Chapter Seven
Wendy
At first, I'm not sure what wakes me up.
The bedroom is pitch-black, and it takes my eyes a couple of minutes to adjust. There’s a weight on my waist and I’m warm, almost too warm, but it feels nice.
Actually, it feels more than nice.
Slowly, carefully, I look down.
Atlas' big arm is wrapped around my waist, his chest pressed flush against my back. I freeze, my heart stuttering once and then slamming violently in my chest.
I feel dizzy and disoriented, just from this simple touch from my husband. It's a touch I've known since I was twelve years old, but he hasn't given me this in so long that it feels strange.
Closing my eyes, I try to keep my breathing steady and controlled, shamelessly desperate for any crumbs of affection from Atlas now.
Even now, even with all the ways he's hurt me, ignored me, left me feeling invisible, I still want—need—his touch. It's grounding and so solid and warm. I soak in it, because this might be all I get because when he's awake, he wants nothing to do with me.
Feeling pathetic, I just let this lightness spread through me, even if it means nothing because he's not choosing to do it.
I still need it. I still need him.
The digital clock reads 3:57 when I wake.
It's 4:08 when I feel everything shift.
A sound against the back of my neck, where his hot breath is puffing rapidly now. A broken whimper, then another one.
"Wendy..."
My eyes go wide at him saying my name. Is he awake? Is he still asleep?
His arm around my waist tightens, anchoring me to him.
"...baby, no... please, don't go... it's not..."
I've heard Atlas' emotional voice, trembling and thick—when he told me he loved me for the first time, when he asked me to marry him, speaking our vows at our wedding, at the boys' births. His voice turns rough around the edges, gravelly like the words are being forcibly dragged from his throat.
This voice is not that one.
This voice is... scary, to be honest.
It's thin, frayed, and raw. It's full of fear.
"Baby... please, I'm so sorry... don't leave me..."
His voice rises in pitch, sounding distressed. The protective urge flares inside of me for him.
My Atlas is hurting, and I need to help him.
I roll over to face him, and Atlas' arm only tightens on me, like it thinks I'm trying to leave. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I can see how his face is pulled tight, eyes clenched shut, lips twisted, jaw clenched.
His breathing is short and uneven, and when I press my palm to his sweaty chest, I feel his heart hammering against it.
"Atlas," my other hand comes up to cup his face. He lets out an odd sound, like a growl from his throat. "Honey..."
"Wendy, baby, please don't leave me...."
The plea breaks me, and I cup his face with both of my hands and shake him, pulling him out of his night terror.
"Atlas!"
His eyes fly open and lock onto mine instantly. What I see pulls all the breath from my lungs. It's an expression the boys use when they've been caught doing something they shouldn't have—wide-eyed panic and guilt.
In any other instance, I would find it amusing to see where they learned that expression from, and might even tease him for it.
But there's nothing funny about the fear in Atlas' eyes.
"It's okay, honey," I whisper, comforting him and leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. "I'm here. I'm right here."
He flinches when my lips make contact with his skin, and when I pull back, he just looks at me for a long moment.
My hands are still on his bearded cheeks, and when my thumb brushes his cheekbone, his face goes slack and soft.
Those eyes of his, the ones I love so much, the ones my children inherited, go hazy, as if my touch has hypnotized him. His arm, still locked around me, pulls me tighter to him. I want to burst into tears when I feel his palm start rubbing my back, just the way he knows I like.
I used to flop onto the bed next to him, and he’d slide his warm hand between my shoulder blades. Not a massage—just comforting contact. I’d purr like a contented kitten, and he’d stay like that for hours if I let him.
It almost makes me cry now. It's been so long since I've touched my husband like this. I'm like a starving woman, gorging myself on this little bit of contact, willing these seconds to last.
I breathe in his scent—his shower soap and pure Atlas, my husband.
God, I love him so much.
Even still, even now. I wish I could wave a magic wand and fix everything, because in his arms, nothing else seems to matter.
What are any of our problems compared to this immeasurable love I have for him?
Nothing.
So why can’t he see it? Why can’t he fight with me instead of against me?
Atlas calms, now taking deep, slow inhales and exhales, as his heart rate slows to a normal beat. I keep stroking his cheek with my thumb, revelling in my husband's much-missed touch.
I'm still concerned, though, because the dream sounded... horrible. And apparently, it involved me.
"You were having a nightmare, honey," I murmur, keeping my voice soft to not disturb the peace. "It's okay..."
Unfortunately, this breaks him out of his spell.
His eyes snap open, frantic and wide, and he realizes the position we're in. As if my touch burns, he pulls his hand from my back and yanks his face out of my hands.
That stings badly, but I had him—I was touching my husband again, maybe if I push a little, I can drag him back.
Maybe he needs me to reach out and save him.
All thoughts of separation and divorce fly clear out of my head. My single focus at the moment is pulling my husband back into my arms, telling him that he can talk to me, about his nightmare, about whatever has made him pull away.
We can fix this. I love him too much to let our marriage die without a goddamn fight.
We can try again, we can get back to Wendy and Atlas.
Before I can even open my mouth, he rolls over in bed to face away from me, moving as far as he can. I move toward him, hoping and wishing that I can drag him back, that my love and my touch are good enough to get him back.
"Atlas, are—" I start, but his growling, angry voice cuts me off, not even rolling over to look at me.
"I'm fine."
"Atlas, you sounded—"
"Wendy," he snaps, louder now. "Leave it."
I can't. I feel it all slipping through my fingers.
"Please, just talk to me—"
"For fuck's sake, I said I'm fine!"
I flinch at the volume and the snarling tone of his voice.
He's never raised his voice at me before. With that, I feel something inside of me finally shatter.
All of the fight, all of the surviving motivation to fix things, it all falls away, disappearing into dust. It's only the two of us here, but I feel so embarrassed, so full of shame.
A hitching sob claws its way up my throat, but I cover my mouth to muffle the sound because having him hear how badly he's hurt me is somehow worse than actually feeling it.
His breathing goes deep and even again in sleep, but I just lie here in my bed, next to my husband, and I cry. I apparently can't even comfort my husband without irritating him.
My whole body shakes, my hands clench and unclench at my sides with energy that has nowhere to go. I allow myself this cry to release it all.
One last cry.