Page 30 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“That’s really great.”
“Yeah.” He nods brusquely. “Now, it’s your turn.”
It’s only fair.
He shared…a lot. So much my heart hurts for him. So much I know I should give something back.
It’s just…the lid I slammed down to keep my feelings in check is nowhere in sight now, even though I scramble to find it, to clamp it onto the pot of emotions inside me.
I would have thought I cried them all out.
But, nope. The fire’s going, and they’re threatening to boil over again.
“I lost my house,” I whisper, and God, how is it I have any tears left?
It’s probably the fucking tube in my arm, its cannula pumping saline into my body.
Making it possible for my body to keep producing the salty fuckers.
Making it impossible for me to ignore the way his face gentles as more tears to slip free when he says, “I know you did, baby.”
“No,” I whisper. “I lost my house. Which means I lost everything.”
“I know,” he whispers back.
But how can he know?
Because—
“No, I mean…I lost N-Nana’s banana bread recipe and my baby pictures and the photo of my mom and dad on their honeymoon.” My lungs hitch. “And I lost the necklace my mom had bought to give me on my wedding day and Fluffy’s collar and N-Nana’s perfume and my mom’s sc-scarf and…they’re not here!” More tears sliding down my cheeks. “They’re not here and they’re not coming back and I can’t just go buy another scarf because it won’t smell like my mom and they don’t make Nana’s perfume anymore and I can’t remember if her banana bread calls for one egg or two a-and I’ll never be able to properly remember what my dad’s handwriting looked like or be able to use my mom’s special deviled eggs platter again.”
“Red,” he murmurs.
I use my free hand to angrily brush aside my tears, the Velcro on the splint catching in my hair. “I don’t have them anymore. I don’t have anyone. And I don’t have any way of getting all that I had left of them back. So, that’s why I lost it. Because I remembered I didn’t just lose my laptop and my collection of signed special edition hardbacks. I didn’t just lost my purse and credit cards and passport and who knows what else. I lost them, all over again and…”
“It hurts.” Kind green eyes on mine.
“Yes,” I say, looking down at the thin weave of the blanket. “It really hurts. Because I don’t have a family to swoop in and take care of me when I’m in the hospital. I’ve had to learn to live without them and that sucks and”—I gently extract my hand from his—“I’m really tired of being alone, of having to do it all by myself.”
That’s the truth.
But I also realize how that sounds.
How pathetic it sounds.
I slam the brakes on the emotions churning in my belly, clamp down that lid tightly again.
“But that’s the way it’s been since Nana died,” I tell him. “Which means I’m used to it. So, thanks for being kind and understanding while I got my good cry out. But I’m good.” My lips curve into what I hope is some semblance of a smile, but I know I’ve failed when I gather the courage to flick my eyes toward his for a heartbeat.
Still, I press on.
Because that’s what I do.
“Luckily,” I say, running my fingers over the edge of the blanket as I dare to take another look at him. “I’ve written a book about this same thing happening to a character. The house burning down part,” I add when his brows drag together, confusion in his green eyes. (I don’t add that the love of her life, the other half of her soul, the man who saw her as the most precious object in the universe saved her, thus starting them on their path to happily-ever-after because…fiction versus real life and I don’t need to feel any more sad in this moment).
“Anyway,” I go on into the silence that’s fallen, “I’m just saying I know what my next steps have to be, so as soon as the doctor springs me from hospital jail, I’ll get on with them.”
I smile, pretend this is fine.
