How did they find out?
Neither man leaves my side, and I cry for what seems like hours. They don’t ask me questions. They don’t try to make me stop. They just let me feel and wallow and sob to my heart’s content.
I breathe in their combined scents—Marco’s lavender and sandalwood and Jay’s spicy citrus. The warmth and comfort their fragrances bring, lulls my body.
When I’m finally able to take a few uninterrupted, deep, clear breaths, I tilt my head to look at Marco. His ocean-blue eyes bore into my soul as he silently commands me to inhale and exhale with the pace of a rising sun. Our chests lift and fall in sync with one another, and I can feel Jay’s doing the same behind me. Breathing as one—and that’s exactly what I need. I need someone else to breathe for me.
A new, bone-deep wave of exhaustion clings to my being, but I’m able to coherently connect my mind’s questions to words when I finally ask, “Why are you guys here? How did you know to come?”
“You weren’t answering your phone, and no one at the office knew where you were. Then I saw the email Katie sent… I worried you were spiraling.” Jay takes another deep breath. “And I called Angie because she was the last person who saw you.” Another long pause. “She remembered then and told me yesterday was Violet’s birthday. I rushed here as fast as I could.”
With defeat, I admit in a murmur, “I forgot until I saw the email announcement. I forgot until the day was already here. I woke up feeling… normal. Happy, actually. But when I saw it,” I let out a shallow breath. “I felt like the worst mother ever. I should have known it was coming up.”
Marco and Jay stay silent, listening to every pathetic word as I continue. “So that, on top of the obvious pain that is her birthday, I—I shut down. I couldn’t—I can’t do anything.”
After several mirrored inhales, Marco whispers in that low timbre I crave. “I’m sorry, baby.”
Jay echoes, “I’m sorry.”
It’s so simple what they’re saying. What they’re offering.
I’m sorry.
No follow up. No words of encouragement. They’re offering their uninterrupted time and attention and the only thing someone can say in a situation like this.
I’m sorry.
Interrupting our bubble of solitude, my stomach gurgles so loud it’s embarrassing. Ever the nurturer, Marco chimes in. “When was the last time you ate, sweetheart?”
My brain is slightly more focused now as I remember. “Dinner with Angie.”
“Saturday night?” Jay deduces, and I nod my head.
Marco shifts his body to pull away from me and lifts off the bed. He gently squeezes my arm in reassurance. “I’m going to make you something to eat. Jay will stay here with you. We’re not leaving your side today.” He leans down to press a tender and firm kiss to my forehead. “You’re going to let us dote on you and you’re not kicking us out. Understood?” Eyes locked on his, I agree wordlessly. “Good. I’ll be right back.”
When Marco begins to walk out of my bedroom, he flicks the bedside lamp on, creating a warm glow in addition to the peeks of bright light that pour in from around the drapes and hallway. Jay turns me over so I can nuzzle into his crisp, white dress shirt. I focus on the texture and pattern within it. Minuscule triangles overlapping each other, creating mesmerizing depth, only visible up close.
“How would you feel about a shower or a bath?” he murmurs.
I sigh and slowly tell him the truth. “It feels like it would take too much energy.”
With one hand on my back, soothing in a gentle, concentric motion, he leans even closer. “Let me be your energy. Let me do this for you.” Before I can melt at his plea, I nod.
When he gets up, he leans a knee on the bed and guides me up. Still clutching Violet’s swaddle and hat, his eyes catch on them for a moment and dart back up to me, a sad but knowing smile quickly fades. “We’ll take it with us to the bathroom and place them on the counter while we shower, okay? Then you can have them back.”
Tears prick at my eyes, but I fight them back and nod. As long as I have them close by, I’ll be okay.
He takes my hand and places it on his arm, acting as my own personal crutch, as he guides me to my bathroom. Once we’re in the too-bright, marble-tiled en suite, he turns on the shower, then faces me solemnly. He holds out his hands, silently asking me to hand over the most cherished and invaluable things I own. With a heavy heart and more reluctance than I anticipated, I slowly push them into his waiting hands, swallowing the biggest knot in my throat.
I trust him.
He neatly and reverently places them on the matching, white-marble vanity top, then lifts my dingy and wrinkled cotton nightgown over my head and tosses it in the hamper.
He makes quick work of undressing himself from his beautifully-tailored, gray suit pants and dress shirt. Once he’s done, he keeps a hand pressed into my shoulder as he leans over to check the water temperature. With a satisfactory sigh, he coaxes me in and shuts the glass door.
Both instinctively and needing physical support, I lean into him, my face planted snugly in the crook of his collarbone. His body, like a magnet, draws me in. His skin, the slight give in his warm, muscled chest, is like the best kind of drug—connecting me to another plane of existence.
Silently he washes my hair, massaging my scalp and rinsing. He lets the conditioner soak in longer, like he knows I like, and then he uses the wet comb to glide through my strands from root to end.
