Page 38 of If It Can't Be Us

The guilt.

The fear.

And then… I let the tears come.

Chapter 10

Leo

I get home from work just before 7:00. It’s been a bloody long day, and I haven’t heard from Vivian. She left my text message unread, and when I’ve tried to call, it goes straight to voicemail. This isn’t like her, and I’m starting to worry. She’s usually prompt with her replies, even when she’s busy. I drop my stuff in the entryway, rush up the stairs to the second floor, and head outside to the front of the house. I scan her townhouse for any sign of her. Lights are on on every floor, including the rooftop.

That’s where she is.

She wouldn’t have the patio light on if she wasn’t up there. She loves her patio and spends loads of her free time there. It's bloody cold, though. I go back inside, run up to my bedroom, and change into joggers and a T-shirt. I grab a heavy jacket and put it on as I run up the next two flights of stairs. Light from her patio spills onto mine as I step outside. Sure enough, there she is, sitting cross-legged with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around her. A space heater hums and oscillates a few feet away. There’s music playing softly in the background. She has a large book on her lap, a glass of wine in one hand, and a tissue in the other. I look at the rather large pile of tissues next to her, and my heart lurches. She’s sad, and I debate whether to leave her alone or interrupt her at such a vulnerable time. I choose the latter.

Walking quietly to the wall that divides us, I ponder what to say. Her sudden movement suggests she senses my presence but doesn’t look up. Iwatch her for a few moments. She’s beautiful. Even now, with her hair pulled back and her makeup-free face red and blotchy from what must have been hours of crying, she’s still so beautiful. She tucks a loose strand of hair that’s been blown by the breeze behind her ear, and I hear her sniffle.

I’m frozen. Despite all my years as a therapist, I’m rooted to the spot, unable to find the words to convey that I want to be here for her. I clear my throat so that I don’t startle her. “Are you alright, Walker?” I say wearily. I silently scold myself—stupid thing to say, clearly she’s not alright.

She nods, sets her tissue down, and wipes both sides of her face with the backs of her hands. She looks up and tries to smile. “Yep, all good,” she replies. She inhales and exhales deeply as she stares up at the dark sky.

I proceed with caution. “May I join you?” I ask, ready to be turned away. I know better than anyone that you can’t make someone talk if they don’t want to.

She surprises me by nodding her head and allowing a soft, “Yeah, that’s fine,” to slip from her lips. She gathers all her tissues, crumples them into a ball, stuffs them behind a cushion on the other side of her, and pats the now open seat next to her.

I hop the wall and carefully approach, taking a seat next to her. “What are you looking at?” I ask, placing my hand on her shoulder blade and gently rubbing her back.

She responds by setting the book—which I’m now realizing is a photo album—on my lap and taking a large gulp from her wine glass.

She looks at me, waiting for me to say something first, but I don’t. Years of training have prepared me for this moment, and I won’t fuck it up. Now is the time to listen—to shut up, listen, ask a few questions when necessary, and listen more. I meet her gaze as she struggles to maintain eye contact. Her eyes wander to the side, down, and then back up to mine. I give her a small smile, letting her know she can trust me and that I’m here for her.

After a minute or two of silence, with me maintaining eye contact, she whispers, “I’m ready to talk to you.”

A surge of pride washes over me as I realize she trusts me with this moment. I break our gaze and curiously look down at the photo album. They’re wedding photos… her wedding. She looks gorgeous in a beautiful and elaborate wedding dress, her face radiating pure joy. I flip the page to find a picture of her and who I assume to have been her husband. He’s handsome, and in this picture, they’re laughing as they cut their wedding cake.

I turn my head to look at her; her eyes are down, toward the photos. “You were married?” I ask. She manages a slow nod. I flip through a few more pages. She looks so happy in these pictures. I come across a family photo. “Is this your mum and dad?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, leaning in slightly for a better look.

It’s obvious that the couple are her parents. Her mum is an older version of Vivian, with the same stunning beauty, and her dad is a handsome fellow with specks of gray in his hair and beard. They both have the same dark hair, but her mum’s features are darker. I see that Vivian gets her green eyes from her dad, and her complexion and features from her mum.

“I see where you get your natural beauty from,” I say, trying to lighten her spirits.

A small smile forms on her lips. “Thanks,” she says, shrugging. “My mom’s from Spain. She and my dad met while she was visiting a friend in Boston. He was going to Harvard Law School, and they met at a campus party her friend had brought her to. They were friends first, long-distance for two years, each taking turns visiting the other. Then realized they were in love, and she moved in with him. They got married shortly after, so she could get citizenship.”

Flipping through a few more pages, I let the silence build. I’m comfortable in it, and I want her to come to me. I don’t want to push. After minutes pass, and I’ve looked through the entire album, I close the book. “You look really happy here,” I say. “What happened?”

She looks up at me briefly, and I see that her eyes are glistening. Her lips press into a tight line, and she blinks rapidly before looking away. She cups a hand to her mouth as she swallows audibly. A tiny cry escapes her mouth, and it’s too much for me. My heart tears from my chest as I reachfor her hand. She grips it, holding it as if she is hanging from the edge of a cliff and if she lets go, she may plummet to her death.

“He died.” She takes a deep breath in and slowly exhales.

Holy shit.

I wait for her to continue.

“In a car accident.” She sets her wine glass down and stares into the abyss. “I was driving us home from Sarah’s birthday party. We were going up the canyon… back up to Park City. We were singing and laughing.” She pauses to breathe, to hold her composure. “I saw the driver in my rearview mirror, but there wasn’t anything I could do. He was going so fast and swerving all over the road. He was drunk… and he hit us. Drove his car just right… right into us, into Ben.” Her shoulders start shaking as she drops my hand and hugs her knees to her chest, resting her forehead between her knees.

I absentmindedly rub her back, sensing that there is more. She eventually looks up, finding her blank stare again. She sniffles. “I was pregnant,” she says. “Seven months… I named her Evie.”

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