Page 10 of What We Broke

My heart holds the most hurt, and most days it feels like the desecrated organ manifested pain into every bone and every muscle I have.

Mornings are the one moment when, for a fraction of a second, my day starts with a clean slate. When there is one single opportunity to inhale and exhale freely.

It is the one time I am free of the heavy and everything still has hope and possibilities.

It is also that one, same moment when realization hits and it all comes flooding back.

The memories, the agony, the torturous weight of sadness and loss.

That first reminder is paralyzing.

Every morning, lying in bed, staring at the off-white-colored ceiling, stiff and sore and so fucking hopeless.

There is a quiet knock on the bedroom door.

It’s been eight weeks since the night at the bar. Eight weeks since Jesse begged me to come home. Eight weeks of Jesse knocking at the same time every morning, and every morning I pretend to sleep through it.

Dragging the blanket up the length of my body, I pull it up over my shoulders and my head. It’s no secret to either of us that I’m avoiding him. I’m avoiding the small talk over breakfast, and I’m avoiding any real effort at rejoining any routine that resembles our old life.

He knows that and I know that, but we’re going through the motions anyway.

“Leo,” he calls through the door. I imagine him close, his forehead pressed against the hollowed out wood. “Baby.”

My eyes sting at the endearment, now turned into a hoarse, desperate plea. I hate how easily the words slip from his lips. How can I treat him like absolute trash and the man never wavers?

I hate that I’m not like him. That I can’t just exist as his husband in the aftermath of it all.

Trying to ignore him, I bury myself deeper beneath the heavy blanket. It’s what I’m good at, because while he’s trying so hard to save us, I’m trying even harder to ruin us.

“Papa.” My body stiffens at hearing Raine. She is my kryptonite and he knows that, but she’s been avoiding me just as much as I’ve been avoiding her.

There is everything wrong with the way I’ve been acting toward her, but I’m struggling. I’m struggling to be present with the people who are here, living with me in the now.

I know she’s hurting, but I don’t know how to prioritize her pain over mine. I’ve lost the ability to be anything but self-centered, proving that maybe I’m really not fit to be a parent, and the universe just knew before I did.

“Raine,” he says sternly. “You’re supposed to be waiting for me in the car.”

“Papa,” she repeats. “I just want to talk to you.”

She is exactly like her father. Persistent and hopeful and so fucking selfless. Like him, she believes she can be the one to get through to me.

“Papa,” she says again, this time her voice wavering. “I’m waiting for you.”

“Leo.” Jesse’s voice is stern. Gone is the man who was patiently waiting for me to come through. This is Jesse the father, and Jesse the father would break that door open and rip me out of bed if I don’t answer his little girl.

Because that’s what she is.

She isn’t mine.

She is his.

Throwing the duvet off me, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and rummage for a sweatshirt in my pile of dirty clothes. Covering up, I shake out my body and open the door.

My gaze lands on Raine first. Her eyes wide and smile unmissable, she glances up at her father, then back at me. “I knew you would open up for me. I’ve been telling Dad I should wake you up every day.”

“Yeah, babe,” Jesse says stiffly. “You were right.”

Raine throws herself at me, and the surprise almost causes me to lose my balance. Her arms squeeze around my neck, and as if I’m sitting in front of a warm fire on a winter’s night, my shoulders soften, and the tension in my chest loosens.

---