CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Bryce
Istep back from the wall, moving my hands to my hips—careful not to drag the end of the paintbrush over my jeans—and take in my handiwork.
Painting the nursery, adding the pop of color Leanne chose, was something I’d been looking forward to for weeks, but now I barely see the stunning hue covering the wall. Everything around me has faded into shades of grey and I’ve gone numb.
It’s a feeling I’m uncomfortably familiar with, and it’s like being back in those weeks following Sarah and Sam’s deaths, except it’s only been hours since I ruined everything and Leanne left.
She said she needed space.
What does that mean? For how long? Can I fix this, or did my fear of telling her bring about the exact thing I was so afraid of?
I seal the lid of the paint can, leaving the brush in the tray—not caring that it will be ruined if I don’t wash it out—and head for the shower.
I don’t even bother to strip my clothes off before I walk in and turn on the spray, hoping the warmth of the water will thaw the numbness and help me figure out what to do.
Alex finds me in the nursery the next morning, surrounded by piles of baby clothes sorted by size and ready to go into the wash.
In his arms are just a few of the gifts from yesterday’s baby shower. Was it really only yesterday that I was so happy and everything was perfect?
He can see, clear as day, that I’m not alright. He knows me too well.
“Come on, son, help me get this stuff unloaded.”
And without a word, I stand and help him bring in the rest of the gifts, including the heavy box holding the pieces of the crib.
He doesn’t talk. He knows I’ll tell him what’s going on when I’m ready. Instead, he picks up the dried paintbrush and can of paint and heads out of the room. He comes back with the smell of paint-thinner on his hands and starts opening the large box we left in the middle of the room.
I take up the spot beside him and in silence we begin pulling everything out.
An hour later, we shift the crib to its place of honor in front of the orange wall I painted last night. The dark walnut perfectly complements the pop of color behind it.
I wish Leanne were here to see it.
At the thought, pain lances through me and I remember why numbness is easier. It hurts less.
My voice is hoarse from lack of use and last night’s tears when I finally speak. “She heard us in the kitchen—talking about Sarah and—” I break off, take a beat. Inhale. “And Sam.” I slump to the floor, resting my back against the wall, and stare unseeing into the chaos around me.
Alex sits beside me, close enough so I feel the support.
I clear my throat and keep talking. “I hurt her—by not telling her. It’s exactly what I was afraid of. She doesn’t believe I’m not trying to replace them. She doesn’t believe I love her.”
He nods in my periphery, and I can see him working out what he wants to say.
“But you do love her. Whether she wants to believe it right now or not. You love her. It’s clear as day to every person who sees you two together. And she loves you too.”
I shake my head, as afraid to hear those words as she was yesterday. Afraid to believe them.
“She does.” He’s confident and unwavering in his assessment, like a man who’s lived a long life married to a woman he loves very much and might know more than I do. “That’s why she’s so hurt right now. If she didn’t love you, none of this would matter.”
“She said she needs space, that we both do, and I don’t even know what that means.” Is eighteen hours long enough? It feels like an eternity, physically manifested, and it’s tearing me apart to let her stay even twenty miles away at her own house.
“If space is what she needs, then you give it to her. But not too much…” He pauses, long enough I can’t stand the silence and finally turn to look him full in the face. He gives me an apologetic smile, and I know his next words are going to be hard to hear.
“When we lost Sarah and Sam…” He blows out a rough breath.
“It was so hard. All of it was so hard. The pain of losing a child—I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
But you had to endure that and the loss of your wife at the same time.
” He holds my gaze, and as much as I wish I could look away, I can’t.
“And I told Delia if we weren’t careful, we were going to lose you too. ”
I open my mouth to protest, but he gives his head a small shake and presses on.
“You were broken in those months after they died. Lost. Neither of us knew what you needed, and we were terrified to give you too much space or to hold on too tightly. But we were sure of one thing—we needed you, and we were not going to lose our son in addition to our daughter and grandchild. So, we let you grieve as best we could, and when you said you were considering a move—”
“You told me no,” I say, remembering that day with a clarity that only comes with moments that change your entire life.
I remember the day I moved to the ranch the same way, just like the day I married Sarah, the day she told me she was pregnant, the day they died…
It’s the way I remember meeting Leanne, and our first night together, that fateful phone call, and when I felt our baby girl kick for the first time.
“We told you no,” he repeats. “Because we loved you too much. The time for giving you space was past, and the time for holding on for dear life had come. Because that is what you do for your family. That is what you do for the people you love.”
“So you’re saying…” I say, trailing off.
“That sometimes it’s hardest to see the truth of people’s love when we’re in pain, so we need them to prove it to us—by showing up, by holding on, by not letting go.”
A fist tightens in my gut. “But I let her walk away…”
“You respected her enough to let her have the space she needs. And even in doing so, you’re still here, showing up.
You’re preparing for her, for your daughter, even as we speak.
Even if she’s not here to see it, you’re still holding on to them.
And if you give it a couple days—” I groan at the prospect of waiting that long to see her and talk to her, and he chuckles before continuing.
“Or even just a day, I think you’ll find the space was good for you both.
Then you prove to her you’re not going anywhere by showing up for her in person. ”
“What if it’s not enough?”
“You’re enough, Bryce. I promise you are.”
My head falls back against the wall, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight against the onslaught of emotion, choking on the sob that claws up my chest. Before I can register what’s happening, Alex grabs my shoulder and pulls me into him.
His grip is firm, a father holding his son, and I recognize how badly I needed his words and his example. He’s here, proving to me how loved I am and showing me exactly what it looks like to be a man who will never give up on his family.
Today, I’ll give Leanne the space she wants, but tomorrow… Tomorrow I will be there, showing up for her exactly like she deserves, because I love her and she needs to know she is enough too.
She is everything.