19. Kendall #2
We’re walking back to our apartment building, climbing up the steps leading to our hallway when I’m greeted by the last person I expect at my door. I stop halfway, my feet stuck in that mud again.
“Hi,” James whispers.
“Hi,” I croak. He looks horrible. His eyes look bloodshot, dark circles surrounding them. I want to ask him if he’s okay, offer him a place to sit and something warm to sip on in my apartment while I soothe away what’s obviously ailing him. But I shouldn’t.
“I’ll catch you later,” Kyle announces. His eyes ping-pong between James and me, and I wonder if he’s going to whip out a tub of popcorn or even pull out a chair and have himself a front row seat. Luckily, he does neither, and James and I are offered a moment of privacy.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as soon as I hear Kyle’s deadbolt click.
It’s then I notice he’s holding something behind him. He looks down, his head hanging between his shoulders in what looks like defeat, and when he brings his hands in front of him, we’re both bleakly staring at a stuffed owl.
“It came in a couple of weeks ago,” he explains. “I ordered it off the store’s website. It was supposed to be a Christmas gift. I wanted it to be the baby’s first…”
His voice trails into trembles and cracks, a clear sign he’s barely holding it together.
He isn’t okay. When I hadn’t heard from him after I kicked him out of my apartment, I assumed he’d moved on.
He’d walk away grateful and relieved now that this unexpected burden of fatherhood has been lifted.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe his grief, a lot like mine, is stubborn, much like the sticky mud I’ve been stuck in.
I watch his throat bob. Like all the words and thoughts and emotions stop right there.
At the base of his neck, so close to coming out but too fickle and unsure.
I hate seeing him like this. So broken and timorous.
He’s not the man I fell in love with, and every muscle in my body wants to bring him back.
I want so badly to give in. To hold him, console him, but I don’t know how to do that after we’ve become so broken. How do we even start?
“It’s just been sitting in my room since it came in, and I thought you might want it,” he says. The stretch of silence is tight, tension filled with something we’re too unfamiliar with.
I nod. And even though I don’t know where to go from here, I do the one thing that feels most natural to me.
I reach out and slip my hand into his. Another feeling I have to readjust to.
Because I don’t know if this is okay. I don’t know if we’ll come back from this.
Whether or not we’re even worth salvaging.
We’ve only known each other for such a short time, and we’re already so susceptible.
But then I think about never seeing James again.
Never being able to laugh with him, hold him or kiss him, and I feel like my chest is going to split open, leaving my heart completely naked.
Even my insides, exposed so he can see everything I feel.
All the aches and pains, bleeding out onto the drab carpet lining my apartment building.
But maybe he needs to know. If not so he knows he’s not alone, then for the simple fact that I’m willing to do what it takes to bring us back to where we were.
This isn’t silly or stupid like I thought.
It’s love. It’s simply and so naturally love.
“It’s a really cute owl,” I whisper as I run a timid hand over the soft fur.
He nods, and I feel his eyes all over me. Looking for any in, any sign that his little peace offering is working. I look up at him, and those cracks suddenly appear deeper. Unmendable. “How are you?”
“Miserable,” I manage through my self-wallowing sarcasm. A watery chuckle follows but is cut off when James swoops down and circles his arms around me. I sink into his chest, molding myself into the soft grooves of his body.
“I missed you so much,” he says into my hair. “I wanted to come earlier, but wasn’t sure if—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “I think I just need some…time. I’m sorry I—”
He pulls away and shakes his head, the apology dissolving into dust. Words that weren’t needed in the first place. “You needed some space. I wanted to give you space.”
I run my hand through his hair, smoothing away a few wayward strands from his handsome face. A slow and tentative start to mend the ways we’ve broken and cracked over what was supposed to be our first Christmas together.
“Do you want to come inside?”
“Yeah.”
Our bodies move at a softer, gentler pace, our hearts thawed through a layer of cold formed in the midst of our short separation. I want him here, all his vulnerable edges fitting into mine, and a part of me is already scared for when he leaves.
As soon as I open my door, I’m infinitely grateful for Kyle and his persistence.
The stale stench of stagnant, stuffy air still lingers, but at least there’s no evidence of unwashed dishes and littered trash.
I watch James set the owl on my small dining table, and I pick up a forgotten candy wrapper under my coffee table.
A silent, subtle gesture for him to join me causes a quiet smile to smooth out the crease between his brows.
“How are you feeling? Are you still in pain?” he asks.
“I’m better,” I tell him, finally feeling like I can be completely honest. “I stopped taking pain meds last week. And I’m not bleeding as much anymore.”
We both stand in front of my couch. A squeaky teeter-totter unsure of which direction it should lean to. I reach for his hand, willing to take the lead after giving him so little. We both settle into the cushions, both checking for damage. Surveying the aftermath of what feels like hell and back.
“Kendall, I’m so sorry,” he starts. “I should’ve been there at the hospital. I shouldn’t have left you all alone.”
“There’s no way you would’ve known,” I argue.
“But I should’ve told my work that I couldn’t leave you.”
All the coulda, shoulda, wouldas can’t change a thing. What happened was inevitable, and we both had to suffer through it. Me, with the pain of physically losing our baby, and James, with the guilt of not being there.
I scoot closer, shaking my head. Our bodies find this trembling rhythm, understanding that this wasn’t just a simple moment of regret and penance. It was so much more than that. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. This still would’ve happened.”
“I could’ve been here with you,” he protests. “I could’ve taken care of you and you wouldn’t have been all alone.”
“I had Sylvia,” I argue weakly. Although, a part of me wishes even she hadn’t been there. She shouldn’t have been the one to witness what I went through. It may not have been her own loss, but I’ve seen how it’s changed her demeanor and affect. She’s mourning too.
I take his hand in mine, turning it to bring my lips to his knuckles. I’m still wondering where we go from here. He mirrors my touch, pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist, equally gentle and provisional, all of it dependent on our next words.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. The small tells in his voice disappear. Ones that left me feeling so confused, so insecure. They’re all gone, in its place the sure tone of his words. “I know this was a lot for us, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
“Maybe this happened for a reason,” I say, throwing in my own two cents, as ridiculous as they might sound.
“Maybe it’s a sign we aren’t supposed to be together.
” A small, gnawing part of me wishes it was all untrue.
Premonitions or omens or whatever the fuck.
To hell with them all. But they’re all so hard to ignore.
“I can’t lose you.” Can’t. Such a disparity from “don’t want.” Because he’s slipping out the ability to choose from underneath him. He’s telling me he doesn’t have a choice. It’s me, us, or…nothing.
“Maybe…baby steps,” I suggest. I want to tell him I don’t want to lose him either, but I don’t know if I’m there yet.
Those words are more absolute than I’m comfortable with, and I worry they may be misleading.
But the thought of never seeing him again sweeps through my foggy mind, and it causes an ache to spread to my limbs.
I don’t think I would survive losing the baby and him.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his head bobbing up and down with intent. “I can do baby steps.”
I nod too. I give his hand a gentle squeeze, placing our conjoined palms on the cushions between us.
It’s a start. A small one, but one in the right direction, hopefully.
It feels right, this way of healing. As if, through the gentle brush of fingers and knuckles, it’s enough to offer some kind of homeopathic tendencies.
Maybe it’s the kombucha. Or it could be that of the eight billion people in the world, he’s the only one who understands what I’ve lost. Because it was just as much his loss as it was mine.