Page 78 of A Me and You Thing
I cry for my fellow teachers. I cry for Abi. Her sweet smile is still vivid in my mind. For Joseph. I know his children must miss him desperately. For Wes—for the life he wasn’t able to live. For all of them. For their families. For the senseless loss of so many lives.
The tears overwhelm and engulf me. Eat me alive. Everything crashes down on me at once as the enormity of what happened submerges me with grief.
I cry for myself too. For what this has done to my life, to Sawyer, and to my daughters. I feel as though we’re standing amidst the ruins of our life. I know we can pick up the pieces and rebuild. But we can’t pretend none of this ever happened.
We can move forward though.
I don’t know why I’m still alive. I don’t know why I have a second chance. Eleven other lives deserved to go on living, to have the opportunity to grow old with their loved ones. But only I survived.
I don’t know anything anymore. Nothing makes sense. All I know is that I’m in Sawyer’s arms and he loves me. We have a deep and enduring love. A love that can stand the test. I know it, and I know he does too. Everything will work out.
As I calm down, he places me gently on my pillow.
“I’m sorry, Quinn,” he says again.
“I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you.”
His expression is somehow filled with both anguish and tenderness. “I’m okay. At least, now I am.”
I physically hurt for him. I’ve caused him so much pain.
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. I have you. And that’s everything.” He gently wipes away my tears.
“My mom and dad. Your parents. Do they know?”
“Yes, I called them.”
“Have they been here?”
“Yes. They’ve been here briefly several times a day while you were sleeping. Just physically seeing you was enough. The doctor limited your visitors. He sedated you to give your brain time to rest and heal. You’ve been through a lot.”
“My headache’s gone. That’s huge. I’m okay, Sawyer. I really am.” In spite of the emotional breakdown a few minutes ago. I think it’s expected, though.
He nods, but I can tell he’s worried and doesn’t believe me. He lets out his breath and runs a hand through his hair. “We have a lot to talk about. I don’t even know where to start.”
“I don’t either.” I’m having a hard time reading him. But I get it. He’s still in shock. He leans down and kisses me softly. His kiss is tentative, like he’s scared I’ll break, like he can hardly grasp that this is actually happening. I know I just need to give him time to adjust. While it’s true that I’ve been through a lot, so has he.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you.” I want to scream it out loud over and over. “Our trip to the cabin is long overdue.”
He nods, his eyes intense. “Let’s get your health back. That comes first.”
I know he sees the question in my expression. It’s unlike Sawyer to be evasive or to avoid physical affection. But this is not a normal circumstance. I understand his worry and hesitation.
“I’ve missed so much. Do you have pictures of our daughters on your phone? I want to stare at them.”
At last, he smiles. “I do. I can’t wait for them to know you again.”
“Me too. Show them to me, please.”
We look at pictures on his phone while waiting for me to be discharged. I cry a little more as I see each one, yet I’m thankful to catch up on what I’ve missed, to witness how much they’ve grown. Sawyer tells me a bunch of cute stories about them and I hang on every word. I feel him relax as the familiar takes its place between us and we fall into our usual easy banter. Our relationship will reestablish itself. I feel sure of it. We’re going to be okay. We can get through this.
Once we’re in his car, ready for the trip home, I say, “Can we surprise my mom and dad?”
“Sure. They’re anxious to see you. I don’t want you to overdo it, though.”
I’m not used to Sawyer being so serious. There’s so much worry on his face and so much weight on his shoulders. I long to make him happy again.
