Not after everything I’ve done to forget. Every day, I fight to erase certain memories from my mind, haunting images of Jensen. Of our home. Of the shit I had to see.
I don’t want to talk about anything that takes me back there.
So I sit here with him because this feels like old Jensen. Like old times—if old times had a giant crack running through the middle. But mostly, it just feels good.
And I need all the feel-goods I can get.
It doesn’t mean I’m seeing him tomorrow. Or next week. Or that I’m not signing the divorce papers.
It just means I’m still human.
And for now, I’m letting myself feel something other than pain. Even if it’s just for tonight.
Even if it breaks me again tomorrow.
I adjustthe pillow beneath my head, the plastic lining crinkling in my ear. I’m on the couch, curled on my side, facing Jensen. He’s angled toward me, elbow propped on the back, head resting in his hand.
My dad’s asleep, he has been for over an hour. It was a busy day with visitors and tests. He was moved out of the ICU earlier today, after the doctor made his final rounds. All things considered, he’s doing well.
Now that he’s more stable, the visiting rules are a little more relaxed. I even have a bigger recliner now. Plus this couch. I’m praying I actually get some decent sleep tonight.
Megan and Matt flew home yesterday after spending the morning here. But Jensen’s still here. He’s been with me the past three days.
He’s crashing at Matt’s condo while he’s in town. He went back there after they left to take a few meetings he couldn’t miss. He’s leaving tomorrow night—needs to be back in the office Monday morning.
There’s been a comfort to having him here.
I’ve been carrying this ache in my heart for years. It started small, just a crack. But with every lie, every tear, every slammed door—every time I begged him to stop—it grew. Until it felt like a wrecking ball had torn straight through it.
It finally feels like that hole might be patching up.
Even though Jensen’s the one helping mend it, I’m not letting myself forget that he’s also the one who put it there.
It’s been nice, though—hanging out, talking, laughing, like before.
He stands and I watch, wide-eyed, with a grin plastered to my face, as he turns toward me and pounds his chest like a gorilla. Then he bends both elbows, brings his fists together, and flexes, letting out a whispered roar.
I laugh as quietly as I can. “That Yankees fan was more entertaining than the game. But he unbuttoned his shirt first, remember?”
Jensen chuckles. “Is that my cue to take off my shirt?”
I shake my head, rolling my eyes and smothering a laugh. But also—yes please. Take it off.
“I’m joking,” he says with a grin. “How could I forget? He had a giant NY tattooed on his chest.”
“Oh my God, yes. He was a die-hard fan.”
We’d gone to Boston for a quick weekend getaway to see a Red Sox–Yankees game. There was a wild Yankees fan in front of us.
He wasn’t just a fan. He lived, breathed, and slept Yankees. Full on uniform. His Brooklyn accent carried through the entire section.
When the Yankees hit a home run, he stood, turned to face us, ripped open his shirt, and roared like a gorilla.
It was hilarious.
“How many beers do you think he had?” I ask.
Jensen sits back down, facing me. “God, who knows? At least seven. But it felt like he pre-gamed hard. He was loud before the anthem even played.”
