Kate #2
Closing my eyes, I envision it. That dream could be from any number of evenings, when we sit outside after dinner and sway on the old wooden swing hung on the back porch.
I don’t think he’s been out there since he came home from the hospital, so I pull back from our tight embrace enough to grab his hand and give it a firm tug.
“Let’s go sit on the porch swing.” I grab my tea and start toward the door.
“Isn’t it too cold outside?”
“We’ll only be a minute. I want to see if it sparks anything.” I tug him again. He’s sturdy as a damn tree. “Besides, the fresh air will be good for you. Come on.”
He shakes his head but follows, muttering under his breath, “Bully.”
Okay, so it’s a little colder out than I anticipated.
The air’s damp, bordering on frosty despite it being late April, and our breath is clearly visible in puffs of vapor as we shuffle across the dark porch.
On second thought, the tea was a poor choice, because I’m immediately shivering so hard, it’s hard to maintain a steady grasp on the ceramic mug.
Scared I’ll slosh hot liquid everywhere, I abandon the mug on a windowsill before slowly lowering onto the wooden swing.
The boards are cold, permeating through my thin pajama pants and straight into the marrow of my bones.
Jackson hisses as he sits next to me. “This is crazy. It’s so cold out here.”
“Sit for a second. Tell me if it feels familiar.” The patter of hope in my chest is the only thing keeping me from aborting this mission and heading back into the warmth.
My knees tuck up to meet my chest, and I wrap my arms around myself. Feet firmly planted on the deck, Jackson straightens then bends his knees, and the swing begins to move. The frigid metal chains holding us in place creak and squeak with each pendulum motion.
I tip into him, and his hand falls to my side.
He’s warm and comfortable, and honestly, if it were a few degrees warmer, I could fall asleep right here.
The cadence of his heart is soothing against my head, and I wiggle to get the tiniest bit closer.
I’m taking everything I can get today…just in case.
“I don’t know if this is working, Kate. I’m too cold to think.”
“What are we doing in your dreams? Just talking?”
“Sometimes…” His hand dips lower, so it’s covering my hip bone. And it feels the strangest kind of wrong and right to feel heat spread through my thighs before uncoiling low in my stomach. “Mostly you talk.”
A burst of air blows from my nose. “Now I know this is fake. I do not talk as much as you like to believe I do.”
“You do. You didn’t shut up the whole time I was in the hospital.” His fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, seemingly mindlessly. Brushing my goosebump-speckled skin so briefly, I start to wonder if I’m the one making things up in my head.
“In the hospital you wouldn’t talk back. If I didn’t say anything, we’d sit there staring at each other in silence the whole time.”
“I let you do all the talking because I like listening to you.”
Is he…flirting?
I’d assumed after years of marriage to this man that I’d be able to tell when he was flirting with me. But now he has me questioning it, and the whole thing makes my heart stumble a beat.
“What would you like me to talk about?” I debate what to divulge, whether to keep it reasonably light like I did in the hospital or dive into the thick of it the way I would’ve before he erased his version of our history.
“Anything. Everything.”
He shifts in place, getting comfortable, tucking me closer into him, and dragging his fingers from my hip to my lower stomach.
The swing rocks a little quicker. My heart beats a little faster.
The air between us is whirring with electricity, and I’m afraid to tilt my head for a view of his face, scared I’ll find he’s entirely unaffected by the feel of my skin on his.
His big rough hand splayed across my stomach—it’s so much like that last morning when he still loved me.
“Your voice is like honey, the way it oozes around my brain, coating the sharp angles so they hurt a little less and muffling the incessant ringing in my ears. It’s calming, and I like hearing it. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying.”
My heart keens, overwhelmed with want. I could tell him anything and everything. That I’m desperate to feel the familiarity of his kiss. That I thought he was going to die. That there’s a mounting ache between my legs. That I miscarried our baby.
I can’t bring myself to risk ruining this moment with all the things I could say, so I push them aside for now and stay here in the moment.
“Well, damn…when you put it like that, I can’t exactly say no, can I?”
“You and Odessa aren’t the only ones around here who know how to get what they want.” His smirk is audible. The bastard. I love him.
With a small shift, I’m looking right at him, mere inches from our lips touching. His grip on my shirt fabric tightens, sending a rush of heat through my groin, and his eyes flicker to my lips.
“What else do you want?” I whisper.
I lean in expectantly and lift a hand to stroke his cheek.
The way I’m staring at him in desperation would be embarrassing if he wasn’t my husband.
My bottom lip catches on his in an almost-kiss, a tiny whimper rises in my throat, and Jackson pulls back, putting the smallest amount of space between us.
I can still feel the sweep of his breath across my mouth, but his reticence is impossible to ignore.
It’s heartbreaking and infuriating and mortifying.
Jackson sighs. Part of me hopes he’s annoyed with himself for fucking up the kiss.
“I want to fix things,” he says quietly. “I’ve done a shitty job of showing my appreciation for you, but today…well, I realized how badly I’ve been fucking up.”
“You haven’t—”
“I have. No need to deny it. I’m just so lost…
and I want to be the Old Jackson because I know you loved him.
And the kids loved him. But maybe these blips of memory are flukes and I’ll never remember anything else, so you’re stuck with this depressed asshole version of Jackson who yells at his kids when he’s overwhelmed and has contemplated so many fucking times whether dying would’ve been easier on everyone—how much easier things might be for you, if you didn’t have to take care of me every day.
Not having to deal with this”—he smacks his free hand against his head—“would definitely be easier for me….”
I sit upright, wrenching his grasp away from my body.
My eyes and throat burn. “Easier? How…how can you say it would be easier if you were—that dying would be easier than sitting here with me right now? I know you’re in constant pain.
I know you’re struggling.” I’m shaking now, and not from the cold or the lingering humiliation from my attempt to kiss him.
There’s fear and rage and sadness broiling under my skin.
“When you were in the coma, I was fucking terrified.
The only thing I cared about was having you back.
Is it devastating to think about you never remembering the way we fell in love, or the excitement of finding out I was pregnant, or the births of our children?
Absolutely. But nothing in my life would be easier without you, Jackson.
“If you died, I would find a way to carry on for our kids’ sake.
The sun would continue to rise and fall.
The world would keep turning. And our lives would always be hard.
Your mom died over sixteen years ago and not a damn person in this family has gone a single day without feeling that loss.
We can handle the days where you need to stay in bed, or when the kids have to be extra quiet. We can’t handle losing you.”
My words drown in emotion, and I clutch a hand over where the warmth from his palm remains as if I’m holding pressure to a stab wound. Honestly, there’s a possibility blood’s weeping from my skin with the way his words continue slicing through me long after he’s finished saying them.
He frowns. “I wouldn’t…I’m not. You don’t need to worry.”
“Unfortunately, all I do is worry, so…” I find my way onto my feet, knees trembling. I blink down at him through the tears, taking in lungful after lungful of crisp night air to suppress the rising panic. “Please don’t do what you think is easier.”
“Can…can you sleep with me?” His voice quivers. “In the hospital, I always slept better when you were sitting next to me.”
This is not the way I thought we’d find ourselves sharing a bed again.
But just like in the hospital, I’ll know he’s still breathing if I’m next to him, so I gently nod and reach for his hand.
My ribs constrict at the feel of his fingers interlacing mine, and in silence—in darkness—we wind our way through the house to our bedroom.
And I don’t sleep for a single second, just in case.