Page 117 of When The Rain Falls

But the second I kneel beside him, I see the steady rise and fall of his chest. I see the tear-streaked face. I see the dampening of sweat in his hair.

“Bear,” I say soothingly as I rub a hand along his back. I realize I’m crying. The shockwave of relief at seeing him alive unleashed tears that I didn’t even know were coming. I blink back my tears, but new ones keep forming.

Finn groans. And ever so slowly, he rolls onto his side.

“Bear, are you ok?” I ask. I bring my head down to his mouth to confirm that his breathing is steady and regular. I grab his hand and he gives me a faint squeeze.

“What is it? What happened? What are you doing on the floor?”

“Can’t a man suffer in fucking peace?”

I let out a laugh. But it’s full of nerves and anxious fluttering.

“Don’t laugh,” he commands coldly. His words are slurred. He tries to push himself off the floor, but his arms fail.

“You love my laugh. It’s the most obnoxious thing you've ever heard, remember?” I run my fingers through his closely-cropped hair.

“Goddammit, stop!” Finn pounds the floor with a fist. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Do you need water? Can you try to sit up?” I ask, ignoring his outburst. I think I’m finally finding out exactly why the man doesn’t drink anymore. This is pretty ugly.

He covers his face with his hand and tucks his knees slightly up to his chest. I join him and ease my body onto the carpet and lay on my side, facing him. I brush my fingers across his face in an attempt to console him.

“Aimee, I need you to leave.” The words are so slurred, they all sound like one.

“I told you, I’m not leaving,” I assure him. “Let me get you to your bed. Do I need to call your office? Why were you drinking? Why didn’t you call me if you were sad?”

His silence fills my ears, causing my last words to echo in my head.

When I caress the stubble across his jaw, he softly pushes my hand away.

“Leave me here. Please.” His request is weak and haggard.

“I can’t leave you like this. You shouldn’t be alone,” I insist. “I can make you feel better.” Each time I’ve caught him like this, I’ve been able to pull him out of his sadness. In some ways, I feel like he needs me. He needs me to do this for him.

“Aimee,” his voice sounds strangled now. “You can’t. Nothing can. I need you to go. For your own good. I’m not ok right now.” There’s something ominous in his voice. Like he doesn’t trust himself around me. And I don’t know what to make of it. Nothing about this scene in front of me makes any sense.

I lean in closer, press my lips to his, hoping that something soft and tender will bring him back. He doesn’t kiss me back. Heturns his head and then his body, until he’s laying face-up on the floor.

I can’t help but wonder why. Why is he watching home videos? Videos of her. On a weekday morning. There can only be one reason. He’s missing her. And I know it’s a selfish thought, but I can’t help but think it anyway.

Maybe I’m not enough.

A new thought strikes me. One that instantly caves my heart in. All these weeks, I thought I was walking a journey with him. I thought I was helping him overcome his worries. His fears. His anxiety. But what if I wasn’t helping at all? What if all I was doing was pushing him? At first, he couldn’t touch me without his hand trembling. Then the night on the deck…his body clearly wasn’t ready to love again. And what did I do? I pushed him. I pushed him relentlessly.

Maybe his heart also isn’t ready. What if what we have isn’t what I thought it was?

I hear Laurel laughing on the TV. Finn lets out a quiet sob. My eyes fill with tears at the scene playing out in front of me.

“Why aren’t you letting me help?” I ask weakly. “Finn, this is what we do. This is what we’ve done from day one. We hold each other when the world feels heavy. Let me hold you.” Holding him is the only power that I have. I don’t want him to take it away from me.

“Aimee, fuck.” He rubs his head into an open palm. “You hold me too much. You need to go. It’s for your own good.” And the alcohol on his breath hits me heavily in the face.

“I’m not trying to replace her,” I assure him. I’m also assuring myself. “I know she’s the other woman. I’m ok with it. You can tell me when you miss her.” This is what I say out loud. But part of me wonders if Iamstrong enough. To hear how much he misses her when he’s holding me.

Finn’s chest rises. His eyes close as he massages his hairline. “She’sthe other woman?” His voice is almost menacing. “You thinkmy wifeis the other woman here?”

“But, I—” I try to respond. To protest. But I can’t. Because I’m not sure. Between Laurel and I, I don’t know who the other woman is. I don’t know exactly what I am to him. We were going to talk about it. But we haven’t. I let my eyelids fall and pinch my eyes tight.

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