Page 39 of Love Wells Kept

“I’m…here.”

Here is the best I can be today.

My hands shake with the weight of the half-full glass on my way down the hall, soft sunlight filtered through a vintage window covering falling over the floorboards to light my way. The morning chaos slowly fades into the distance, and my knuckles rap against the door. Once, then twice, before I hear a muffled voice saying my name on the other side.

I cautiously push the door open to find the room’s still dark, curtains drawn, and the small nightlight in the bathroom working overtime. The room smells foul, which I quickly notice is probably because of the trash can next to the bed. I take a deep breath in through my mouth and gingerly shut the door behind me.

Jackson’s curled in the fetal position on top of the blankets. When I step in closer, I see his palms spread around his skull like he’s gripping a basketball, and he doesn’t look up at me even as I set the glass down on the nightstand. His clothes appear drenched in sweat, and when the nightlight catches his skin just right, it glistens.

“Migraine?” I ask in the softest voice I can.

His jaw’s tight, teeth clamped together, and a low groan vibrates up from his chest. I take that to mean yes. I squint at labels on the pill bottles lining the nightstand, finding the concoction he needs to take each morning, and I collect them in my palm.

“Here, love. I have some pills for you.”

For the first time, he doesn’t fight me on it. Wincing and grinding his teeth with every slow movement, he drags himself into a sitting position and exhales long and slow.

He didn’t bother to shave in the hospital, but it seems he attempted to this morning, based on the patchiness of his thick, dark brown facial hair. I press my lips together to stop from inappropriately snickering about it.

He trembles as I pour the assorted tablets and capsules into his clammy hand, and he swallows them along with the entire glass of water. Then he leans back against the pillows, shutting his eyes and surviving in a series of shallow, calculated breaths.

Meanwhile, I get to work cleaning up. Quietly. Quickly. My own exhaustion be damned.

By the time everything’s tidy, with the windows open for fresh spring air, he’s starting to perk up a bit. He looks at me with his eyelids mere slits in a pale, sad face.

“Feeling any better yet?” I perch on the edge of the bed and place a cool cloth across his forehead.

“Just put me out of my fucking misery,” he croaks.

I try to smile at that, but it doesn’t come. There’s no room for dark humor when the wounds of almost losing him, of feeling my soul slowly detaching from my own body as I watched him lying near-lifeless in a hospital bed, and of losing our baby, are still so fresh.

I fight the urge to tell him all that. And it’s damn hard. I’m sitting here, staring at my husband’s face, knowing in any other timeline, I wouldn’t hesitate to share my deepest, darkest thoughts. Jackson would welcome them.

But the man looking back at me is sick, and hurting, and doesn’t know me well enough to shoulder my pain.

I clear my throat. “Let me grab you some breakfast. The kids made pancakes…but Odessa should be catching the school bus by now, and Rhett’s not going to question it if I grab something else for you. Maybe some toast?”

“Pancakes sound delicious…I, uh, heard the kids earlier.”

“Shit, did they wake you up? I’ll remind them to be more quiet tomorrow.”

“No, it was nice.” He shuts his eyes for a moment. “I woke up confused—I always wake up confused as hell. And it was nice to hear sounds of home. I was gonna come out there but…” He gestures weakly around the room.

“Is that what happened here?” Without a second thought, I reach out to touch his face. The coarseness of his beard scratches my fingers and palm, and he leans into my touch.

“It looks bad, huh?”

Air blows from my nose in a laugh. “It doesn’t look great. The beard was growing on me, actually. You were always clean-shaven before.”

When I pull my hand away, his instantly moves to cover the same spot. “I noticed that in the family photos you’ve been showing me.”

“After breakfast, you can sit on a chair in the bathroom, and I’ll shave the rest for you.”

“You don’t have—”

My eyebrows draw together. “What have you learned about saying no to me?”

“That you’re a bully.”