Ugly Love(91)

Miles’s back is to me, but he hears me round the corner. He turns his head slightly over his shoulder, almost as if he’s just as afraid to turn around and look at me as I am to see him.

He does it carefully. Slowly. Suddenly, my eyes are locked with his.

I know it’s been six years, but in that six years, he’s somehow completely changed, without changing at all. He’s still Miles, but he’s a man now. This makes me wonder what he’s seeing, looking at me for the first time since the day I left him.

“Hey,” he says, treading carefully. His voice is different. It isn’t the voice of a teenager anymore.

“Hi.”

I lose his gaze as his eyes travel around the foyer. He takes in my home. A home I never expected to see him in. We both stand in silence for a whole minute. Maybe two.

“Rachel, I . . .” He looks back at me again. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

I do.

I can see it in his eyes. I got to know those eyes so well when we were together. I knew all his thoughts. All his emotions. He wasn’t able to hide how he felt, because he felt so much. He’s always felt so much.

He’s here because he needs something. I don’t know what. Answers, maybe? Closure? I’m glad he waited until now to get it, because I think I’m finally ready to give it.

“It’s good to see you,” I tell him.

Our voices are weak and timid. It’s weird, seeing someone for the first time under different circumstances from when you parted.

I loved this man. I loved him with all my heart and soul. I loved him like I love Brad.

I also hated him.

“Come in,” I say, motioning toward the living room. “Let’s talk.”

He takes two hesitant steps toward the living room. I turn around and let him follow me.

We both take a seat on the sofa. He doesn’t get comfortable. Instead, he sits on the edge of it and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s looking around, taking in my home once more. My life.

“You’re brave,” I say. He looks at me, waiting for me to continue. “I’ve thought about this, Miles. About seeing you again. I just . . .” I look down. “I just couldn’t.”

“Why not?” he says almost immediately.

I make eye contact with him again. “The same reason you haven’t. We don’t know what to say.”

He smiles, but it’s not the smile I used to love on Miles. This one is guarded, and I wonder if I did this to him. If I’m responsible for all the sad parts of him. There are so many sad parts of him now.

He picks up a photo of Brad and me from the end table. His eyes study the picture in his hands for a moment. “Do you love him?” he asks, continuing to stare at the picture. “Like you loved me?” He’s not asking in a bitter or jealous way. He’s asking in a curious way.

“Yes,” I reply. “Just as much.”

He places the picture back on the end table but continues to stare at it.

“How?” he whispers. “How did you do that?”

His words bring tears to my eyes, because I know exactly what he’s asking me. I asked myself the same question for several years, until I met Brad. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to love someone again. I didn’t think I’d want to love someone again. Why would anyone want to put themselves in a position that could bring back the type of pain that makes a person envious of death?

“I want to show you something, Miles.”

I stand up and reach out for his hand. He watches my hand cautiously for a moment before finally reaching for it. His fingers slide through mine, and he squeezes my hand as he stands up. I begin making my way toward the bedroom, and he follows closely behind me.

We reach the bedroom door, and my fingers pause on the doorknob. My heart is heavy. The emotions and everything we went through are surfacing, but I know I have to allow them to surface if I want to help him. I push the door open and walk inside, pulling Miles behind me.

As soon as we’re inside the room, I feel his fingers tighten around mine. “Rachel,” he whispers. His voice is a plea for me not to do this. I feel him try to pull back toward the door, but I don’t let him. I make him walk to her crib with me.

He’s standing by my side, but I can feel him struggling because he doesn’t want to be in here right now.

He’s squeezing my hand so tightly I can feel the hurt in his heart. He blows out a quick breath as he looks down on her. I see the roll of his throat when he swallows, then blows out another steadying breath.

I watch as his free hand comes up and grips the edge of her crib, holding on to it as tightly as the hand that’s wrapped around mine. “What’s her name?” he whispers.