Ugly Love(78)

Our voices are weak and timid. It’s weird, seeing someone for the first time under different circumstances from when you parted.
I loved this man. I loved him with all my heart and soul. I loved him like I love Brad.
I also hated him.
“Come in,” I say, motioning toward the living room. “Let’s talk.”
He takes two hesitant steps toward the living room. I turn around and let him follow me.
We both take a seat on the sofa. He doesn’t get comfortable. Instead, he sits on the edge of it and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s looking around, taking in my home once more. My life.
“You’re brave,” I say. He looks at me, waiting for me to continue. “I’ve thought about this, Miles. About seeing you again. I just . . .” I look down. “I just couldn’t.”
“Why not?” he says almost immediately.
I make eye contact with him again. “The same reason you haven’t. We don’t know what to say.”
He smiles, but it’s not the smile I used to love on Miles. This one is guarded, and I wonder if I did this to him. If I’m responsible for all the sad parts of him. There are so many sad parts of him now.
He picks up a photo of Brad and me from the end table. His eyes study the picture in his hands for a moment. “Do you love him?” he asks, continuing to stare at the picture. “Like you loved me?” He’s not asking in a bitter or jealous way. He’s asking in a curious way.
“Yes,” I reply. “Just as much.”
He places the picture back on the end table but continues to stare at it.
“How?” he whispers. “How did you do that?”
His words bring tears to my eyes, because I know exactly what he’s asking me. I asked myself the same question for several years, until I met Brad. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to love someone again. I didn’t think I’d want to love someone again. Why would anyone want to put themselves in a position that could bring back the type of pain that makes a person envious of death?
“I want to show you something, Miles.”
I stand up and reach out for his hand. He watches my hand cautiously for a moment before finally reaching for it. His fingers slide through mine, and he squeezes my hand as he stands up. I begin making my way toward the bedroom, and he follows closely behind me.
We reach the bedroom door, and my fingers pause on the doorknob. My heart is heavy. The emotions and everything we went through are surfacing, but I know I have to allow them to surface if I want to help him. I push the door open and walk inside, pulling Miles behind me.
As soon as we’re inside the room, I feel his fingers tighten around mine. “Rachel,” he whispers. His voice is a plea for me not to do this. I feel him try to pull back toward the door, but I don’t let him. I make him walk to her crib with me.
He’s standing by my side, but I can feel him struggling because he doesn’t want to be in here right now.
He’s squeezing my hand so tightly I can feel the hurt in his heart. He blows out a quick breath as he looks down on her. I see the roll of his throat when he swallows, then blows out another steadying breath.
I watch as his free hand comes up and grips the edge of her crib, holding on to it as tightly as the hand that’s wrapped around mine. “What’s her name?” he whispers.
“Claire.”
His whole body reacts with my response. His shoulders immediately begin to shake, and he tries to hold in his breath, but nothing can stop it. Nothing can stop him from feeling what he’s feeling, so I just allow him to feel it. He pulls his hand from mine and covers his mouth to conceal the quick rush of air released from his lungs. He turns and walks swiftly out of the room. I follow him just as fast, in time to see his back hit the hallway wall across from her nursery. He slides to the floor, and the tears begin to fall hard.
He doesn’t try to cover them. He pulls his hands through his hair, and he leans his head back against the wall and looks up at me. “That’s . . .” He points to Claire’s nursery and tries to speak, but it takes him several tries to get his sentence out. “That’s his sister,” he finally says, blowing out an unsteady breath. “Rachel. You gave him a sister.”
I sink to the floor next to him and wrap my arm around his shoulders, stroking his hair with my other hand. He presses his palms to his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut, crying quietly to himself.
“Miles.” I don’t even try to disguise the tears in my voice. “Look at me.”
He leans his head back against the wall, but he can’t look me in the eyes. “I’m sorry I blamed you. You lost him, too. I didn’t know how else to deal with it back then.”
My words completely break him, and I’m consumed with guilt over allowing six years to pass without letting him hear those words. He leans over and wraps his arms tightly around me, pulling me against him. I let him hold me.
He holds me for a long time, until all the apologies and forgiveness are absorbed and it’s just us again. No tears.
I would be lying if I said I never think about what I did to him. I think about it every day. But I was eighteen and devastated, and nothing mattered to me after that night.
Nothing.
I just wanted to forget, but every morning I woke up and didn’t feel Clayton by my side, I blamed Miles. I blamed him for saving me, because I had no reason left to live. I also knew in my heart that Miles did what he could. I knew in my heart that it was never his fault, but at that point in my life, I wasn’t capable of rational thought or even forgiveness. At that point in my life, I was convinced I wouldn’t be capable of anything at all but feeling pain.