25. Bailey
twenty-five
Bailey
I’m still trying to figure out if I want the kitchen lights off or on when a soft knock interrupts my anxious worrying.
My chest warms when I see his overnight bag in his hand.
“Hi,” I say. Always romantic.
I cringe a little.
He could do so much better.
“Hi,” he echoes as he pulls me to him.
My entire body relaxes in his embrace. It’s like I’m breathing underwater until I’m in his orbit. Everything is so much easier when he’s with me.
Studying.
Cleaning.
Existing.
“I missed you,” I offer, cheeks flushing.
He pulls back to look at me, his eyes searching mine.
He smiles, “I missed you too, green eyes.” He tilts my chin up and kisses me gently.
I melt into him.
Into who he is.
Into whatever we are.
We kiss until I’m breathless, barely able to stand.
Seconds before I collapse into a puddle on the floor, he pulls away and brings me with him to the couch.
I follow him, putting my feet in his lap without a second thought.
I have clean socks on. It’s fine.
“How’s your mom?” I ask him as I wind my fingers through his.
“She’s having a good week,” he replies. “It’s been nice to talk to her about old times.” A soft smile spreads across his face.
“Good.” I squeeze his hand, holding it tight in my grip for a few seconds before relaxing it again.
He looks at me knowingly—like he knew what I wanted to say but couldn’t. Like he appreciates it. Appreciates me.
I can’t imagine how it feels to lose a parent to dementia. I’ve made a point to not pretend I understand. Instead, I try to be supportive when I can. Whatever that looks like, I think I’m ready to be that for him.
“Bailey?” He says.
He never calls me Bailey.
Something must be up.
“Yeah?” I look at him, my stomach churning with anticipation. This can’t be good.
“I just wanted to tell you that I sometimes have, um,” he pauses, looking down at the floor for a second then back at me. “I have night terrors.”
“Oh,” I manage. Seriously? Oh?
“I just know it can be scary to witness, so I wanted you to know now. Just in case,” he says with a wince.
“Sure, that makes sense. I promise not to freak out,” I offer.
“Thanks,” he says softly.
I’m getting used to waking up next to him.
To smelling him on my pillow. When he isn’t here, I miss him.
I miss his arms around me. I miss the way he makes me feel.
This foreign sense of calmness and safety comes with him.
The sense of being where I’m supposed to be.
It’s been years since I’ve been able to feel secure in my own skin.
Free from the constant feeling of needing to be somewhere else. Be someone else.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I don’t want to push him, but I want to offer the space in case he needs it.
“No,” he says. “I don’t want to, but I think that you need to know what to expect—” he pauses, a pained look I haven’t seen on his beautiful face makes me want to kiss it away.
I don’t say anything, I just nod and squeeze his hand in mine, unable to stop working circles over it with my thumb.
“Some nights, I have dreams that are a culmination of the accident, the hospital, the funeral…” He stops and takes a deep breath in. “I usually wake up screaming or crying. Jay says it’s pretty scary to see because it can take me a while to get my bearings.”
He squeezes my hand and continues, “Other nights, I have dreams about the foster home. I think those nights are the worst. The dreams can feel so real I wake up covered in sweat… sometimes crying… sometimes shaking. It’s unpredictable.
I haven’t figured out what triggers them, but it’s been more than a decade and they still find me some nights. ”
He sounds so distant. So unlike him, it’s painful. My eyes sting but I blink back the tears.
I get up and lower myself onto his lap, taking his face in my hands. I kiss his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks. I kiss his beautiful mouth, trying desperately to let him know that he’s safe with me. That I’m more than willing to stay in his darkness when he needs me there.
A warm tear strikes my cheek. I pull back to look at him, to let him see me—then I kiss the tear away before claiming his mouth again.
I let him take me.
All of me.
The kiss now an unspoken promise, an offering and a prayer.
I kiss him in appreciation of his vulnerability.
I kiss him in awe of his courage.
Holding nothing back, placing everything I am before him in case he needs to take or borrow anything I have to offer.
We finally break apart, a sense of understanding now between us. Something fragile that needs protecting. Something new that needs nurturing.
“Come on,” I say, reaching my hand out, “let’s go to bed.”