Page 40 of Love Wells Kept
“I’m not a bully. I just love you, Jackson.”
“I know you do….” His words trail off. Stripped of all pretense, the unsaid truth hangs heavily between us. The missing I love you, too.
My palms slap the tops of my thighs and I stand. “I’ll be back with breakfast.”
Thankfully it’s only Cecily and Beryl in the kitchen—they inform me Rhett’s upstairs coloring more pictures to give to Jackson—and neither of them push me to talk. So I put together a breakfast plate, including a reheated heart pancake, and head back to the bedroom with a gentle reminder not to drop more L-bombs lingering in the back of my mind.
It’s hard for me, especially with him back home, to remind myself that new lines exist between us. I can’t kiss him. Can’t slide under the covers and tuck myself into the crook of his arm. And I can tell him I love him, but I can’t expect to hear it back.
I understand why he can’t give me that yet, but knowing doesn’t make it any less of a letdown.
Handing the plate over, I clarify, “The weird-looking pancake is made with extra love. It’s meant to be a heart…Rhett’s artistry.”
Jackson looks down at the plate, and his head lists slightly left. “If you tilt your head and close one eye, it’s a heart.”
“Spoken like a true dad.” I watch him take a slow, cautious bite, and when he lets out a small moan of relief at the taste, I settle in next to him on the bed.
And suddenly he’s nudging my arm, muttering my name, pulling me from the waning moments of a dream.
I paw at my face, removing hints of drool from the corners of my mouth. “Oh God, did I fall asleep?”
“Almost immediately. You leaned back and I think you were snoring before your head even hit the headboard.”
Once I blink enough to focus, all I see is Jackson on his side, elbow propping up his upper body. He certainly doesn’t look sickly. Rather, he looks so much like he often does early in the morning, waking me with a kiss and a wandering touch. When he fulfills my every need before I have them, leaving the sheets rumpled and my face flushed.
My breathing stutters, and I swallow down the thought…until he looks down at me with a smile that patterns my vision with sunspots.
I blink rapidly until all inappropriate thoughts have dissipated. “Sorry, I guess I was tired.”
Understatement of the year.
“Payback for all the times I’ve nodded off while you were talking.”
“Are you feeling better now?”
“I am. Thanks for bullying me into taking meds and eating breakfast.”
“Now it’s time to bully you into taking care of this mess.” I take advantage of the opportunity to stroke the uneven texture of his beard—soft and curly in some spots, short and spiky in others. The warmth of his skin melts my palm, and for a heartbeat, everything feels normal again.
“Suppose you won’t let me have a choice.”
That sense of normalcy gets the better of me, and I cheekily respond with, “Not if you want to stay happily married to me.” Followed by, “Um, I mean…sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight for a second there.”
“I’m guessing that line worked pretty well before my head got fucked?”
I sigh. “Your head isn’t fucked. And considering we’ve been married for a decade, and I used that threat no less than once a week, I’d say it worked pretty well.”
“Well then, for Old Jackson’s sake, I guess I better let you shave my face.”
I hate the way he refers to himself as Old or New Jackson. It’s as if he’s resigned to never regaining his memory, and now things are divided into two very distinct parts of his story without a single string connecting the two.
Before the accident. After the accident.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe a random day in March became the moment we’ll forever use as a reference point in our lives. Now we’ll define every major event by when it happened in relation to our family’s worst day.
Having ditched my slippers when I crawled into bed, I pad barefoot across the room, stopping to grab the antique wooden chair that’s typically a catchall. A thing to drape clothes over when I don’t feel like putting them away.
“Have you done this before?” The chair wobbles under Jackson’s weight.
