Page 67 of When He Saved Me
I squeezed tighter. “I’ve got you. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”
“Don’t let go, okay?” he asked, his voice choked with tears. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t. I promise,” I said, trying to hold back my own tears.
I listened and held him as he wept, and when his breaths finally evened out and I was sure he was asleep, I let my own tears fall as well.
CHAPTER33
FINN
Jamie managedto find it in himself to return to school after spring break. I think the knowledge that Annie had wanted him to finish was the only thing motivating him to continue.
He had also progressed from zombie to robot, though I wasn’t sure robot could be counted as progress. At least now he spoke and interacted with others. Though those interactions were devoid of almost all emotion.
After the night he returned to his own bed, he shut the door to his mom’s room, and it had remained closed ever since. He continued to sleep in bed with me, though he shied away from my touch.
It hurt to have him so close and be unable to touch him, but I took comfort in the fact that at least he allowed me in his bed at all. I tried to be patient. I knew grief was a winding, hilly path rather than a flat, straight line, and I needed to allow him the space to travel that path in his own time.
On a Saturday morning in early April, I came into the house through the garage and into the kitchen. I’d taken advantage of the beautiful spring day, running shirtless in the sun. I stood at the sink, chugging water from the tap and listening to the end of my podcast, when Jamie walked in.
“Jesus, can you put a damn shirt on? You’re sweating all over the kitchen. This is where we prepare food, for Christ’s sake.” My mouth dropped open as he shook his head in disgust and walked back into the living room.
I continued standing there for a moment, debating how to react. Jamie had been snipping at me more and more lately, making passive-aggressive comments about how I loaded the dishwasher or about the socks on the floor that had missed the hamper, but this was the first comment where he’d outright called me out on something. I’d never seen him so aggressive.
The asshole in me wanted to follow him and push back on the way he’d been treating me, but these comments were so out of character for him, and I knew they were coming from a place of pain. I finished my water, allowing my heart rate to come down before I followed him into the living room.
I dragged my shirt over my sweaty torso as I walked. A month ago, Jamie would have made some sort of suggestive comment before licking the sweat off my body, maybe even joining me in the shower, but in the wake of his grief, this is what our relationship had come down to.
The physical manifestations of our love were a memory. And I wasn’t just talking about sex. The little touches, forehead kisses, hugs, and even the brush of a hand against my arm were gone. In its place was a cold emptiness, a great divide I didn’t know how to cross.
And despite it all, I hadn’t stopped loving him. Hadn’t given up on us.
So, when I approached him as he sat on the couch, mindlessly flipping through Netflix on the TV, I kept my tone calm as I asked, “What’s wrong?”
His eyes flicked to mine, then back to the TV. “Nothing. Is it too much to ask for you to wear a shirt in the kitchen? It’s gross.” I didn’t remind him that he’d made me breakfast shirtless the first time he’d spent the night at my place in December. This wasn’t about me being shirtless, not really.
“Okay, I’ll wear a shirt in the kitchen from now on. I’m sorry that upset you,” I said carefully.
“Whatever,” he mumbled, continuing to scroll through the Netflix options. I wasn’t convinced he was actually seeing them.
Essentially dismissed from the conversation, if you could really call it that, I made my way down the hall to shower. I didn’t trust myself not to say something I’d regret, and I didn’t want a fight. I thought the time and space my shower would provide might give us both time to calm down. When finished, my lower half wrapped in a towel, I returned to our room to get dressed, only to find Jamie pulling hanging clothes out of the closet. He was tossing them on the bed next to another pile of folded clothes that appeared to have come from his drawers.
“What are you doing?” I asked, surveying the assortment of clothes and personal items piled around the room.
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he threw back, not even bothering to hide the snark in his tone.
“I’m trying to figure that out. That’s why I asked.”
“Don’t be a dick. I’m moving my shit out of here.” He returned to the closet, coming out with another pile of hanging clothes.
“Why?” I was genuinely baffled at his behavior.
“I hate this fucking room. I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m going back to my old room.”
“Okay.” Confused but not wanting to agitate him further, I crossed over to the dresser, where my clothes were still neatly folded and put away. I dressed quickly and hung my towel on the hook behind the door while Jamie continued to move items out of the closet.
Flummoxed and unsure of what else to do in the midst of this erratic behavior, I picked up a stack of hanging clothes. “I’ll just start moving some of this stuff up there.” I’d only been in Jamie’s childhood bedroom once when Annie had taken me up to show me some of his childhood memorabilia. That had been shortly before she’d gone into the hospital. I didn’t think I’d even mentioned it to Jamie.
