Leaning forward, she rests her head on my shoulder as she dissolves into loud wails, and I wrap my arms as tightly around her as I can.
“I don’t know what to do, now.” Her hand moves to cover her mouth as a sob rips through her throat. “I prayed so hard for him to make a sound. I begged Him for a miracle.”
Her body tightens, curling in on itself as if she can’t shrink down small enough, and I guide her off of the toilet, pulling her underwear back into place as I bring her down and onto my lap.
My molars clench together and my chest tightens as her arms wrap tightly around my middle.
I can’t fault her for trying – if I did, it would make me a hypocrite. I tried to make my own bargains with God; I promised that I’d believe again, that I’d apologize to my parents for letting them down, that I’d admit I’d been wrong. I would take back everything I’ve said and thought about God and the church, and I would repent for every bit of it.
Whatever the cost was, I’d have happily paid it for him.
Walking out of that room empty-handed did nothing but reaffirm for me what I’ve known for years: that God doesn’t exist, and that if Iamwrong about that, He isn’t someone I want anything to fucking do with.
“Baby, look at me,” I tell Julia. Taking hold of her jaw, I bring her face to mine, pressing my forehead and nose against hers. “I love you. I got you. Okay?”
As my wife clings to me and her fingernails dig into my skin as if she’s desperate for something to hold onto, something she can use to ground her, I hear the voice of my six-year-old self in my ear.
She’ll cry herself to death,he tells me.
Pop.
Present Day
My fingers flex against Julia’s scalp, massaging into her hair. She lets out a soft hum against my chest in response as her arms snake around my body.
With my free arm resting behind my head, I focus on the ceiling and the spinning of the fan blades above us.
I didn’t sleep last night. As soon as Julia fell asleep, my mind drifted down the hall and got itself stuck, tucked behind a door left unopened for two years.
We should have fought all night. We should have slept apart from one another. When I walked through the door, I had my armor on. I thought I was ready for whatever was going to happen; and then she gave me the same look that she wore on the worst day of our lives, and that armor may as well have never existed in the first place.
We’ve lost enough. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep us from losing each other again.
My older brother’s assigned tone pings from the phone connected to the charger next to me, and I carefully reach for it, trying not to disturb Jules.
“Checking in,” I quietly say to myself with a roll of my eyes before opening the message.
I chuckle at the same two words he’s said to me more times over the years than I can count.
Every day that Jules and I spent on the road, every time he dropped money into my account, every time that anything has ever happened in my life, B has always needed to ‘check in.’
He doesn’t respond at first, and I can only imagine that it’s because he’s sitting at his desk in his big, fancy office, rubbing his fingers against his temples before finally texting me back.
I laugh as I set my phone back in its place on the charger. Ever-so-carefully, I pull Julia’s arm away from my body and slide out from underneath her, replacing my chest with a pillow for her head to rest on.
I slip into the pair of boxers discarded on the floor next to our bed before trotting down the stairs and into the kitchen for a shitty cup of coffee out of our only-sometimes-functional machine. I’m halfway finished with the watered-down brew by the time that I’m standing in the doorway which leads to the garage, leaned against the door frame.
My fingers tap against the sides of my mug as I scan the garage, making an exhaustive to-do list in my mind of all of the things that I’ve been putting off over the past few months – orin some places, years – and I offer a decisive nod before sucking down the rest of my coffee and heading back up to our bedroom.
Jules is awake now, propped up against her pillows as she scrolls through something on her phone – likely her calendar for the day or one of her salon’s social media pages. Her eyes meet mine as I reach our dresser, and she offers a soft, uncomfortable smile.
“Hi,” she says shyly, resting the screen of her phone against her chest. “Are you going in today?”
“Tomorrow,” I answer with a shake of my head.
“Are you going to talk to him?”
A heavy breath forces its way from my lungs as I step into a pair of worn jeans, and I shake my head. “No.”
