Captured(79)

So I touch her. I reach up, caress her face. Placing my elbows beneath me, I lift up and kiss her.

And Jesus, that kiss, it sucks all the fear right out of me. Her words ring in my head. All you have to do is show me….

But then, as we lose ourselves in the kiss, she starts to cry. I try to ask her what’s wrong, but she shakes her head and pulls me back into the kiss. She lays me down on the wood of the dock and moves to straddle me. She’s kissing me, crying. It’s confusing, the tears mixed with the fervor of her need. She runs her hands on my chest and grinds into me, kisses, cries, lets our mouths fall apart, and sighs, moving on me.

“Derek, I need—please. Touch me. Put your hands on me. Make me feel. I need to feel.”

My hands slide up under her shirt, over her spine. I feel my chest open, my heart—cracked, bleeding, unsure, and dry—and then I drink in the feel of her, drink in her need, soak up the way she writhes on me and whispers my name as I let my palms glide on her flesh. A slide and a tug, and her shirt is off, and she’s pushing at my shorts, taking me in hand. She puts one hand to the dock, lifts up, and I palm her breasts. Her face is wet, and she still has tears sliding down her cheeks, not wiping them away, just watching me, staring down at me from between the curtains of her hair. She lifts her hips, guides me in. Sinks down around me. Breathes out, an almost-sob that becomes a whole-body shudder, eyes wide and lips trembling.

This isn’t bliss or pleasure or ecstasy. No. This is reunion. Finding each other once again. It’s me finding myself within her. A realignment of our souls.

Gasps float on the night air. Whispers of each other’s names, pleas to God, pleas to not stop, don’t ever stop.

I love you. I love you so much. She says it, I say it, we both say it.





*





Another month passes. I can walk unaided now, but not far. I’ve got a cane—a cheap one from Walgreens. We find comfort in each other after that night on the dock. It gets me around.

What also gets me through is the memory of the twelve-week ultrasound. My god. Sitting in that room, in the dim light, hearing the distorted thumpthump…thumpthump of a heartbeat, a life. Seeing the head and the limbs, the sheer reality of a child. It made it real. So very real.

I’m a father.

I spend a lot of time with Tommy. I’m stuck inside for much of the time, so I’ve taken over a lot of the care of him. He was curious about my leg, and a little afraid of it at first. Didn’t know what it was or how he was supposed to feel about it. As the weeks passed, though, he learned to accept it as just a part of me.

Ida is around, making sure I don’t f*ck up anything, and she gives me pointers on the basics of raising children. Who knew there was so much to think about? She and Hank have been a godsend. They come over every day to help out and lend support. From the odd look I get from Hank, I think he figures I’m doing a halfway decent job of getting my shit together.

I’ve been thinking a lot, too—about three things in particular. What am I going to do once I’ve regained full mobility? What are we going to do about the farm? And Reagan. Is being here and loving her enough? I ponder and ruminate. I work out hard to build muscle, learn to walk without a cane, although I think I’ll always feel more stable using one. I can jog on a treadmill by using the handrails. Yet, despite all this progress, I continue to think, and think some more.

Finally, another month later, I make a few decisions. At least, I decide how to best decide. Reagan is showing now, a bit of a bump to her belly. I love it, just f*cking love it. Every time I’m near her, I run my palms over her, picturing the little peanut inside, growing and developing. I still have moments when I doubt I’ll ever be even a halfway decent dad, but I’m gonna try. I’m going to do my best.

I sit on the front porch, Reagan’s cell phone in my hand, and a scrap of paper with a phone number on it in the other. Finally, I begin dialing.

It rings, once, twice, three times. “Hello?”

“Hey, Hunter? This is Derek.”

“Derek? Holy hell. Good to hear from you. How are you?”

“I guess you heard?”

He hesitates. “Yeah. I heard. You holdin’ up?”

“Eh. Some ways, yes, some ways no.” I swallow my pride. “I could actually use your help.”

“My help?” He seems surprised. “Derek, brother. Anything. Say the word.”

“Can you make it down here for a bit? You and Rania and the little ones?”

“I think so. I can take a week or so off. I’ll work something out. Where are you?”

I hesitate again. He’s probably heard scuttlebutt, but he deserves to hear it from me. “With Reagan Barrett. Outside Houston.”

“Heard about…heard you and her had—”

Here comes the part that’ll have him on his ass. “Fallen in love,” I interrupt. “Which is part of why I need your help.”

“Fallen in…good lord, son.” He laughs. “You really did? You?”

“Came back different, Hunt. The first time around, I mean. After they yanked me out of that shithole.”

That sobers him up. “I know. Trust me, brother, I know.” I hear a child crying in the background, and I hear his voice address the kid, his voice muffled. “I’ll be there in one second, sweetie. Daddy’s on the phone. Yeah, look, it’s fine, see? Daddy fixed it.” His voice returns to normal volume. “Sorry about that. Okay, so what’s the address?”