Written in the Scars(52)
“If I tell you something, promise you won’t laugh at me?” she asks.
“No. But I’ll try not to.”
She smiles and snuggles further into the blankets. “I remember one night I couldn’t sleep. I felt like everything I wanted had been robbed from me and I was just beyond sad. Beyond angry. Just almost numb, I guess. And I got out of bed for the first time in a couple of days and walked into the living room and laid on the couch. I turned the television on and flipped through the channels and landed on some two a.m. preacher. He was talking about love, naturally, and how we should use every experience in our life to build love and how that’s a test in this world. How can you take your darkest moments and find a way to love more?”
I watch her eyes twinkle in the moonlight and I know she’s getting ready to amaze me. She never fails.
“I start crying,” she continues, “even though I’m certain there are no tears left. And I’m sure there’s no way I can find love in this mess. I loved you and you left. I loved this baby and it was taken from me. How can I be expected to find love in that? It was laughable.”
“I see your point.”
“But then I fall asleep and I have this dream, Ty. Not about you,” she adds, pointing a finger at me. “You were still on the black list. It was about the baby. I didn’t see it or anything, but the feeling of being pregnant, this . . . this . . . it’s a fullness. A warmth. Like you’re rounded out or something. I can’t explain it. And that’s the thing,” she said, propping back up on her elbows again. “Even though I was losing the baby, that feeling was there, just like the first time. I felt it. Maybe for a few hours or a day, but I felt it.”
“Elin . . .” The rest of the sentence catches in my throat, despite the simple smile on her face.
“I loved that baby,” she says, her voice breaking. “And if I never get pregnant again, I have an inkling of what it would’ve been like and I’m grateful for that.”
I climb across the bed and gather her in my arms. She lays across me, her hair spilling over my elbow and her eyes looking up at me so intently.
“You amaze me,” I whisper. “You are the strongest person I know.”
She laughs, a sweet, gentle giggle. “I don’t know about that. But I made it through losing you and losing a baby at the same time, so I’m pretty sure I can make it through anything.”
“You didn’t lose me,” I scoff.
“Well, it sure as hell felt like it.”
“I will never leave you again, regardless of why or how. I will always come back.”
“Promise me?”
“Absolutely.”
She presses her lips against mine before climbing off me. She lies beside me and waits for me to make a move.
I slip off my clothes, down to my boxers, and then unfold beside her. “I’m making an executive decision to sleep in my bed,” I say, pulling her against my side.
“I suppose I’ll go along with that.” Her hand drapes over my side and traces the scars on my back. “Even though you’re here, I don’t want you to think this means I want to jump back to where we left off. And I have questions for you still . . .”
“Fire away. Whenever you’re ready.”
She kisses the center of my chest and sighs. “I’ve missed this.”
“Not as much as me. I’ve been sleeping on couches for the past few months. My back is aching like a motherf*cker.”
She laughs. “I’m glad you were miserable, and I’m not even sorry.”
“Sadist.”
“Realist.” Her leg wraps over mine like it does before she falls asleep. “Does this mean you are moving back in?”
“I think it’s time for the rest of me to come home,” I say, kissing the top of her head.
She yawns, her heartbeat evening out. “The rest of you?”
“My heart was always here,” I whisper.
Smiling as she pulls me tighter, her voice is full of sleep when she finally speaks. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I can live with that,” I whisper as we both fall asleep.
ELIN
The sun is too bright. My eyes fight to open against the assault blazing through the windows. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s almost noon and I struggle to determine that it is Saturday and I haven’t overslept.
My body feels deliciously rested, my brain cozy from getting hours of uninterrupted sleep. It’s confusing considering my lack of any real sleep lately . . . and then I look to the vertical pillow beside me and see Ty’s clothes on the floor.
Closing my eyes, I smile. He’s home both because he wants to be and I want him to be. Maybe he did always want to be?
The load off my shoulders is a giant relief as I remember telling him about the pregnancy.
My feet are cold against the floor, my body chilling because either the furnace is broken again or he’s turned down the thermostat. I don’t even care.
Aiming for the kitchen, I pad down the hall but stop when I notice the nursery door scooted open. My fingertips find the wooden edge and I press it forward slowly.
Ty is standing near the windows in his boxers, looking at the big oak tree outside. He glances over his shoulder, his morning hair all crazy in the most perfect way.