Page 82 of Our Hearts Knew Better

I’mworking. I haveresponsibilities. I’m doing what I have to do.

But am I doingeverythingI have to do?

My throat squeezes against my breath on my way back to the room as Clarissa claims, in her humble opinion, I need my best friend here. She’d have nowhere to stay, and I’m not letting her waste her vacation time on me, on this.

Get the squash,she tells me.

Get the squashandbe the dragonare now our alternating phrases.

Be the dragon, spit my fire. Get the squash, move my ass.

I do get out of this house when I need to. I walk. I swim. I visit with Isolde. I wish.

I wish life was better for us all.

Adam’s at least getting out of bed now, in his pursuit of a little more happiness. My heart swells imagining him findingthat happiness again, then skips a few beats, the smallest wave of nausea in my stomach, when I acknowledge I don’t imagine myself being part of that happiness.

But I don’t think I am in our reality. He might be pursuing happiness, but he’s not pursuing me. He’s keeping busy too. Sure. But there’s still distance between us, even as I feel him physically, when he’s beside me in bed, our arms and legs brushing under the covers.

There’snopursuit for me.

An ache spreads through my fingers and I loosen my hold on my phone, blinking away the sting on my lids, and toss it onto Adam’s empty side of the bed with a noise sounding like a growl. I run my hands through my hair, pulling, as I face the window behind me, then finger open a section in the blinds.

We’re staying in the guest room—Adam wanting as far away from his childhood room as possible—and I can see the garden from this window. Griffin has added stepping stones and a tree stump stool to the birdbath and dog statue. When he’s home, he tends more to his garden than to his son. A green thumb wasted on a red hand.

Griffin still doesn’t keep tabs on Adam like my father did with me. He for sure makes Adam get to work, though, popping into the room when he’s overslept just a couple minutes, waking me up too. Once, when the covers were kicked off me in sleep, my sleep shirt ridden up to my stomach, exposing my panties, and I had to yank down the hem. He wasn’t looking at me, but that didn’t matter. Have some respect.

Get the squash.

I should plant some in Griffin’s garden.

The blinds snap back together as I release them and rush from the room on the thought, using the rest of the daylight to have a piece of my mom with me at this place too.

And to get my hands dirty without dirtying my hands.

I’m Weak for You, Bastard

Summer

I should be asleep by now. My body’s tired, molded to the bed, but my mind’s racing, wanting away from the shadows on the walls, tree limbs looking like beckoning arms.

I shift, kicking off the covers, and sighing as the floor fan’s breeze touches my legs.

“Adam.” I snap out the whisper, then let my frustration simmer down before turning on my side to face his back. He’s on his stomach, arms under his pillow, the fan blowing wisps of his hair. “Adam,” I whisper again, a desperate sounding lilt for him to wake up and talk with me into the night, like we used to do when one or both of us couldn’t sleep, before sleeping became an escape.

An escape he has mastered better than me, snoozing soundly, while I’m only adding noise to the room and motion to the bed.

I press my fingers into his back, and he groans a protest, moving in a jerk to throw off the thing that’s trying to disturb him.

It’s me.

It’sme.

I open my mouth to say his name again, then clamp it shut with a sigh as I flop to my back, gracelessly enough to make more motion, but still not enough to stir my boyfriend.

My brain saysoutand I jump out of bed, flinging off my sleep shirt to change back into my knotted shirt and ripped shorts.

More noise as I pad around, yank up and yank on, huffing and puffing with the movements, giving Adam the chance to stop me.

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