Fleeting Moments(17)

“Then why can’t I find you?” I whisper, my body trembling as his finger glides down to my exposed shoulder, trailing across my skin.

“Because I don’t want to be found.”

“Why?” I plead, desperately.

His finger glides over my neck, under my jawline, and then up to my cheek where it stops and strokes backwards and forwards. My breath is stuck in my throat, and my chest is so tight it hurts. For a minute, nothing moves.

“It’s just the way it has to be.”

“Everyone thinks I’m crazy. I . . . I’ve wondered if I am.”

His big hand cups my cheek and I turn into it, closing my eyes. My tears tumble down and over his fingers. “Don’t let people tell you how to feel. You have to stop looking for me and stop talking about me. You’re not crazy but they’re not going to understand this.”

“I don’t understand this,” I sob.

He moves closer until his chest is pressed against my back. His other hand comes around and cups my cheek until both his big hands are resting against my face, closing me in, keeping me warm, pulling me together for just a second.

“You don’t have to understand it. Just believe in what you know and stop trying to make other people understand. They’ll never understand. I have to go now.”

I try to turn. He grabs me by the shoulders and stops me.

“Please don’t go again,” I whisper.

“Try to keep breathing, Lucy girl.”

He leans in and his lips graze over my hair, barely there, and then his hands drop. I clench my eyes shut and sit like that for a few minutes. When I turn around and stare, he’s gone.

Just like always. He comes in moments.

Fleeting ones.

***

I slam the front door and shrug off my coat. Something jingles in the pocket and I reach in, pulling it out. There on a tiny key ring is a dandelion with some of its tiny white strands flying off. It’s beautiful. I’ve also never seen it before. I turn it over and see on the back is an initial. H. My heart pounds, and I clutch the trinket to my chest.

He put this in my pocket at the park today.

I smile, a tiny smile. The first in days.

“What’s the smile about?”

I spin around to see Gerard coming through the front door. I stayed out all day, so it doesn’t surprise me to see him coming in now. It’s probably five in the afternoon, or close to it.

“Just had a nice day,” I say, tucking the tiny key ring into my pocket.

“Did you stay at the park?”

I shake my head, even though that’s a lie. “I went to the store, to the mall—things like that.”

He smiles, but it’s barely there. “It’s good to see you’re getting out and about again. Have you thought about going back to work?”

I work at a local restaurant, and they’ve been more than understanding with my need to have time off. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to go back yet, but I suppose I should talk to them about it, at the very least. “I’ll give them a call, but I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

“You can’t stay in here forever. The best thing you can do is move on, and the best way to do that is to make your life as normal as it was before.”

I stare at my husband, hurt and a little pissed off. “I witnessed something traumatic, Gerard. It was only a few weeks ago.”

“I know that,” he says. “I’m just trying to help.”

He hangs up his coat and walks down the hall into his study. Just like that the conversation is over. My chest clenches and I lift my hand out of my pocket, staring at the tiny dandelion. What does it mean? What does any of this mean?

I don’t know, but I’m determined to find out.

***





ONE WEEK LATER


I jerk upright in bed, sweat trickling down my face as the nightmare I just woke from subsides. My heart pounds and I press a hand to my chest, trying to breathe. I automatically reach for Gerard only to find he’s not there. Again. Since he went back to work, he’s been spending more and more time at the office and less time at home. He barely comes to bed. I’ve found him more than once sleeping in his study.

It’s like he can’t be near me.

That hurts.

I climb out of bed and flick the light on, padding down the hall. I reach his study and open the door, peering in. He’s staring at his laptop, his body slumps with tiredness. If he’s so tired, why doesn’t he come into bed? “Hey,” I say softly.

He spins around, glancing at me. “Hey. What are you doing awake? It’s late.”

“It’s only ten and I had a nightmare.”

His face goes blank. “Sorry.”

God, where has my husband gone? “Gerard, can we talk?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “About what?”

“About this. About us.”

“I don’t know what there is to say, Lucy. Things have been strained since it all happened, and I don’t think it has anything to do with what you saw.”

“Please don’t start this argument again,” I plead.

His eyes meet mine. “You still believe he’s real. You think I can’t see it in your face? I’ve seen the searches on Google.”