Page 122 of The Perfect Love

“Why is this picture so important?”

I can’t answer for a second because my emotions have gone crazy and I can’t rein them in.

“Because I want to see it. Stare at it. Remember every detail. Pretend for a minute that if I open my eyes, he won’t be gone. Sometimes… fuck, it doesn’t make sense after ten years, but sometimes it still feels like yesterday that I saw him, and if I close my eyes and breathe, I’ll wake up from a bad dream and he’ll be here. I want to see it and live in that fantasy for a while.”

“Okay.” That’s it. A simpleokay. She doesn’t even question me. “Would your mom have a copy?”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t you call and ask her?”

“I don’t want to put that on her. Make her go through all those photos. It’s not easy for her.”

She nestles in closer. Her body is pressed so tightly to mine we might as well be one. Then she mindlessly twirls a finger around one of my curls, and it calms me in a surprising way.

“I’m sorry you have to relive this pain. But if this picture will bring you peace, it’s okay to ask your mom. She’s an adult, and if going through those photos is too much, she can say that.”

“She won’t though. If I ask, she’ll do it. And it’s my job to take care of her.”

“As the child, it’s never your job to be emotionally responsible for your parent.”

“Not just emotionally. I—” I blow out a breath. “It became my job the second my dad died. Not because anyone forced me into it, but because he always took care of her—and everyone. That void needed to be filled, so I filled it. My mom never asked. She doesn’t rely on me in ways she shouldn’t, but it’s important to me to be there for her.”

“But if you’re always trying to be there for her or take care of her or take the perceived burden of your needs off her, who’s taking care of you?”

Her words land with every bit of force intended.

“You can’t carry the weight of the world or even the responsibility of caretaker for everyone in your world. I love that you’re protective. I love how much you care for the people in your life. But you’re doing all of them a disservice if you don’t take care of yourself—let yourself be taken care of—too.”

Her words shatter something deep inside me, and I roll over, burying my head in her neck.

And then tears come. Tears of grief. Tears of anger. Tears of relief. Because as she holds me, I don’t feel like I have to be on. I don’t feel guilty or hyper aware of the fact that I’m crying. I just let go. This is safety. She’s my safe space. I don’t know when it happened, but I love that it has. Even if this level of vulnerability doesn’t come easily for me.

Chelsea runs her fingers through my hair, playing with the strands.

In time, my chest aches less, and though the desire to find that picture is still there in the back of my mind, it’s not clawing at me.

When I’m finally breathing normally again, I force myself to look at her, only to find her resting against my pillow with her eyes closed, still soothingly running her fingers through my hair.

“Chels,” I whisper, and her eyes flash open.

She runs her hand over my cheek, a soft smile appearing. “Hey, baby. You look a little better.”

I nod, even though everything inside me is still twisted up.

“I think I’m broken.”

Her voice is soft when she speaks. “Why? Men are allowed to have feelings.”

Slowly, I push myself up to sitting and wipe my face. “It’s not that. But I felt like I was drowning when you walked in. I was stuck and couldn’t figure out how to break out of that thought process.”

She tilts her head. “Has that happened before?”

“Not really. Not like that.”

“Sometimes people experience hyperfixation in response to anxiety or depression. What this day triggers for you is probably a messy mix of those things.”

I blow out a breath and try to root myself in reality again. That’s when I notice the achy pain in my stomach.

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