Written in the Scars(20)

I don’t know if I can do it.

I have to do it.

Sticking my key in the back door, I’m pleasantly surprised that it still works. The door squeaks as I push it open with my hip. At least some things are the same.

A motion light on the stove flickers on and illuminates the room. The kitchen looks like it did when I left, but there’s no note on the table like she used to leave for me when I got in late from work. No promises of what she would do to me when I climbed in bed, no directions on where to find the dinner she made, no lipstick kisses on a blank sheet of paper.

“Ty?” Elin whispers, her breath hot against my neck.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

I squeeze her closer to me. I’d rather be covered in her vomit than have to put her down. “You’re gonna be okay. I’m here.”

“Ty?” she whispers again, this time more sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Unable to respond, I just keep walking towards the room she and I used to share.

The floor moans with our weight as I go through the living room and down the hall. The door to the bedroom is open and our bed is lit up by the moonlight streaming in the window. I walk to the side of the bed, but I can’t lay her down. I just can’t make myself do it.

The picture from our honeymoon in Tennessee is still framed on the nightstand. My reflective vest from the mine is still hanging on the hook on the back of the closet door and I want to make her wake up and ask her why. I want to jostle her until she tells me she misses me and doesn’t hate me and still, somehow, loves me.

“Can you lay me down?” she asks roughly. “Please.”

I look at her beautiful face, her eyes still closed, and consider saying no. Instead, I yank back the comforter with the little yellow daisies we bought on a Saturday morning in Terre Haute and place her softly on my side of the bed. She never opens her eyes.

Fighting a myriad of emotions, ones that threaten to spill out in an ugly mess, I remove her shoes and pull the blankets up around her. I tuck them beneath her body, sealing her in both to hopefully comfort her and to put a physical reminder to me that I can’t climb in with her. I’m this close to doing just that. But I won’t take advantage of this situation. We need to work through things, not add reasons to fight.

“Will you lie with me?”

I furrow my brows, absolutely sure I misheard her until she asks again.

“Will you lie with me, please?”

I shake my head, trying to walk a fine line between what I should do and what I want to do.

“You don’t mean that. Just go to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

My soul rips apart to say those words, but the only thing that could make this situation any worse is for her to feel like I took advantage of her. And I won’t mess it up, not more than I already have. Even if that means denying myself the very air I’ve been craving for so long, I will.

“You’ve promised me that before.” Her voice is clearer than it has been, enough for me to know she’s keeping her eyes closed on purpose. She just doesn’t want to look at me. And that makes me want to die.

“Elin . . .

“You left.”

“Elin . . .”

“You didn’t come back.”

Her words are strangled, both a fact and a myth because whether she knows it or not, my mind was always here. I never left. Not really.

“You wouldn’t answer my calls,” she mumbles. “Lie with me. Show me you don’t hate me.”

Tears cloud my vision and I struggle to blink them back. What she’s asking is exactly what I want to do, what I need, but not like this. Not with her so drunk.

She takes my hand, the offer of her small fingers in mine crushing me. She tries to pull me towards her, but she’s too cursed by the alcohol. Instead, I hold her hand, stroking her knuckles with my thumb like I would do while we watched a movie or drove down country roads. Her hand was always in mine . . . just like this.

Her features smooth and her breathing evens out. I bring her hand to my lips and press a long kiss to the middle of her palm.

“The baby . . .” I can’t make out the rest of the sentence, but it’s salt in an already gaping wound that she’s thinking of Jiggs and Lindsay’s baby when we should be in that situation too. Our lives shouldn’t have taken this turn.

“I love you,” I whisper, choking the words out. She doesn’t react, too asleep and out of it to hear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

The urge strikes hard, much harder than before, to slip into bed beside her and pull her into me. Before I can do that, I turn away and head back down the hallway leaving my heart beside her.