Page 64 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
I get his legs under the blanket, and then realize he will probably need the bucket again. I dump the contents of the bucket—straight booze, it smells like—down the toilet, then go outside and rinse the bucket with the garden hose. I bring it back inside and set it on the floor next to him. Then I give him a couple of extra-strength Tylenol with more water which he swallows clumsily, half asleep.
I’m trying to be nurse-like about this—he’s in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer-briefs, which do nothing to hide how massive he is, even limp. His chest is so big—his arms, his shoulders…he’s just a powerhouse of virile, masculine strength, and I’m valiantly searching for a nurse’s objectivity, but it eludes me. This is too personal, too real—taking care of a drunk James caught up in the grip of his tragedy.
I think for maybe ten seconds about sleeping on the couch. Then I climb into my bed, on the right side. My side. He’s on the left. Still mumbling incoherently.
I watch him, wondering if I should try to get him on his back. He blinks his eyes open. His left hand lifts, hovers in the air over his face.
He touches his ring, the golden wedding band on his ring finger. Wiggles it. Twists it.
His head flops to one side, and he looks at me. Drunk, but lucid.
A heavy sigh. “Renée…”
Hot, sharp agony slices through me. “James, it’s me. It’s Nova.”
He shakes his head. “No—I…I know.” He twists his head to stare at his hand again. Then, in a slow, careful, deliberate movement, he removes the ring from his hand. “I’m saying goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” I whisper.
He nods. “Goodbye.” His hand flops out in a sudden motion, and then he sets the ring down, very, very carefully, on the bedside table. “I’m saying goodbye to Renée.”
The hot sharp pain increases, then, rather than decreasing. “James…”
“The epiphany.” He sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I had the epiphany.”
“You did? When?”
“Just now.” He wipes at his cheeks again. “I can’t keep holding on. It’ll kill me. And I…I have to survive, for Nina and Ella.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I’m not letting go for you, Nova.” His voice is faint, fading, but lucid and coherent. “I’m letting go for me. For them.”
The hot sharp pain in my chest, in my belly goes hotter and sharper. “I know, James.”
“I want to live.”
“Good, James. I’m glad.”
He looks at me. “I didn’t always.”
“I know. I’ve been there.” I lift my wrist: I’ve worn the plastic hospital bracelet for so long I’ve all but forgotten about it.
Until now.
I stare at it. Tears swim in my eyes as I reach up, hook a finger in the plastic where it’s fastened together and tug, once, sharply. The plastic snaps, and I feel a tear on my cheek as I set the bracelet on the bedside table next to James’s wedding ring.
“I want to…” His eyes fix on mine, sharper than ever—sharper even than when he’s sober. “I want to do more than just live, Nova.”
I try to breathe and fail. “James, I—I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s not all better. It’s not magic like that. I just…” He fades, momentarily passing out, and then jerking awake again. “I promised her. The girls…for them. I have to…for them. They need me to be more than just making it. Holding on to fading memories.”
“You’ll always remember her, James.”
He nods, a mushy, sleepy movement. “I know.”
“It can’t be about me.”
“It’s not.” He fades again, for longer. “But it is. It is about you. Not for you, not because of you. But you’re part of it.”
A long, long, long pause.
“Goodbye, Renée. I love you.”
Another, longer pause.
“Nova?”
“Yeah?”
“Just…” A quiet breath.
Nothing—silence.
His breathing evening out, slowing, deepening.
It took me a lot longer to fall asleep.
Chapter 12
No matter what time I go to bed, or how little sleep I get, I wake up around five in the morning. But tonight, I’d been woken up half an hour before I usually get up, so when I finally did get back to sleep, I fell into a deep, hard sleep.
I don’t wake up again until many hours later. And when I do wake up, I’m disoriented, which is typical. But this morning it’s a new type of disorientation.
Something is off. Different. But what?
I’m not ready to open my eyes yet. I try to go back to sleep, but I know it’s futile.
I groan, stretch, and that’s when awareness jolts through me like a lightning bolt to the skull. I’m not alone in my bed.
James.
We’re not just platonically sharing a bed.
My head is on his bare chest. My hand is wrapped around his shoulder and neck. His arm is curled around me, sheltering me, enveloping me in a warm cocoon of strength and safety. His hand rests with casual possessiveness on my hip. His breath huffs hot on me.
