Page 55 of Love Wells Kept

He shifts in place, getting comfortable, tucking me closer into him, and dragging his fingers from my hip to my lower stomach. The swing rocks a little quicker. My heart beats a little faster. The air between us is whirring with electricity, and I’m afraid to tilt my head for a view of his face, scared I’ll find he’s entirely unaffected by the feel of my skin on his. His big rough hand splayed across my stomach—it’s so much like that last morning when he still loved me.

“Your voice is like honey, the way it oozes around my brain, coating the sharp angles so they hurt a little less and muffling the incessant ringing in my ears. It’s calming, and I like hearing it. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying.”

My heart keens, overwhelmed with want. I could tell him anything and everything. That I’m desperate to feel the familiarity of his kiss. That I thought he was going to die. That there’s a mounting ache between my legs. That I miscarried our baby.

I can’t bring myself to risk ruining this moment with all the things I could say, so I push them aside for now and stay here in the moment.

“Well, damn…when you put it like that, I can’t exactly say no, can I?”

“You and Odessa aren’t the only ones around here who know how to get what they want.” His smirk is audible. The bastard. I love him.

With a small shift, I’m looking right at him, mere inches from our lips touching. His grip on my shirt fabric tightens, sending a rush of heat through my groin, and his eyes flicker to my lips.

“What else do you want?” I whisper.

I lean in expectantly and lift a hand to stroke his cheek. The way I’m staring at him in desperation would be embarrassing if he wasn’t my husband. My bottom lip catches on his in an almost-kiss, a tiny whimper rises in my throat, and Jackson pulls back, putting the smallest amount of space between us. I can still feel the sweep of his breath across my mouth, but his reticence is impossible to ignore. It’s heartbreaking and infuriating and mortifying.

Jackson sighs. Part of me hopes he’s annoyed with himself for fucking up the kiss.

“I want to fix things,” he says quietly. “I’ve done a shitty job of showing my appreciation for you, but today…well, I realized how badly I’ve been fucking up.”

“You haven’t—”

“I have. No need to deny it. I’m just so lost…and I want to be the Old Jackson because I know you loved him. And the kids loved him. But maybe these blips of memory are flukes and I’ll never remember anything else, so you’re stuck with this depressed asshole version of Jackson who yells at his kids when he’s overwhelmed and has contemplated so many fucking times whether dying would’ve been easier on everyone—how much easier things might be for you, if you didn’t have to take care of me every day. Not having to deal with this”—he smacks his free hand against his head—“would definitely be easier for me….”

I sit upright, wrenching his grasp away from my body. My eyes and throat burn. “Easier? How…how can you say it would be easier if you were—that dying would be easier than sitting here with me right now? I know you’re in constant pain. I know you’re struggling.” I’m shaking now, and not from the cold or the lingering humiliation from my attempt to kiss him. There’s fear and rage and sadness broiling under my skin. “When you were in the coma, I was fucking terrified. The only thing I cared about was having you back. Is it devastating to think about you never remembering the way we fell in love, or the excitement of finding out I was pregnant, or the births of our children? Absolutely. But nothing in my life would be easier without you, Jackson.

“If you died, I would find a way to carry on for our kids’ sake. The sun would continue to rise and fall. The world would keep turning. And our lives would always be hard. Your mom died over sixteen years ago and not a damn person in this family has gone a single day without feeling that loss. We can handle the days where you need to stay in bed, or when the kids have to be extra quiet. We can’t handle losing you.”

My words drown in emotion, and I clutch a hand over where the warmth from his palm remains as if I’m holding pressure to a stab wound. Honestly, there’s a possibility blood’s weeping from my skin with the way his words continue slicing through me long after he’s finished saying them.

He frowns. “I wouldn’t…I’m not. You don’t need to worry.”

“Unfortunately, all I do is worry, so…” I find my way onto my feet, knees trembling. I blink down at him through the tears, taking in lungful after lungful of crisp night air to suppress the rising panic. “Please don’t do what you think is easier.”

“Can…can you sleep with me?” His voice quivers. “In the hospital, I always slept better when you were sitting next to me.”

This is not the way I thought we’d find ourselves sharing a bed again. But just like in the hospital, I’ll know he’s still breathing if I’m next to him, so I gently nod and reach for his hand. My ribs constrict at the feel of his fingers interlacing mine, and in silence—in darkness—we wind our way through the house to our bedroom. And I don’t sleep for a single second, just in case.

Jackson

Everything’s foggy in the way it always is when I first wake up, but this morning my senses are overwhelmed by the aroma of coconuts and soft fabric folded in the tight clutch of my hand and a shaft of sunlight pouring in through disheveled curtains.

We didn’t fall asleep cuddling. We each lay flat on our backs, staring as moonbeams reflected onto the ceiling and danced across the painted wood planks. My hand crept across the sheets until my pinky was nudging hers, begging for the intimacy of her touch. Everything calmed inside me the moment her little finger looped around mine.

My lungs inflate with her scent, and when my eyes slowly focus, there’s a mess of brown hair inches from my face. Inhaling slow and deep, I loosen my grip on Kate’s shirt and, careful not to wake her, relax my hand across her hip.

Is this what mornings were like before?

Quiet and soft—the type of morning that, despite the twinges of sharp pain in my head, makes me feel like all of this is doable. I feel normal. I’m not a burden being woken up with a fistful of pills thrust in my face by a wife who only ever looks at me with adoration I don’t deserve.

Kate’s chest rises and falls in a steady cadence. My index finger smooths across bare skin, following the gathered waistband of her pajama bottoms. For once, I welcome the way my pulse hammers through my skull so hard I can hear it.

My tongue darts out to lick my lips, and my hand settles over the soft skin of her lower stomach. I pop my head up to get a better look at her as she sleeps, and I’m met with a softness in her expression that I don’t recognize. Because when Kate walked into my hospital room with a smile or when she laughed alongside me during Odessa’s party, there was always something severe about her expression. Something uncomfortable, like a mask that doesn’t quite fit.

And last night…the pain in her eyes was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

I’m not going to kill myself.