Page 64 of Our Hearts Knew Better

When I’m back in my clothes with my wet hair piled on top of my head, I tap on the glass to get his attention and open the door. “Want some beef stew?” It’s a comfort meal and one of our favorites. It takes a couple hours to make so it’ll be ready by dinner time.

He stalls a moment, then dips his soapy head beneath the stream. “Sure.”

“I need you to be there,” I say, holding to the door.At the table. For me. For us.

“I will,” he promises, and I leave him to go cook, knowing there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll be eating alone.

Mirrored

Summer

No matter the coin, I pick heads and I get tails.

I pick hope and I get dejected.

I pick effort and I get inaction.

Adam was on a call for half of my cooking time. I passed by occasionally and put my ear to the bedroom door. I knew who he was talking to from his pauses and hisyeahs and his scoffs of a laugh, as he got his own tough love from his best friend.

Besides me, he only talks to Levi and Isolde and Griffin. He’s softer with Isolde. He’s bitter with his father. He’s in the middle with me and Levi.

He’s since gone quiet, and I’ve called for him.

Two bowls of steaming stew sit across from each other at the table by the window, the sunset soft rays through the glass.

I hate sunsets here. They’re a threat of descending darkness and I’m living inside enough of it.

“Adam,” I call again, my voice not nearly as beckoning as I spoon some soup and let it dribble back into the bowl. “It’s ready,” I say, entirely to myself.

I blow the steam away from my face, then reach toward the island, pushing myself up just enough to finger grab my phone and drop back down. He’s more likely to look at his phone, so I text him.

Stew’s ready. Come eat with me.

Come out of there.

Come be with me.

I’m not going to be in that bed. I can’t live my life inside a room and let everything and everyone pass me by.

I glance around the open floor of this apartment, basically one room, and the knot in my throat presses against my windpipe.

It’s happening again, anyway.

I’m alone again. Ignored. An adult now, and it’s happening again, and I’m still getting blurred vision over it.

Adam doesn’t respond and he doesn’t open the door.

This is fine,I tell myself, letting the steam fog my face, a chant I use to ward off another breakdown. It’s been a bit since I’ve had one.

I push myself up from the table and take the habitual steps to the bedroom door, cracking it open to see Adam on his stomach, his face turned away. I fix my focus to his back, watching the lift to show he’s still breathing.

Then I take my stalled breath to feel myself still breathing too.

Adam remains in his world while I go back to mine, the one still trying to orbit after the damaging collision.

I clear the table, carrying the untouched stew toward an undecided destination, my feet halting between the island and the sink. I stare at the steam, the perfectly fine and fresh food, that would’ve been delicious and comforting, until I’m not really staring at all, stilled with a dimmed focus.

I’m aware I’m not moving, but these states are hard to come out of, almost a comfort in themselves, a stopping of time, a stopping of thoughts. It might only be for a few seconds, but every second feels so long.

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