“Better,” I answer. I head to the couch, sitting down and gesturing for him to sit as well.
He sits down beside me, reaching over to take my hand. I let him, and he notices the bottle in my left palm. “What’s that?”
“This is my hydroxyzine. It’s my rescue med for when my anxiety gets so bad that I can’t control it, or when I can’t sleep. It usually makes me really drowsy, and I don’t take it often, but I think I should take it to help me sleep.” I pass the bottle to him, and he takes it carefully, glancing at it and reading it.
I don’t care that he knows what medication I take. I’m on a daily medication too, and if he wants to know what med that is, I’ll tell him. I don’t have to share these private details with him, I know that, but Iwantto. I want to be open and honest with him.
“In all honesty, I should have preemptively taken it last night. And who knows, maybe I won’t have to take it every night. Maybe I only need it to get over the first hump and then I’ll be fine. But I have the option, and I should have used it sooner,” I say, fighting the urge to apologize again. I should have been taking better care of myself, and I wasn’t.
“If it helps you sleep, then I’m all for it, freckles. I don’t want you to be anxious.”
“I don’t want to be anxious either.” I grab my water bottle from the side table, and take the bottle from Thomas’s palm. When our hands touch, there's a zing that shoots its way through my body, and I have to remind myself that now isn’t the time. I open the pill bottle and shake one out into my palm, throwing it into my mouth and swallowing it with a gulp of water.
All I can think about at this moment is how my therapistwould be proud of me. She might be worried about me, what with me literally disappearing before our appointment that was scheduled for yesterday. It’s taken a long time for me to get to the point in my mental health journey where I can allow myself to accept my need for the medication. Maybe I should have known to take a pill sooner, I’m doing it now, and that’s the important part.
With the medication taken, I relax a little. Arson cuddles up against my legs, and I bury my fingers into his soft downy fur. I sink into the couch as Thomas wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into his chest.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, tilting his head down to kiss my forehead.
I can’t stop the snort that escapes me. “Proud of me? For what?”
“For taking care of yourself. Even if you didn’t realize you needed it before, you realized now, and I’m proud of you for taking it instead of avoiding it, and trying to fight through the anxiety. You admitted you needed help.” His thumb caresses my shoulder back and forth.
“I know I’m not, but I feel like a failure.”
“Not even close,” Thomas murmurs, kissing my temple again. I sink into his touch, letting my head fall onto his shoulder, my cheek resting against his chest.
“Thank you,” I say. My hand moves from Arson’s fur to rest on Thomas’s chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. We sit like that for a while until my head starts to feel heavy.
“Are you ready for bed?” Thomas asks.
I nod into his chest.
“Come on, freckles.” Thomas slides his arm from my shoulders, gently helping me to stand. That familiar burst of anxiety swells in my chest, but it’s easier to dampen now.
Thomas’s hand clasps mine as he leads us up the stairstoward the bed. Things around me are slowly becoming familiar. From the way his hand feels in mine, to the cottage around us. The way the creaking wood sounds as we scale the stairs, to the squeak in the door hinges.
We reach the bed, and Thomas pulls back the comforter, guiding me to my side before pulling the sheets over me and rounding the bed to his side. “I’m going to change, and I’ll be right back, okay?”
I agree, and he grabs some clothes from his bag, rushing down the stairs as Arson hops up next to me, flopping down behind my calves. He snuggles right in, groaning in relief as he relaxes.
Not even two minutes have passed when Thomas climbs the stairs again. My eyes grow heavier by the second, and I’m glad he’s back. He gets into the bed next to me, and instead of keeping our distance in the bed like we’ve done the last few nights, he instead scoots to the middle of the mattress and pulls me into him.
He lies on his back and moves me so my head is on his chest, my right arm draped across his stomach.
Thomas runs his fingers down my face as he whispers, “Goodnight, Han.”
I muttergoodnightas sleep slowly takes me. As I fall into a restful sleep, I feel his caressing touches on my skin, my cheek, the bridge of my nose, and down my arms. It’s soothing, and maybe I should have let him hold me sooner, because this makes me feel better than anything else could.
28
HANNAH
Iswing slowly back and forth, letting my bare feet drag through the grass. Dusk is slowly appearing behind the trees and clouds as I wait for Thomas to finish his chores for the day.
It’s hot today, over eighty-five degrees, and humid again. The air doesn’t cool down in the evening’s here like it does in Minnesota.
It’s been six days since the night I took my anxiety medication and slept through the night for the first time since being here, and since then, we’ve been busy. Thomas has all but turned into a full-fledged farmer with Ron, waking up early to help him with the morning chores, and helping him with little things throughout the day.
