I hated being dependent on him, yet I needed it. He was the only person I wanted to take care of me. His fingers knew my body, were impossibly gentle. Patient. He kept his touch clinical, though, not pushing boundaries, respecting me.
But I saw the longing looks he passed in my direction when he thought I wasn’t looking. Felt the kisses on my forehead when he thought I was asleep.
He didn’t let me lift anything heavier than a book. Even then, if he deigned the book too big, he or Clara would carry it. He cooked for me. Refused to let me do dishes.
Refused to let me do anything beyond heal.
And physically, I was getting there.
Emotionally was another story.
It was time, I decided, staring at the ceiling.
Beau was not in bed. I’d felt him slip out after kissing both me and Clara, murmuring “I love you” to both of us.
It had taken everything in me to stay still, to not sob out loud, hearing the pain in his voice.
I leaned over to see Clara’s outline, visible because of the light the projector cast from the stars on the ceiling.
She was sleeping peacefully. She had been sleeping better. No nightmares in a week. Yet we still all slept together.
It couldn’t last forever.
I trusted that Clara was sleeping deeply enough for me to sneak out. Though I shouldn’t have cared where Beau was, what he was doing, I shrugged on the sweatshirt that Beau had left on the chair at the end of the bed.
The weather was warming up, but I always bundled up. Whenever I felt a hint of chill, my entire body started shaking, and I remembered lying in the snow, dying.
But being cold gave me panic attacks. Beau knew that, so the heat was constantly running in the house. He would wrap a cardigan around my shoulders the second a single goose bump erupted on my bare skin. Everything I ate was warming, and I was rarely without a cup of tea.
Every single gesture was thoughtful, injected with a kind of love I’d never felt before. He wasn’t doing it for anything in return. There were no expectations from him. He did it because he loved me.
And because he hated himself. For what he did. It was plain to see. And impossible not to forgive him.
The air had a bite to it as I opened the door, finding him on a chair on the back porch, staring at the lights illuminating the backyard. His head instantaneously snapped to me as I sat in the chair beside him.
“Are you okay?” He studied my features as if I might’ve gotten shot again on the walk from the bedroom.
“I’m fine.” I quickly assured him before he blew a vein. He sat on the edge of his chair, assessing my response before standing to grab the throw behind his chair, draping it carefully over me.
Only when he was satisfied that not an inch of the air could make it through did he sit again.
We lapsed into silence. There was so much for me to say. I didn’t know where to start.
“Did I lose you forever, Hannah?” Beau sounded broken, fractured, more hopeless than I’d ever heard him.
Oh, a petty, scared part of me wanted to say yes. Wanted to calcify my heart against him. But that was impossible.
Beau had done something stupid. He’d hurt me. But I’d forgiven him long ago. As he refilled my tea. Tucked blankets around Clara and I. Held Clara after nightmares. As he sat next to me, hand tight in mine while I gave my statement to Finn.
Before I could tell him yes, he spoke again.
“I was going to kill myself. If Clara didn’t…” He took an audible breath. It was ragged and physically hurt to hear. As if breathing could hurt. But I knew it could when that breath contained memories of the past, of a future that hopefully never came to pass.
“If she didn’t survive the leukemia,” he finished gruffly, rubbing his temples. “I’ve never said it that plainly, though both my brother and father knew me well enough to connect the dots. I’d see it when they looked at me. At Clara. The fucking terror they felt at knowing half of our family was hanging on the immune system of a four-year-old.
“They were positive because they had to be.” He dragged his hand over his face as if he could rub away the years of trauma that I knew were embedded into his soul. “Because neither of them could fathom the alternative. I didn’t have that luxury. So I planned.” He looked up at me, and the urge to look away, to find relief from the pain on his face, was overwhelming.
But he was brave enough to look at me in his naked pain—something I knew he didn’t show to anyone—so I’d be brave enough to look back, to show him he had a place to share his pain. He had someone to witness it. To feel safe with.
