we kept the door open.
“The exposure was too much,” I said.
“We could not prevent everything.”
“I brought the danger.”
“Otávio did.”
“My surname did too.”
“Stop.”
“It is true.”
“Do not make guilt the center.”
The sentence stopped me.
“How?”
“Cecília needs security, not you suffering because you caused this.”
“But I…”
“Guilt can motivate change. It cannot occupy the space where the solution belongs.”
Therapy in Aurora.
Or experience.
“Then solutions,” I said. “Pediatrician. Psychologist. Routine. Appropriate information.”
“And fewer adult conversations in front of them.”
“Yes.”
“Including me.”
“Us.”
“Us.”
Again.
We went downstairs to the kitchen.
The house was silent.
Aurora opened the refrigerator.
“Is there water?”
“In the door.”
She took it.
Drank directly from the bottle.
I watched.
“What?”
“You complained when I did that.”
“I complained because you left empty bottles.”
“I still do.”
“Not here.”
“I can start.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Do you want coffee?”
“It is almost midnight.”
“That does not answer.”
“I do.”
I prepared it.
Aurora sat on the counter.
“You truly cannot make eggs, but you can make coffee.”
“Priorities.”
“Your employees used to do it.”
“I learned after renting this house.”
“Why?”
“I did not want staff around constantly.”
“Planned loneliness.”
“Something like that.”
I gave her the cup.
She drank.
“Good.”
“Surprised?”
“A little.”
We remained there.
“What was your first week here like?” she asked.
“Empty.”
“You had just found us.”
“Yes.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Not much.”
“Were you thinking about the children?”
“All four of you.”
“What did you think about me?”
The question carried danger.
“That you hated me.”
“And?”
“That I still loved you.”
Aurora lowered the cup.
“Even before you knew who I am now?”
“I loved the woman I knew. Then I began discovering you.”
“And did you like her?”
“Very much.”
“Even the angry part?”
“Especially that part.”
“Liar.”
“No. The anger proves you were not erased.”
“That is selfish.”
“It is.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I also like the mother.”
She stiffened.
“But not only the mother.”
She relaxed.
“I like the woman who rebuilt a life, created a business, knows wood by scent, and bosses me without noticing.”
“I notice.”
“Worse.”
“And me?” she asked. “What do you think I like?”
“You like me with the children.”
“Yes.”
“When I listen.”
“Yes.”
“The beard.”
“Tomás likes it.”
“You too.”
“Maybe.”
“The kisses.”
“Very much.”
My body reacted.
“Beyond that.”
Aurora looked at the coffee.
“I like that you do not conceal fear the way you used to. I like not needing to be strong every second when you are near. And I like that the children have another lap.”
“Three laps simultaneously remains impossible.”
“You try.”
“I fall.”
“That is part of it.”
Silence.
“I am afraid of depending,” she admitted.
“On me?”
“On having help. Presence. Someone dividing the burden. And then losing it.”
“I will not choose to disappear.”
“You promised the children.”
“Yes.”
“And me?”
I stopped.
“I can promise transparency about any distance. If I want to leave, I tell you. If I am afraid, I tell you. If something changes, I tell you. I do not vanish.”
Aurora looked at me.
“And if I tell you to leave?”
“I ask whether you need space or it is the end.”
“If I say it is the end?”
The question hurt.
“I respect it.”
“You leave?”
“The relationship. Not the children.”
“And remain in town?”
“If it is possible without hurting you.”
“And if not?”
“I find a way to stay close to them without invading.”
She breathed.
“You’ve thought about this.”
“Every day.”
“Why?”
“Because loving you does not guarantee I will be chosen.”
Aurora set down the cup, approached, and stopped in front of me.
“Today I choose you.”
My heart beat.
“Today?”
“I can only promise today.”
“Today is enough.”
She kissed me.
Slow.
Brief.
Without deepening it.
“I will sleep with the children.”
“All right.”
“You in your room.”
“All right.”
“Do not look disappointed.”
“I’m a little disappointed.”
“Endure it.”
“I can.”
Aurora went upstairs.
I remained in the kitchen.
I did not feel rejected.
She had chosen today.
Tomorrow would be another choice.
Perhaps adult love was that.
Not a promise made once before witnesses.
A decision repeated on ordinary days.
Without an altar.
Without spectacle.
At two, I woke to soft knocking.
Aurora entered.
“Did something happen?”
“I cannot sleep.”
I sat up.
“Would you like to talk?”
“No.”
“Silence?”
“Not that either.”
She approached.
Sat on the edge.
“May I stay here?”
My heart beat.
“Yes.”
“Only sleep.”
“All right.”
“Without…”
“Nothing.”
Aurora lay on the left side, away from the injured shoulder.
I remained still.
“Do you always sleep on your back?” she asked.
“I don’t know how to touch you.”
“You can use the good arm.”
I placed it around her waist.
She settled her back against my chest.
My body reacted.
Impossible to hide.
“Ignore it,” I said.
“Difficult.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
We remained.
Breathing.
Heat.
Scent.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered.
“Probably.”
“But I need it.”
“Then stay.”
“Just don’t…” she said, unable to explain.
I laughed.
“All right.”
Aurora held my hand against her stomach and fell asleep first.
I remained awake.
Not only because of desire.
Because of the weight of her trust.
She slept in my bed.
Not as a lover.
As someone who believed she was safe enough to close her eyes.
It was more intimate than sex.
And far more difficult to deserve.