Page 87 of October
I smiled faintly."I promise I'll keep learning your love language."
Some nights were lighter.
"Remember when we got caught in the rain walking home from the cinema?" he asked, eyes crinkling at the memory. "You wrapped your coat around both of us, even though it meant your back got soaked. Your teeth were chattering so hard I thought they might fall out."
He nudged me with his shoulder."I promise I'll always try to keep you warm, even if it means getting drenched."
Other nights made us laugh mid-sentence, or pause with something tender caught between us.
"You cried watching that pet adoption ad once," I teased, leaning back so I could see his face better. "and then blamed it on dust, remember?"
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes, the tips of his ears going pink. "God, don't remind me. It was the music, they made it sound like the dogs were writing farewell letters."
"And you got so defensive about it!" I couldn't help laughing softly. "You insisted the living room just had 'too much dust.'"
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. There was something boyish and almost shy in the way he ducked his gaze.
"I promise," I said, my voice turning gentler, "I'll always notice that soft heart of yours. Even behind all the quiet you wrap around it."
There were memories that made us laugh again, like the time he tried to fix my grandmother's old lamp and nearly set the curtain on fire.
"I promise I'll always try to help, even if I'm more chaos than solution," he said, holding his hands up in surrender.
And quieter ones, like when I stood frozen at my friend's wedding, the toast I'd practiced for weeks gone completely from my mind. "You whispered the first line to me under your breath," I reminded him. "Just loud enough to catch it."
"I promise to learn to voice up what I need," I added.
One night, he grew quiet before speaking.
"When we brought Jimmy home for the first time," hemurmured, "I whispered, 'I hope we don't mess him up too badly,' and you didn't laugh or reassure me. You just reached for my hand."
He looked at me, his voice tender."I promise I will keep trying. Even when I don't know how."
And so it continued.
Some nights we laughed. Other nights, we cried. Some memories surprised us with how much they still hurt. Others made us nostalgic and happy. The ritual didn't fix everything. It didn't erase the hard parts. But it made space. It made room for gentleness to return.
Then for weeks and weeks, we added another ritual. Every night, after sharing a memory and a small promise, there'd be a soft hush between us. Then Thomas would open his arms, and I'd step into them almost before he finished the gesture. The hug was never rushed; it lasted until the weight of the day eased a little from both our shoulders. His chin resting against my hair, my cheek pressed to the steady beat of his heart.
Every night, he'd lean in close, breath warm against my ear, and whisper something in French.
Sometimes it was teasing, almost boyish: "Tu es mon plus beau cadeau. "—You're my most beautiful gift.
Sometimes it was quiet and aching: "Pardonne-moi d'avoir mis si longtemps à te retrouver."—Forgive me for taking so long to find you again.
Once, his voice rough and shy: "Même maintenant, tu me rends nerveux."—Even now, you make me nervous.
One night, I laughed softly and told him, "I'm going to start recording these. I want to know what they mean." He smiledagainst my hair, the sound of it caught between relief and vulnerability. "Okay. But promise you'll still let me say them first."
So I did and every night, like a teenager half in love with hope again, I'd hurry back to our room, phone in hand, to type them into a translation app, piecing together the tenderness he couldn't yet say in English, word by quiet word.
Then, in the next session, Dr. Mireille's voice turned softer, careful but unwavering. She looked at both of us, her gaze steady. "These words matter. The memories matter too. You have done a wonderful job, but there's one memory you've both been circling around, afraid to speak because it hurts so deeply you worry it might undo all the progress you've made." She let that truth settle, then named it: "The affair."
The air seemed to thicken, pressing against my chest.I was really not eager for this particular conversation.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Heavy Truths, Small Bottles
"I understand why you hesitate to bring it up, Thomas. You see how hard October is trying to heal; you don't want to reopen wounds. But silence doesn't erase pain, it preserves it. Left unspoken, this becomes a black cloud hanging over your marriage, and it will stay there, hovering quietly over every conversation, every touch, every moment, no matter how much you love each other."
