I don't know what to do, I don't know what to say, I messed up too much. It's like the last year I've been living in a daze, and now I've been slapped awake, trying to gather my bearings.
There's nothing to hold onto.
"I just—I couldn't—please, just listen to me—"
"Is there something that you can tell me to make me understand this?" She asks me, her voice softer, and I know what it is—an olive branch.One final chance.“You can tell me why, Atlas. You can tell me anything. I just want the truth, whatever it is.”
Leave it to the woman I've loved since I was twelve years oldto strip me to the bone, to see all the way to my marrow, to my very soul.
"Atlas,please... tell me why you stepped back from us?"
This is the moment.
This is when I should tell Wendy—about the fear, about the nightmares, about that night, Silas, and the gun and the screaming and the begging.
This would be the time to unburden it all to Wendy, to my wife, to tell her what's been scraping my insides raw for the past year.
This is the moment to tell Wendy I've been having horrifying nightmares of her dying, of her leaving us—like Carrie left Molly and Jem and Silas—and the only thing that made them stop was pulling away from her.
That I could barely function at work the next day after the nightmares, sleep-deprived from waking up and just holding her to make sure she was alive, scared to go back to sleep and see those images again.
That every time I sent a tow truck out for a car accident, I had to check and double-check that it wasn't her SUV.
That every time my phone rang, I convinced myself that it was someone calling to tell me she was dead or dying.
I buried myself in work because it was the only excuse I could come up with to keep myself out of the house. I could do something productive, make my family money, and secure their future while also maintaining distance.
Problem solved in my head.
Trace noticed, but didn't dig any further. Any time he asked how Wendy and the kids were, I kept my answer the same: my family is perfect, amazing, and wonderful.
I would force us to focus on work, drywall, installing hardwood, or laying tile. Anything to keep my hands and mind busy.
At the garage, since most of the employees are newer hires and my dad never really comes by our location, they don't know that I'm married. Not unless they look closely at myfinger where our wedding date is tattooed.
The ones who did know Wendy, when she would come in with the boys to visit, have retired, transferred to another location, or just moved away.
The photos that I used to keep around my office of Wendy and the boys are now locked in the drawer of my desk.
At one point, even seeing their faces would make my hands shake and sweat, my mind going haywire so I tucked them away because that was easier.
She waits for my answer, and I don't give one, the words choking me.
Nodding, she bites her bottom lip like she does when she's trying not to cry, and sighs. We fall into silence, the only sound is our breathing and the hum of the appliances in the house.
Our doorbell rings, the bright and cheery sound too loud for what's quietly breaking between us.
Wendy immediately perks up, wiping her cheeks with both of her hands and taking two deep breaths. I watch as she visibly pulls herself together. She smiles, painting it on carefully, before we hear the front door open.
Little frantic steps pound against the hardwood. Noah, our baby.
Like a little ginger rocket, he comes barreling into the living room. "Mama! Guess what—"
Surprised, Noah skids to a stop when he sees me. The look on his face guts me. He looks at me like I'm a strange man in his house, not his father, not the man who held him after he was born, sobbing because he had a head of ginger hair just like his mama.
I had a mini-me, and now I had a mini-Wendy.
I was in heaven.
