Page 77 of In Love and War
I felt his body stiffen a little, but he didn’t let go of me. “I should go soon.”
“You could stay. For tonight,” I said, tightening my arms around him. “Tomorrow we go back to how things used to be. No more of this. I’ll hate you and you’ll hate me. Tomorrow.”
I knew I was being selfish, but I didn’t care. I would take all of him that I could get. Even if it was just one more night.
“I never hated you, Amelia,” he said, gently running his hand through my hair. The elastic holding my loose bun up had caved and fallen shortly after we got to the apartment.
I never hated you either.
“Will you stay?” I asked.
Say yes. Please say yes.
“Amelia, I can’t…”
“Please.” It was barely a whisper.
“One night?”
“One night.”
“Okay.”
He let go of me then. His thumbs gently brushed away the wet trails on my face before he grabbed the dry clothes off the couch and went to change.
I stayed where I was, leaning against the wall, until he came back. I was right—the clothes were a little small for him, but he somehow still managed to look good in them. It was so unfair.
Neither of us said anything. I walked over to him, slipped my hand into his, and led him down the hall and into the bedroom, leaving the lights off.
I crawled under the covers, and he followed. I was so tired. He pulled me close to him, and we talked. For hours, we just talked.
23
That night I dreamed of her again. The same way I used to all the time. It always started the same way. I was five years old, sitting in front of a mirror in my room and watching my mother brush my hair. It had been our nightly ritual. She did it with such gentle, elegant strokes of the brush. It never pulled or hurt like it did when I did it myself.
I watched in silence as she worked through my tangles and listened to her talk to me and tell me about her day. I watched myself grow up in the mirror, slowly, while she remained the same, stuck in time.
I wanted to turn around, to touch her and hug her and tell her I missed her. But I knew she wouldn’t be there if I did. That the dream would end. I’d tried so many times.
So I just sat there and watched her instead, drinking in every second and every detail of her face and her voice. The details that seemed to get muddied in my fading memories of her but were always crisp and fresh in the dream.
I hadn’t dreamed of her in so long. I thought maybe I’d never see her again.
“My beautiful Amelia,” she cooed. She was the only one that used my full name. Everyone else called me Milly. “My lovely daughter has grown so much. Mommy misses you, Amelia. I’m so proud of you, my love.”
Silent tears streamed down my face, but I refused to move a single muscle, terrified that it would cause it to end. I didn’t want it to stop. I didn’t know when she would be back again.
And then she put down her brush and brought up a hand to softly run through my hair instead. This part was new. She’d never done this before.
That’s when I realized it was already happening.
No. Not yet. Please. Please, not yet. Don’t go. I’m not ready for you to go.
“Shhh, it’s alright. It’s just a dream,” she said, but her voice was different. It was deeper.
My tears turned into silent sobs as I watched her evaporate into darkness, inch by inch, along with the mirror and the rest of my room.
Everything was now pitch-black, but I could still feel her hand running through my hair.
