Chapter 23
SADIE
This AirBnB—which is really my house—has amazing Egyptian cotton sheets, excellent-smelling body wash and shampoo, and the loveliest view of the Chicago skyline. While I’m more comfortable here than in the hospital, it doesn’t feel like home. Just a VRBO I’m a guest at.
Shouldn’t I feel like more than a guest?
There are glimpses of me. I can confidently admit that I did live here just based on the handwritten notes stuck to my bathroom mirror, the endless supply of Chapstick in my nightstand drawer, my Syracuse University sweats that have withstood the closet cleanouts, and the copies of my favorite books lined up on the shelf. And if we remodeled this place ourselves, I’m ashamed to say I’m the one to blame for the two showerheads in the walk-in shower. I’ve always thought something like that would be romantic. But the reality of showering with Nash makes me want to cover my face in embarrassment.
The proof of life should be comforting, but instead, it depresses me, adding more unknowns to my plate.
After a long, hot shower, I walk around the room, taking in hints and clues about our life together. Framed above our bed is a brown note with a scribbled message across it. I climb on the mattress to get a better look at what it says.
Bro, I’d love to take out your sister. If she’s lying about having a boyfriend and you don’t think I’m crazy, please give her my number.
This is obviously something special between me and Nash to be the focal point behind our bed, but it means nothing to me. My head shakes as I drop down to my butt, leaning my back against the headboard. I’ll have to ask Tate about it when I get to Skaneateles. I assume the note was written to him since it said sister. I could see Tate loving a bold move like that from Nash just to get my attention.
But even as small pieces fit together, this life still feels like a dream with no chance of waking up in sight. I stare aimlessly ahead when Nash knocks on the door.
“Come in.” It is his bedroom, after all.
His light hair is the first thing I see, followed by a timid smile. “I heard footsteps and the shower, so I figured you were awake now.”
“It’s a great shower.” I nod toward the bathroom.
“Right?” He takes a small step inside the room. “We went back and forth on where to position the double shower heads, but in the end, you were right as usual.”
“I figured the double heads were my idea. I’ve always wanted something like that.”
His expression pulls to something playful. “Even more so after you married me.”
I laugh as I crawl to the edge of the bed, purposely avoiding eye contact in hopes he doesn’t see my blush.
“Are you finding everything you need?”
“I don’t even know.” I comb my fingers through my damp hair, swinging my legs over the mattress to a sitting position. “The more I dig, the more questions I have, and the more overwhelmed I feel.”
“Maybe I can help.” He slides his hands into his pockets, taking another step into the bedroom.
“For starters, why are all my pants cropped and wide-leg? Is this the actual style now, or just some fashion statement I was trying to make? And according to the t-shirt in my closet, Taylor Swift has released three new albums. THREE NEW ALBUMS. Do you know how many hours of songs I need to listen to just to get caught up? And apparently, there's a new Top Gun movie, unless that movie poster in the back of the closet is lying.”
“Wow. That’s a lot to unpack.” He laughs, joining me on the edge of the bed. I recognize his cologne probably because I picked up the bottle on the bathroom counter and smelled it. A man wouldn’t douse himself in a fragrance his wife wasn’t a fan of, but man, I did not expect to like the way Nash smells so much. Despite the awkwardness of our situation, a nose-dive into his neck doesn’t seem like that bad of an idea, but I’ll just use the bottle on the counter whenever I need a whiff.
“As far as I know,” Nash says, pulling me out of my cologne frenzy, “the wide-leg cropped pants are in style. And as a side note, you look very cute in them.”
I bite my lip, containing my smile.
“And you have a Taylor Swift shirt because we went to her concert in Paris a couple of months ago. It was pretty epic.”
My shoulders sink. “I missed Paris and a Taylor Swift concert?”
“You didn’t miss it. You were there, and you fully enjoyed yourself. We sang our hearts out. And until you have time to listen to the new albums, I can tell you what songs are your favorite.”
“And what about Top Gun ?”
“Excellent movie. I’m jealous you get to watch it again for the first time.”
“I don’t have time to watch it again because I’ll be busy relearning everything I can’t remember.”
“A lot of it you’ll figure out as you go. Like, does it really matter right now that Queen Elizabeth died, and you don’t remember?”
“What?” My posture falls. “The queen is dead?”
“I was just giving a random example.”
A wave of emotion I can’t explain slowly pools inside me, funneling into my eyes. “How did she die?”
Nash studies me, watching as I unravel. “Are you okay?”
“No.” I shake my head, fighting against the building tears. “Queen Elizabeth is dead.”
Somehow, it’s the final straw.
It’s not logical.
It’s not normal.
But it’s happening, and I can’t stop it.
Tears spill out of me in a steady stream as my chest heaves up and down.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” Nash wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Just breathe.”
“I’m…try…ing,” I say through heavy gasps that are too substantial to rein in.
This breakdown isn’t about the Queen of England, a new Top Gun movie, or a weird clothing style I don’t understand. It's about everything else. Everything I’ve been holding in—all the overwhelm, confusion, newness, unknowns, anger, and disappointment—unleashes, and emotion fills the gaps. Uncontrollable sobs decimate whatever composure I had.
Nash pulls me into his side, allowing me to cry on his shoulder, and I wonder if I’ve ever been this vulnerable in front of him. Has he ever comforted me on this raw of a level before? By how his hand gently runs down the side of my head, smoothing my hair repeatedly, I feel like he has.
I feel like he knows exactly what to do.
I don’t get caught in the weeds of whether or not I’m ready to share this level of intimacy with him. I’m too exhausted and sad to be bogged down by that. I simply let him comfort me on a human level because I need it. He doesn’t speak, just allows my tears to flow—a stark contrast between him and Stetson. Stetson’s a fixer. By now, he’d have given me ten different solutions for how to feel better. But in this instance, the silence is nice. Maybe even needed.
After a while, Nash pulls me back into the pillows, cradling me in his arms. I cry on his chest for what seems like an eternity and even feel the moment one of his own tears trickles down onto me, wetting my hair. I’m not sure if he’s crying for me or for himself. Either way, the heartache is too much to bear, and I don’t want to feel it anymore.
Sleep is the easiest way to hide from the pain.
The good-smelling cologne was the first thing I noticed.
Then, one after another, more information falls into place.
The coarse stubble against my cheek.
The weight of an arm draped over my side.
The hard chest rising and falling with my own breath.
Everything clicks, and I panic.
My eyes fly open, and I lurch forward, escaping from Nash’s arms to my feet. The sudden movement jolts him awake to an upright position.
“What? What happened?” His head swivels, assessing potential danger despite his groggy confusion. Wild green eyes land on me. “Are you okay?”
I fold my arms over my chest like protective armor and glance away. “This wasn’t the sleeping arrangement you promised.”
“Uh…” He looks around at the crumpled bed and morning sunlight blaring through the windows until he grasps the situation. “It was an honest mistake. You were crying and…” Guilty eyes fall to the mattress where, seconds ago, our bodies were intertwined. “I just fell asleep, and the cuddling and all of that was an accident. Like muscle memory.”
“I don’t care if some stupid certificate says you’re my husband,” I snap. “You’re a stranger, and I don’t want your arms around me. Do you know how invasive that is?”
My words break him.
I feel the force of his hurt pierce my soul. Crestfallen, he drags himself off the bed.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, as if backpedaling can somehow fix the damage I caused. “I just meant?—”
“You don’t have to apologize.” There’s a smile, but nothing about his expression says it should be there. “It’s my fault.”
“No, I just…” I cover my face with my hands.
“It’s fine.” I hear his footsteps shuffle to the door. “I’ll make some breakfast, and you can go through your clothes and find things you want to take to Skaneateles. It’s all fine.”
I don’t drop my hands until Nash is safely out of the room, and I’m alone with my guilt.