Page 68 of One Foggy Christmas
“I don’t even know.” I comb my fingers through my damp hair, swinging my legs over the mattress to a sitting position. “The more I dig, the more questions I have, and the more overwhelmed I feel.”
“Maybe I can help.” He slides his hands into his pockets, taking another step into the bedroom.
“For starters, why are all my pants cropped and wide-leg? Is this the actual style now, or just some fashion statement I was trying to make? And according to the t-shirt in my closet, Taylor Swift has released three new albums. THREE NEW ALBUMS. Do you know how many hours of songs I need to listen to just to get caught up? And apparently, there's a newTop Gunmovie, unless that movie poster in the back of the closet is lying.”
“Wow. That’s a lot to unpack.” He laughs, joining me on the edge of the bed. I recognize his cologne probably because I picked up the bottle on the bathroom counter and smelled it. A man wouldn’t douse himself in a fragrance his wife wasn’t a fan of, but man, I did not expect to like the way Nash smells so much. Despite the awkwardness of our situation, a nose-dive into his neck doesn’t seem like that bad of an idea, but I’ll just use the bottle on the counter whenever I need a whiff.
“As far as I know,” Nash says, pulling me out of my cologne frenzy, “the wide-leg cropped pants are in style. And as a side note, you look very cute in them.”
I bite my lip, containing my smile.
“And you have a Taylor Swift shirt because we went to her concert in Paris a couple of months ago. It was pretty epic.”
My shoulders sink. “I missed Paris and a Taylor Swift concert?”
“You didn’t miss it. You were there, and you fully enjoyed yourself. We sang our hearts out. And until you have time tolisten to the new albums, I can tell you what songs are your favorite.”
“And what aboutTop Gun?”
“Excellent movie. I’m jealous you get to watch it again for the first time.”
“I don’t have time to watch it again because I’ll be busy relearning everything I can’t remember.”
“A lot of it you’ll figure out as you go. Like, does it really matter right now that Queen Elizabeth died, and you don’t remember?”
“What?” My posture falls. “The queen is dead?”
“I was just giving a random example.”
A wave of emotion I can’t explain slowly pools inside me, funneling into my eyes. “How did she die?”
Nash studies me, watching as I unravel. “Are you okay?”
“No.” I shake my head, fighting against the building tears. “Queen Elizabeth is dead.”
Somehow, it’s the final straw.
It’s not logical.
It’s not normal.
But it’s happening, and I can’t stop it.
Tears spill out of me in a steady stream as my chest heaves up and down.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” Nash wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Just breathe.”
“I’m…try…ing,” I say through heavy gasps that are too substantial to rein in.
This breakdown isn’t about the Queen of England, a newTop Gunmovie, or a weird clothing style I don’t understand. It's about everything else. Everything I’ve been holding in—all the overwhelm, confusion, newness, unknowns, anger, and disappointment—unleashes, and emotion fills the gaps. Uncontrollable sobs decimate whatever composure I had.
Nash pulls me into his side, allowing me to cry on his shoulder, and I wonder if I’ve ever been this vulnerable in front of him. Has he ever comforted me on this raw of a level before? By how his hand gently runs down the side of my head, smoothing my hair repeatedly, I feel like he has.
I feel like he knows exactly what to do.
I don’t get caught in the weeds of whether or not I’m ready to share this level of intimacy with him. I’m too exhausted and sad to be bogged down by that. I simply let him comfort me on a human level because I need it. He doesn’t speak, just allows my tears to flow—a stark contrast between him and Stetson. Stetson’s a fixer. By now, he’d have given me ten different solutions for how to feel better. But in this instance, the silence is nice. Maybe even needed.
After a while, Nash pulls me back into the pillows, cradling me in his arms. I cry on his chest for what seems like an eternity and even feel the moment one of his own tears trickles down onto me, wetting my hair. I’m not sure if he’s crying for me or for himself. Either way, the heartache is too much to bear, and I don’t want to feel it anymore.
