Page 67 of Brutal for It
She’s still asleep in our bed, one hand curved around the pillow, the other resting where I know she’s started to grow new life. I don’t know if it’s mine. That truth sits in me like a stone. But what I do know — what I feel down to the bone — is that she’s mine. She’s always been mine.
And that’s enough.
The ring’s been sitting in my drawer for weeks. I’ve picked it up more times than I can count. Turned it over in my hand, stared at the small scuff marks on the band from the night she gave it back. I couldn’t get rid of it before.
Because my soul knew it wasn’t over.
Nothing about us has ever been simple. Hell, it’s never even been easy. But it’s been real.
I make coffee, bacon, and toast. The smell wakes her before the light does. She blinks, rubbing her eyes, a little crease forming between her brows. That same crease I’ve kissed a hundred times.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice still raspy from sleep.
“Morning, Tiny.”
She smiles at the nickname, soft and shy, the way she did the first week she stayed clean.
I hand her the mug. She wraps her hands around it, inhaling. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Her eyes flicker, worried. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie automatically, then shake my head taking a pause. “No. Not really. But that’s okay. You don’t fix truth by hiding from it.”
She nods slowly, quiet.
“Eat something,” I tell her, brushing a hand through her hair. “We’re takin’ a ride.”
We head over the bridge.
The sky’s painted pink and gold, the air cool enough to sting a little. She rides behind me, arms snug around my waist. Every mile we put between us and town feels like shedding skin.
By the time the water appears, the world’s turned into color again.
The beach is almost empty — just the waves rolling in, steady and old, the horizon stretching wide enough to hold every secret we’ve ever carried.
She slides off the bike, helmet tucked under her arm. “Why this today? Why here?”
“Because this is where I remember who I am,” I say simply.
She looks out toward the water. “I’ve missed this.”
I watch her walk down to where the surf meets sand, her hair blowing wild in the wind. She looks lighter here. Like the ocean’s pulling the weight out of her piece by piece. I remember when she first came home from rehab before we were even a thing, she always soothed herself at the beach.
I follow, slow, letting her have the silence. When I reach her, she’s barefoot, toes digging into the sand.
“I used to come here after rehab,” she says quietly. “When the noise got too loud. I’d just stand here and let the waves drown it out.”
I nod. “Same reason I ride.”
She turns to me, eyes soft. “You really okay with all this?”
“Define all this.”
“This baby,” she says, her voice small. “The not knowing. The possibility that?—”
I stop her with a hand on her cheek. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
