Page 27 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
But there’s no hiding what’s happening to her.
This isn’t an adrenaline letdown, the events of the last day finally hitting her.
This is…something else.
Something that has nothing to do with me (or Courtney).
Something that has her crying with such intensity—huge, wracking sobs that tear through her slender body, a body that seems all the more fragile and vulnerable lying in that hospital bed.
I’m frozen for a heartbeat.
But I can’t withstand the sounds of her pain.
I react without really thinking, standing and toeing off my shoes, shoving the remote aside, and…
Crawling into bed beside her.
She goes stiff for a moment, the sobs halting.
Then, as though she can only hold them back for a brief blip in time, she curls herself into an even tighter ball and cries. Harder.
“Fuck,” I whisper, carefully slipping an arm under her shoulder and drawing her back against me.
She fights me, but only for a second.
Then she turns and melts against me, pressing her face against my chest.
Tears soak into my shirt, her uninjured hand clenches at the material—no, clawing at it. Scratching my skin through the fabric.
I wince, but don’t let her go.
Instead, I draw her more tightly against me, smoothing a hand lightly up and down her back.
I don’t shush her, don’t tell her to get it all out.
At this point, I don’t think she could even hear me if I did.
So, I just hold her and wish there was something I could do to take this pain away.
Eventually, she quiets, the tears subsiding, her body slumping against mine as though she’s used every bit of energy her body had left and even continuing to breathe takes effort.
I still don’t speak, just keep stroking her back.
Mostly because I don’t know what to say.
Maybe also because if I do say something the spell will be broken and I’ll be forced to release her and get out of this bed.
I like her where she is.
Another reason to stay silent, to pretend she needs me here, right here, that me holding her isn’t about fulfilling some fantasy.
She’s just a woman taking comfort in my arms.
Needing me.
And not for a sick, fucked-up sexual connection, for some weird push-pull power play of a relationship that means neither of us can truly let go. Not for a relationship I ruined, a woman I turned into a monster?—
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, shifting as though she’s going to pull out of my arms.
