Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
“Hello, bionic princess. Slept well?”
Some kinds of pain didn’t announce themselves, and they didn’t come crashing through the door or tear you apart in one clean sweep.
No. The worst kinds settled in like an old tenant.
Rearranging the furniture of your life when you weren’t looking, coming at you in waves, at random parts of the day, or as nightmares.
And memories came floating through: a note from a doctor’s appointment with an attached ultrasonogram, the day when I told Paul, and how it—I—destroyed him; financial distress and looking bleakly into the future—and how I would cope as a single mother.
Now all of that became suddenly unimportant, erased.
Poof. Just the question circling in my head: what was this all for? What was this supposed to teach us?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Just our lives intertwined for a little bit longer, on credit.
And the nagging thought of if—if I had eaten better, if I had rested more, if our relationship were normal, less stressful for both, if I had checked my blood pressure, if I hadn’t moved so quickly from the couch to sign for the delivery…
I could have saved the little peanut that I became connected to more than I wanted to admit, despite my earlier doubts.
Winter came early to Nanaimo. The kind of winter that didn’t blanket the world in postcard snow but hovered in the air: damp, grey, and heavy.
I took some leave from Tommo, thanking heaven that my employment insurance covered half of my pay.
I found comfort in small routines: the kettle whistling in the morning, the soft creak of Dad’s wheelchair as he moved through the house, Adam’s playlist leaking through the walls while he talked about Stanford in bursts of energy he didn’t know how to control.
I also called my old therapist to talk and learn techniques to manage the memories, guilt, and self-doubt creeping into my mind.
She was kind enough to charge me the minimum rate, and we knew each other well already, from before.
And Paul… Paul existed in the spaces between.
He didn’t disappear this time, which was surprisingly comforting.
A text when he was heading to the store.
A knock on the door with bags of groceries he’d never ask me to pay for.
Fixing the broken cabinet hinge without a word, leaving a jar of pasta sauce on the counter.
We never discussed that day, nor did we do so directly.
But sometimes, I’d catch him watching me closely when he thought I wasn’t looking, like he was expecting me to say something monumental, or even hurtful, or fall apart.
Raw, intense emotions, those that he thrived on.
And I didn’t. I had no words. And I’d fallen apart in front of him so many times—and vice versa—in so many ways that there was nothing new I could give him this time.
Because I learned already: grief, like winter, wasn’t a storm.
It was a season. They can happen in cycles, be longer or shorter, but all seasons pass… with time.
Mia visited often, on weekends and after she finished work, her version of care arriving in the form of hugs, make-up sessions, and that look that told me she was ready to stage an intervention (more hugs), if I so much as hinted at slipping.
“You know,” she said one afternoon, dropping onto my couch uninvited, “if he starts bringing you lavender Yankee candles or one of those weighted blankets, I’m calling it: you’re officially in a situationship.”
I snorted, tucking my legs under me. “Relax. Paul’s just being Paul, and old habits die hard.”
Mia raised an eyebrow. “No. He’s different: steadier, caring, and clean. You’re okay with that?”
I thought about it. About the quiet evenings where he’d sit at the far end of the couch, both of us pretending to watch whatever was on TV while the silence said more than either of us could.
About the texts that weren’t flirty or loaded, just warm, sometimes on the verge of being playful: his way of cheering me up.
“I don’t think either of us knows what this is,” I admitted. “But… It’s not what it was. Or what I imagined it was, and that’s probably a good thing.”
“What do you think will happen when one of you meets someone?” Mia slipped that question innocently, but it stung weirdly.
“At the moment, I’m trying to get my head straight and my body back to usability—with limited success—and not meeting men, Mia,” I said, leaving the other part of the question unanswered. “And now I’d like a hug, please.”
“How many do you need?”
“One less than yesterday, one more than tomorrow.”
“So we’re down to 89. Come to think of it, you might want to ask him for that weighted blanket—they’re good, like permanent hugs.”
After we ran out of hugs and uncomfortable questions, Mia left to pick up Talia from preschool, and I dragged myself to the kitchen to grab some leftover casserole (Paul’s newest invention), where I eyed a small pamphlet on the table.
For a hearing clinic, with a link to online booking and a free hearing test circled on the first page.
I wasn’t sure who left it there: Dad, being subtle in his old-school way, or Paul, slipping it between grocery bags like a quiet suggestion.
Either way, I stared at it: another phantom from the past that I had to manage at some point, but it was easier to put it off.
I knew that after the loss, hearing in my left ear got even worse, to the point that I actively asked everyone to sit on my right.
So whoever left this leaflet was nudging me to take care of this. Because they cared.
Me:
Your spaghetti still wins, but the casserole was a close second. More garlic… next time.
Thank you.
He replied immediately.
Paul:
For feeding you?
Me:
Yes. And for the other thing. The pamphlet. I know I need to do this.
But… I’m scared. Another truth I’m not ready for.
Paul:
I know.
Pause.
Paul:
But you’ve done braver things. Would never get into a glider, would shit my pants.
What you’ve done the past couple of weeks, that’s… magic.
This man, knowing just what to say to make you feel braver.
Me:
If I book the test… care to join me? For courage.
Paul:
I’ll join you.
And afterward I’ll shout “This is the bravest girl I know!” so loud that they’ll hear me across the Island and all the way to Seattle.
A week later, I booked the hearing test. We took the bus together this time, sitting next to each other, both nervous, probably for different reasons.
His fingers tapped a nervous, jazzy rhythm on his knees the whole way, but he never said why.
I detested hearing clinics, where most people were at least thirty years older, and tests, when you never knew how many sounds you were missing, so you just tried to guess and press the button at random moments.
Paul waited in the reception area, watching the winter rain mixed with snow streak the windows, while I took the audiogram in the small soundproof box and tried on some sample hearing aids.
The modern ones, which looked like earbuds and were connected via Bluetooth, were entirely out of my price range, even with partial insurance coverage, so I was left with the more classic ones.
When I stepped out of the clinic, the world sounded different, amazingly sharp.
The crunch of snow under my boots felt louder than I remembered.
Distant traffic buzzed, as if it were just a few steps away. I could hear my own breath!
Paul glanced at me as we walked back to the bus stop, the chilling rime clinging to our hair, his eyes searching my face for a hint of emotion. I smiled, small but genuine. “I can’t afford the swanky ones that I can listen to music with. But still… It’s… a lot.”
He didn’t say I told you so, he just laughed like there was no tomorrow.
Perhaps people in Seattle couldn’t hear him, but it was the most genuine laugh I’ve seen from him in months.
Then, he handed me a coffee and lifted me in the air and spun me around like I weighed nothing, as if to welcome me back to a world I hadn’t fully heard in years.
When he finally put me down, he asked, out of nowhere:
“The wind and rain’s getting worse… You wanna come over to mine for a bit? It’s closer. We’ll celebrate with a really bad slasher and order greasy takeout, or you can take a nap and rest. If you want to.”
“I’m not sure. The last few times I was there were just painful, Paul.” The mood shifted, but I needed to be honest with him.
“I know.” He looked straight into my eyes. “But you’ll see a difference. It’s clean. I’m clean. No bullshit.”
I hesitated, weighing the pros and cons, but then the rain was pelting down at us almost horizontally.
“Okay. No bullshit.”
When we arrived, the apartment didn’t feel like his anymore: it was lighter, cleaner, and well-aired, with small plants here and there, some cartons still unpacked, and a new sofa: no whisky bottles and no music. Paul stood behind me, and I could—finally—hear his breath near my ear.
“Shocked?”
“No, just surprised. You have plants, Paul. More than just the sad basil one.”
“I’m trying on the ‘normal’ thing now—like I said—and seeing how it fits. Not perfect, but less… dramatic.”
It was almost normal. We sat on the couch, in T-shirts, our clothes in the dryer, eating Thai takeout straight from the box, egg rolls and noodles shared.
The slasher movie was terrible, as promised.
His knee brushed mine for a few seconds too long.
When the credits rolled, he looked at me the way he used to when he was about to do or say something that would ruin me for days.
Paul traced his fingers over my shoulder, gently, like trying to collect an almost invisible stray of hair.
Then down to my wrist, and up again. I watched closely how my skin reacted to his touch.
“What are you doing, Paul?” I was shivering. I didn’t know whether it was still from the cold outside or because of what was happening.
“Shush… Alicia. Just, please. Let me celebrate you and help you relax. Just a little.”
His touch was featherlight. Fingertips over my cheek, neck, collarbone, heart—where he stopped for a moment to admire the compass rose pendant I wore on a thin silver chain now —then breasts, down to my belly.
We kept looking at each other: part amazement, part fear, simple gravity.
He placed my hand over his heart, covered it with his, and pressed his forehead to mine, our noses almost touching.
This time, he whispered, “You’ll be okay, you know that… right?”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I know. Paul?”
“Yes, Alicia King?”
“I think I need to go now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Otherwise, we’ll do something stupid, Paul. And somehow I’ll be the one who gets hurt,” I whispered.
It was so comfortable with him, so easy to lean in, let go, go to that meadow and forget everything.
“I know. But we could just be gentle with each other… Like this.”
He leaned in first, and our lips almost touched.
Just heartbeat and emotion. And then they did.
It was one of those soft, long, semi-erotic kisses that don’t turn into lust or one of those I’ll rip your clothes off moments.
Just two adults who’d gone through more than most, finding strange solace in each other.
We lay on the too-small sofa, face to face, kiss to kiss, his hand gently tracing my curves.
“Alicia?” he whispered between kisses.
“Paul?”
“I would move heaven and earth to be allowed to make love to you.”
When he looked at me with those stormy eyes, I was this close to free-falling. This thing, this aura of his, was just… taking all my willpower away and throwing it at the brick wall.
“Paul, honey…” I never called him that, but it just came out, naturally, somehow.
“If you call me that, I am not going to be able to control this… normality… much longer. Honey. Hmm. I love it.” He breathed into my neck, kissing it softly.
“I’d do a lot to feel this again with you, Paul. You can see it, honey. But you can’t make love to me… if there is no love.”
He bit his lip and let out a sharp breath. “I’m trying to figure things out. And I don’t want to lie to you again. Ever. I didn’t lie just now. I’ve dreamt of making love to you for a while. That’s all I know, Alicia.”
“Then let’s just stay like this, for a while. Figure things out, Paul, in that beautiful head of yours. I’d love nothing more.”
“Okay, honey. I’d love that too.”
And we just stayed there, heart to heart. As I was peacefully dozing off, I still felt he was looking at me—and then I heard him humming John Mayer’s Gravity, asking faintly for it to stay away from him.
When I woke up after a quiet, deep sleep, I realized two things: I felt rested, and Paul wasn’t lying next to me anymore.
Instead, he was at his desk, by the balcony, face half-lit by the laptop light.
When he noticed me stretching, he smiled.
It wasn’t teasing, or sexual, or skewed toward extreme happiness or sadness, like before: it was Paul’s genuine, simple, and warm smile.
“Hello, bionic princess, slept well?
“I’m not going to lie, it was decent.”
“Oh yeah? Because of how we went to sleep?”
“That sounds borderline creepy, Paul.” But I couldn’t suppress a smile. I remembered every second of it.
“I’ve done shitty things in my life, but I think you know me better than this, honey,” he said mockingly, “I was the perfect gentleman, just stroked your hair until you dozed off. You snore, by the way.”
“Maybe I wanted to drown out your humming.”
“Now that I take offense to—and Gravity is a beautiful song.”
He kissed me on the forehead. “Coffee?”
I nodded. As he walked off to make some fresh brew, the weirdest thing happened: our phones, both placed on Paul’s desk, lit up and rang simultaneously, in perfect symphony.
The future was calling.