35. James #2
“And then I started to wonder if…if I would’ve loved our first one more.
Maybe she would’ve been an easier baby if I had only kept her alive, and I started to wish I was holding her instead of Sophia.
I pretended it was her instead of Sophia, and it made me sick to my stomach, but I couldn’t help myself.
I couldn’t let her go and move the fuck on.
And I realized I didn’t want to move on.
I wanted to hold on to that grief, and it made me resent Sophia because I wasn’t ready to move on, but…
it was like she was forcing me to. I hated that.
I couldn’t stand what she was making me do, and it made me angry.
I started to think how much better it would be if I wasn’t Sophia’s mom.
If I could just stop existing and just…disappear.
She would be so much better off without me. ”
I can’t tell the difference between her tears and the rain, but I know they’re there.
Streaming down her face as her eyes turn red and her voice grows hoarse.
Her chest hiccups as she catches her breath.
And then, with all the scary parts of her splayed open for me to finally see, she reaches in for the darkest of them all.
“And then I wanted nothing more than to just…”
“Disappear.”
She nods. “I just wanted to stop…existing. Not just run away from it all, but because it felt easier to just take myself out of the equation completely. I thought it would solve all of my problems. But then I realized I couldn’t do that to Sophia and my mom.
” I take a step closer to her. She doesn’t back away, but her breathing picks up.
Her chest heaves in desperate gulps. I see her body tremble when she adds, “Or you.”
“You tried to tell me this.” I say it like a statement of fact.
All the times she managed to hold the words on the tip of her tongue only for her to have to swallow it because I couldn’t hear them.
Because I was too chicken shit to hear my wife tell me she wanted nothing more than to disappear off the face of the earth because she didn’t have any other choice.
Where I would have to live a life without her.
The thought slices into me, and I can’t believe how fucking stupid I’ve been.
She nods. “Maybe I should’ve tried harder.”
“No, no,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I…I should’ve listened instead of shooting you down because it was all too much for me to hear. I should’ve just shut my fucking mouth and listened and been there for you.”
She shakes her head, refuting my own confession, and I can almost see her shoulders sag with the weight lifted off them.
She said those dark scary words, all the things moms aren’t supposed to say out loud or even think.
Those ugly parts of a parent’s brain that should never exist. And she doesn’t have to carry it around with her anymore.
She can set it down and walk away from it, even if it’s temporary.
Slowly, leaving behind bits and pieces like breadcrumbs, but with a little less dragging her down.
“What’s wrong with me?” she cries.
I shake my head, my own breath hitching. “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why can’t I just be thankful for Sophia?” she asks, her voice wobbly. “Why can’t I just focus on being her mom instead of…”
I cup her face, the water has a mind of its own as it pours down her face. I can feel the drops trickle down mine, but we’ve given up on even attempting to stay dry. “I don’t know,” I finally tell her. “But that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”
She tries to pull away, her attempt at brushing off my words as nothing more than placating when I mean it with my whole heart. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. She’s perfect in every way possible, and I need her to know that.
“Look at me,” I tell her. “I don’t know why you feel the way you do or why you think there’s something wrong with you, but I’m here. That’s it. Whatever you do, I’m here to do it with you. We’re going to get through this together, and we’re going to figure this out. Together.”
Her face crashes into my shoulder, her cries coming out in heavy sobs. “I love her so much.”
“I know you do,” I tell her, cupping the back of her head.
I plant a kiss on her temple, and it causes her to lean into me more.
She grabs fistfuls of my shirt, her knuckles pressing into my chest while the water squeezes out like all the broken parts of us can somehow be extracted.
She drags me closer and I circle my arms around her.
The water acts as a bond, an epoxy made of all the dark ugly things haunting us and fusing us together.
Like we’re affixed by our past, held even tighter together by our future.
She tips her head back, her eyes rimmed red. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I croak, shaking my head. “Don’t be sorry.”
“But—”
“This is about us,” I cut in, forcing her eyes to me. “It’s you and me. Don’t apologize. We’re going to figure it out.”
She nods at the same time her eyes close.
She releases a shaky breath and I feel her body relax against mine.
She crumbles in a way that feels as if she’s crossed a finish line.
After a long journey trekking across rough terrains, dragging her baggage behind while it weighed her down, she’s here. She can relax now.
I lean down, holding her face against mine.
Things I can’t control start to happen. Like my mouth brushing against her soft, damp skin and my heart hammering in my chest. And then it evolves, like a course of events I’m not even privy to.
I’m an outsider while watching it all unravel from the outside.
My lips find hers, and we’re both careful.
Cautious not in a way that feels unsure, but also scared and fearful.
We’ve been here before, when our lives somehow intersected and we decided to jump headfirst into what would eventually become us.
This time, we need to be a little more careful.
Use heed in a way that shows we know what we’re doing because I can’t lose her again.
“I missed kissing you like this,” she says softly. She adds a quiet moan, and I feel it against my tongue. A gentle vibration that shoots to the pit of my stomach. Her hands, cold and trembling, tuck under my jacket. I feel her fingertips test the feel of my skin, and suddenly, I feel overdressed.
There’s a shed just off to the side of the back door.
I lift her in my arms and drag her there, hoping there isn’t some latch lock on the door.
Luckily there isn’t. I swing it open and take a mental note to commend Tommy on his ability to keep his work shed considerably neat and organized despite most being used for junk storage.
There’s a worktable with a few random tools that look like they’ve been unintentionally left out.
Kendall follows my lead without question.
She doesn’t hesitate for a moment when I nudge her backward, her butt perched at the edge of the table and my fingers scraping against her scalp.
I whip off my jacket, the useless thing now drenched to the point of no return, and it’s still too many layers between us. I need to feel her. All of her.
She follows, taking her own jacket off. I place mine on the worktable and guide her so she’s sitting on it.
I’m glad it’s sturdy, especially with the added weight from me when I brace my palms against it to cage her.
I lean in, taking in a long inhale. The creams she meticulously slathers on her face, the lotion I know she rubs on her body that’s a little floral scented, her deep apple-flavored shampoo.
All of it reminds me of us. Our bedroom, our home, the scents lingering behind long after she’s left for the day.
“Is this okay?” I ask, my kisses trailing down her neck.
I feel her nod. I run my thumb along her stomach, trailing up her waist. She’s wearing a thin shirt.
It’s sleeveless and something more appropriate for sunny weather but enough to keep her warm under her jacket while on our walk.
The goose bumps along her arms measure the chill drifting past us, and I can see her nipples harden through the layers.
The wet strands of her hair cling to her skin, along her neck and delicate collarbone.
Rivulets of water roll down the exposed area of her skin, some disappearing into the swell of her cleavage.
I watch like a man entranced, mesmerized by how incredibly sexy she is.
Her fingers fumble with my jeans, the zipper loud among the raindrops and our rustling clothes. She reaches inside, applying firm pressure in a way that makes my bones feel like mush.
“Baby,” I groan.
“It’s been so long.” I hear the omitted part she’s holding back. The part where we dissect and discuss why we’ve been starving ourselves when this is all we’ve been thinking about.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I assure her, my hands stilling. “We can just stay here until the rain lets up.” We’re moving at lightning speed, and as much as I’d like to rip off her clothes—rainstorm and all—I need to make sure this is what she wants.
“No,” she argues, equable desperation in her dispute. “I don’t want to stop.”
She says she doesn’t want to stop, but I stop anyway. I pry my lips from her body, and I swallow the harsh knot lodged in my throat. “I don’t mean to bring it up, but I know last time you… I just don’t want you to do something you don’t want to. I don’t want you to regret anything.”