Page 47 of Love Wells Kept

Odessa beams, satisfied, and moves to curl against his side. “Now you’ll think of me all the time,” she says simply.

Jackson tilts his head to look at her, then glances at me, and for a heartbeat I see something there—a flicker of the man I fell in love with. He whispers, “I always do.”

Jackson

A month out of the hospital and there’s still no escaping the pain—not in sleep, not with warm showers or gentle head massages, not with dark rooms and plenty of water. The prescribed drugs knock it down, but those same medications make my brain feel soupy. I fall asleep hard and fast, then wake up groggy and scared. I don’t sleep well. And when I sleep with a drug-addled brain, I don’t dream.

And I want to dream. Because my dreams feel like memories. Whether they’re true memories or stories pieced together from the things people have told me, I’m unsure. It doesn’t matter, though. They feel real enough to me, and they’re the only thing I have.

So despite Blair’s willingness to give me a different prescription to try, I’ve taken to primarily using over-the-counter medication, which turns the scorching halo into a slow smolder. I can deal with the throb of a regular headache. After so long, it’s a lot like being permanently submerged in cold water. You get used to the pain. Acclimated.

Kate forces me to take the heavier drugs when my poker face falls through, and she can tell how badly I’m hurting. She forces me to do all kinds of things she swears are good for my health, and I put up with it because she’s trying so damn hard to love me even though I’m broken.

Even though I don’t love her back.

Not for lack of wanting. I want to love her.

I want to be the husband she had before, because everyone tells me stories about how fucking great he was, and now she’s stuck with me. A guy who can barely get out of bed most days. Who winces like a fucking vampire when he steps into a brightly lit room—and God knows my skin’s starting to resemble that of a vampire from the lack of sun.

And it’s not just Kate. It’s the kids.

They’re always screaming, shrieking, running, and stomping. From the moment they wake up until the moment they go to bed, it’s constant noise. Yesterday, in a bout of overstimulation because my head was throbbing, Rhett and Odessa were bickering, and the microwave kept beeping, I yelled at my family. I cursed and slammed my hand against the top of the dining table, which made pain ring through my skull like I’d whacked my head rather than my fist. Rhett cried. Odessa stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

I don’t think Old Jackson ever raised his voice around them, judging by their reactions.

I hate that New Jackson does.

So even though today’s Odessa’s birthday, I’m hiding out in bed with the curtains drawn, because my family deserves so much more than the shell of a human I’ve devolved into. And I pray to fall asleep and find the safe, unaching peace that comes only in my dreams, when I’m breathing in the sweetness of Kate’s shampoo and we’re sitting on the porch watching our children play together on the lawn. Sometimes the rest of the family’s there, too. And sometimes the kids aren’t around, and Kate’s on my lap like she was when she trimmed my beard.

My eyes squeeze tighter, as if that’ll help sleep come.

There’s a series of knocks on the door. Gentle at first, but quickly growing louder.

“Yeah?” My voice is muffled by the thick white duvet.

“Daddy?”

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to being called that.

The door creaks open, then shuts softly.

“Are you coming to the party?” Odessa nervously asks.

Fuck. The decision to stay in bed was so much easier before I heard her tear-filled voice wavering through the dark room.

“My head really hurts right now,” I grit out. I shift and the pillow crunches under my head, loud and jagged as gravel.

“But…” The weight of her small body dips the mattress right next to where I’m lying. “But it’s my birthday and…and I-I want you there.”

“Odess—”

“You have to come.” She gets more whiny with each word and slams an indignant fist into the mattress next to my leg. “It’s my birthday. You. Have. To. Come.”

Gripping my skull in a vise-like hold, I accidentally say, “I don’t give a shit about going to a party right now.”

Silence should be blissful, but in the aftermath of my admittedly harsh words, it’s fettered with heartache.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”