Chapter Thirty-Two
Wendy
"If I ever try to drink again. Please punch me."
Taylor groans as she stumbles like a zombie into my kitchen, makeup from last night smeared all over her face, her pajama pants rumpled, and the hood of her oversized pink hoodie pulled up.
She raises a hand to block the sun shining through the bay window.
"Do you want coffee and breakfast—"
Taylor gags at the mention of breakfast, and I slap my hand over my mouth to cover my giggle.
God, I haven't seen her like this since her twenty-first birthday, where she was singing Hannah Montana in between throwing up the attempted 21 shots she was determined to complete.
She barely made it to nine.
I've never been a big drinker; my twenty-first birthday was spent caring for my toddler, who had a terrible ear infection. I usually just have an occasional glass of wine at holiday dinners.
Taylor isn't a big drinker either, but Trey was at the bar last night. He came over, hugged me, and said hello. Taylor had been struck by a sudden bolt of shyness. She can talk to anyone; she's a hairstylist, it's part of her job, but with Trey... well, she was a blushing, stuttering mess.
And it was adorable.
It was our first night out with Bonnie, too, whom Taylor took to immediately, just as I knew she would.
Bonnie is quite the opposite of her daughter, very talkative and extroverted, able to jump from conversation to conversation with ease.
It was so nice for Taylor and Bonnie to come over to my house, all of us getting dressed and trying on outfits, and Taylor doing our hair.
It felt so good walking into Woody's with my friends, dancing all night, laughing, and taking silly photos. I haven't missed out—being a mother and wife is still my greatest joy—but taking time with friends felt necessary.
While I worried about the boys, I kept repeating to myself that everything was okay, that Atlas could do this.
Atlas had changed so much in the last couple of months. No longer distant and cold. He was smiling more, talking to me, telling me what he was feeling.
He was going to therapy.
He was doing everything that he needed to do.
He was healing.
And I'm placing more and more of my trust in him.
Because that's the main issue—the trust.
Dr. Pace says that trust is built through honest communication, and I'm learning that rebuilding it is slow and so hard.
After two decades of building trust with him, one bad year eroded it. But the thing about erosion is that you can usually stop it in its tracks and treat it.
Last night, Bonnie, who doesn't fully understand the situation besides the fact that I'm separated from my husband, saw a man looking at me while I was dancing and asked if I was interested in getting back out there.
No.
For two reasons.
One—this hasn't been about finding a new man—I wanted to find myself. Being Wendy blurred with being a mom and wife. I didn't find the old me; I've made a new version I like better.
Two—I'm still married, separated or not. And because I am Atlas' wife, I want him to get better. I want him to find himself again, to put himself back together in this new, better version that I've found.
And...
Well, because I don't want anybody but Atlas.
It's always been him. It will always be him.
But I want Atlas, who is a better father to our sons. I want Atlas, who comes home at night for dinner and kisses me, and asks about the boys and their days. I want Atlas, who knows the boys just as well as I do. I want Atlas who sees me, holds me, and makes love to me like he used to.
I want Atlas, who loves us more than he's scared of losing us.
And I think he's finding that Atlas.
So, I will be here for him and support him in any way I can.
And then maybe one day...
Taylor looks around, "Did we drop off Bonnie?"
I snort. "Last night."
"Oh God, I don't even remember that," Taylor groans, leaning her head on her hands. I laugh, placing a glass of water and a piece of bread in front of her. "Please tell me that I didn't do something embarrassing."
"You know you could never do anything embarrassing... but you did tell Trey he looked hot about five times," Taylor groans and takes a sip of her water, while I add, "And he was flattered! You should text him today."
"I don't even have his number."
"Check again," I smile, "Because you practically threw your phone at him to put his number in."
Taylor's eyes widen, and she reaches into her hoodie pocket, pulling out her phone. Her nails click on the screen a few times before she gasps.
"Oh my God..." Taylor breathes, before turning the phone around to show me the contact photo—a blurry, but honestly cute, picture of Trey and Taylor at the bar. She's cheesing so hard, her beautiful face pressed up against his very handsome one.
They look really good together.
"Aww..." I coo, and Taylor just glares at me before she gags and drops her head onto the cool countertop.
"Why do hangovers last three to five business days after thirty?"
"Because we're old now," I smile, and she grumpily bites into her bread.
◆◆◆
He said he would be here.
I keep glancing at the clock on my phone, the minutes inching toward the start of Liam's game. The boys are still warming up, and every time Liam looks up to me on the bleachers, I have to give him a casual shrug like I'm saying, he'll be here, don't worry.
Which I hate, because I am worrying right now.
When I picked up the boys on Sunday night, no one was in the house. Emmett's truck wasn't in the driveway, and I assumed that Diane was upstairs.
I found them in the backyard together.
All of my boys—Liam, Noah, and Atlas playing basketball on the small court Emmett installed years ago. Liam and Noah were playing against Atlas, with a laughing Liam blocking out his dad so Noah could shoot the ball.
I don't know how long I stood by the back door, just watching. I couldn't take my eyes off them. It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever seen.
Liam and his dad high-fived, then Atlas put Noah on his shoulders so he could dunk. I didn't stand a chance against the tears falling down my cheeks at the sight of my whole heart happy together.
Hope bloomed in my chest, and I felt someone next to me, turning to see Diane watching the scene with the same love reflected in her eyes.
"They've been out there for a couple of hours," she smiled. "I think this weekend was really good, sweetheart."
I nod, because my throat is too tight to say anything.
"I'm scared. That this is all just new progress. That it won't hold..."
"It's day by day, Wendy," Diane says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pressing a kiss to my head. "He’s earning it day by day."
I nod, smiling through my tears as I watch my husband play with our sons.
"He is."
The buzzer startles me, and I glance up to see the boys running to the bench for the huddle. Liam glances back once more at me before rushing over to his teammates.
Noah sits on the bleachers in front of me, right next to Birdie. I smiled when I saw that she was wearing a very familiar Mercy Ridge Bears hoodie that I remember folding and putting in Liam's dresser.
She and Noah seem to get along; he can keep a conversation going and explain his new shading technique in detail while she listens intently. I've started driving her home after the games now that I'm friends with Bonnie.
My leg starts jumping when I see the referees calling the teams to start the game, and I open my phone to text Atlas.
Deja ju hits me, remembering the games I did this exact thing, texting my husband to find out where he was.
He said he would be here. He promised Liam. He said he would.
My fingers shake as I draft the text—Are you okay—when Noah yells.
"Dad!"
My head snaps up to see Atlas rushing toward us. He's still in his blue, grease-stained overalls that he’s tied at his waist—his usual sign that he rushed out of the garage.
That little sign makes my heart flutter.
He rushed to get here. He wants to be here.
He's got a Durant Auto hoodie on to keep him warm. He never wears a jacket unless there’s snow on the ground, and even then. I would always joke that he should wear an actual jacket, which he usually quips that it's too many layers between us.
There's an apologetic grin on his face as he walks up the bleachers toward us. He drops a kiss to Noah's tilted-up head, the sight making my heart warm. "Hey, buddy."
"Hi, Daddy," he grins.
I glance over to my other son to catch his attention that his dad is here, but Liam's already looking, and he's smiling.
I tap Atlas' shoulder, and he follows my pointed finger, Liam waving as he and his team wait for tip-off.
Atlas waves back to him before he sits down next to me, huffing and puffing a bit.
"I'm so sorry, baby," he sighs, looking disappointed. "Hartford Road was closed, so I had to go around, and then I got stuck behind rush hour traffic—"
I gently cut him off, my voice wobbling. "You're here."
"I promised," he says, gesturing to Liam.
I can't take my eyes off my husband, though. He hasn't been to a game with me in so long, and that makes me realize how alone this has truly been.
Cheering at Liam's games, at Noah's art shows, all by myself while my husband was drowning in his own thoughts.
Not anymore. Not ever again.
Atlas tilts his head, his voice so soft and tender. "Are you okay?"
"You're here."
That's all I say.
And Atlas smiles.
"No place I'd rather be."
◆◆◆
Atlas is completely focused through the game, watching with slightly awed eyes as our son dominates the court.
Liam's about a head taller than most of the kids playing, and moves through the court with ease. He steals the ball and runs down the court, making a layup.
The other parents around us explode in cheers, and Atlas stands up and yells, "Good job, Liam!"
Liam turns his head toward us and shoots a quick smile before running back on defense.
Atlas sits back down and sees me looking at him and smiles, "What?"
I just shake my head, feeling so happy right now.
My eyes drop to Atlas' hand, namely his left hand that's resting on his thigh, only inches from my own hand. His fingers are twitching, like he wants to reach out and hold mine.
For a moment, my own fingers twitch, and I say fuck it, about to reach out and grab it when I freeze.
On his ring finger is a small layer of saniderm. Forgetting myself, I grab Atlas' hand and bring it closer to my face.
Atlas looks at me with wide eyes, but his whole face is soft. The touch of his rough, warm hands used to be so familiar, and since going months without a constant fix, I realize how much I’ve missed it.
But his hands aren't what I'm focused on—it's the tattoo on his ring finger. Atlas works with his hands on heavy machinery. He has a gold wedding ring, but he only wore it on weekends or when we were going out.
He tried a silicone wedding band for work, but it kept snapping or tearing, so instead he went out and got our wedding date tattooed on his finger in Roman numerals.
That was over ten years ago, and from the wear and tear of his job, working with his hands and washing them so much, the date had faded.
Now, he's gotten the tattoo redone, the numbers thicker, darker, more vibrant. And he added something—a small, cursive W.
Always Wendy, never Gwendolyn.
"When did you do this?"
Atlas grins, "Monday night."
"Why?"
"So no one could ever mistake me for a single man again."
"But, we're—" I cut myself off, because the words aren't from meaning it, they're from the guilt welling up inside me.
You left him, and he's still so committed to you. Look at what he's doing for you. Selfish. Overdramatic. You ruin everything, don't you?
Then I stop, because that guilt—my mom's voice—doesn't own me anymore. I'm not allowing myself to feel guilty for doing what I needed to do, for my boys, and for myself.
Because Atlas told me that was the wake-up call he needed, and I trust his words more than I trust my guilt.
Atlas opens his mouth to speak, but I just smile and gently cut him off.
"We have a family therapy appointment. On Monday. It's at 5," I say simply. "I want you to come."
Atlas' looks at me stunned for a long moment, before he smiles, wide and true and happy.
The sight knocks the air from my lungs. I haven't seen him that happy in so long.
There he is. There's my Atlas.
That makes me babble, "If that time doesn't work for you, I can reschedule to a new time—"
"I will be there. No matter what, I will be there. I'll put it in my calendar now."
I tell him the address, the time, and the doctor's name, too, and watch as he meticulously adds it to his phone's calendar.
Then I see him open the garage's calendar on his phone and block off the time from 4 on in his book, so he can't be scheduled for anything.
My chest warms as he double-checks, locks his phone, and turns to me.
"Okay."
"I can't believe you..." I trail off, realizing that I'm still holding his hand.
But I don't let go. Not yet.
Atlas squeezes my hand.
"I got your name touched up. And the boys' names," he admits, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm yours, Wendy. I just forgot that for a while. I won't ever forget it again."
My throat is tight, my chest is tight, and my stomach is fluttering.
I just smile and snark, "Better not."
Atlas and I smile at each other, and I scoot on the bleacher seat a little closer to him. He does the same, until our sides are pressed against each other.
It feels easier to breathe.