Page 42 of Love Wells Kept

“You good?” he asks.

Honestly? No…yes…I don’t know.

I want things to be normal, so I can kiss my husband and drag him into the shower to wash off the small whiskers scattered over us like itchy glitter.

“Y-yeah. Had to check my handiwork.” With a sexually frustrated exhale, I peel myself from his lap before I do something crazy like kiss him. “More handsome than ever.”

I step aside so he can see himself in the large bathroom mirror. He beams at the reflection, twisting his head side to side for the full view, then his eyes meet mine. “Looks good.”

I brush a couple stray hairs from his chest. “Should we do your balls now?”

He bites back a smile, lips rolling together. Like I’m twenty again, I’m addicted to seeing this man get flustered around me. Might follow through with the push-up bra, short shorts, and sparkly boots, after all.

“How about my head?” It lists sideways so the shaved patch is visible in the mirror. The surgery site is healing nicely and looks significantly less scary since they removed the staples a few days ago. His fingers gingerly stroke the thick, red scar. “Might make this mess back here less noticeable if my entire head’s shaved to match.”

“I love this scar.” I reach out and place my hand on his. “This is the reason you’re still alive, and that’s the only thing I care about.”

Our hands fall away from the stubble of brown hair surrounding the scar running across his head. And Jackson slowly stands to brush loose beard hair from his shirt, littering the bathroom counter and sink.

“Shit. Sorry.” He grimaces, frantically splashing water around, trying his best to clean up after himself.

“Damn, like you never left. All this facial hair on the counter.” I shake my head in annoyance, but it’s hard to be irritated with something so small when I consider how close we came to not having him here at all.

“Trying to fake it ’til I make it with this husband thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” I chuckle. “What are your plans for today?”

Maybe we could sit out on the porch swing, or he could play blocks with Rhett, or he could come to the kitchen and visit with his family, or…

“Honestly…I’m so tired, I could fall asleep standing up. The damn painkillers tire me out.”

“Oh…” I try my best to hide my disappointment. “Well, we don’t need you doing that. I have a ton of work to catch up on, anyway. I’ll refill your water, then leave you be.”

I help him finish cleaning the counter with a damp cloth, then urge him toward the dark bedroom.

“Thank you for all of this, Kate.”

“Napping while you ate pancakes, then sitting on your lap and shaving your beard. I’m so hard done by.” I watch him flop down on the bed. “Get some rest, handsome.”

When the bedroom door shuts and I’m alone in the hallway, I clutch his empty water glass to my chest and curl in on myself with a silent sob.

Jackson

I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been home, but it’s been at least two weeks. And in that time, I’ve rarely left bed. Not because I’m not physically capable. Staying here, wallowing, rather than inserting myself into a life and family that don’t feel quite right is just…easier somehow.

Being here feels a lot more like a five-star hospital stay than being home. The bed’s better. The food is incredible. But in the hospital I had a steady flow of people coming to visit and therapy appointments to go to, and as exhausting as that was, now my days are filled with nothing but watching TV and staring out the window. And without any recollection of my life before a few weeks ago, I’m left with a lot of bleak thoughts.

Life is carrying on outside of this bedroom, and I’m not part of it.

It’s fucking depressing.

Shortly after breakfast, Kate strolls into the room and pulls the curtains open, to my chagrin. Morning sun streams through, filtered by the thick leaves of a maple tree outside the bedroom, and something about the way it falls over the white duvet feels oddly familiar. Though I can’t pinpoint why, melancholia weighs on my heart.

I watch her pick an outfit for the day. I don’t understand why we have two separate dressers when she typically wears jeans taken from my drawers.

A pair of light-wash blue jeans draped over her forearm, she steps into the walk-in closet and shuts the door. A moment later, she reappears fully dressed for the day, tucking the front of her drapey beige shirt into the jeans. It’s adorable how my jeans fit her hips but need to be rolled up multiple times at the bottom to keep them from dragging on the ground.

“The kids and I are heading to town. Want to come?”