God, the thought of scaring Wendy and my boys by witnessing what I just did makes my chest tighten.
I glance down at my hands, my knuckles shredded and bleeding. I'm sure I look feral right now, my hair wild, breathing heavily, a thirty-two-year-old man collapsed into his father's arms like a child.
"Let's go home," my Dad says, but that only brings about the reality.
My home is Wendy.
My home is gone.
I lit the match and walked away. I let her burn and kept myself just warm enough with distance, but didn't risk jumping into the fire to help.
Wendy's face from earlier flashes across my eyes, her confusion, her hurt, her devastation.
Clarity hits me like a lightning strike.
What's worse? The nightmares—my created illusions in my head—or the reality of the devastation that I've caused her.
What's worse? Living without her forever, or living with her and enjoying the time I have with her, with my boys.
What's worse? Missing her while she's still alive and breathing and knowing I can't touch her, or missing her while she's dead, and knowing that I enjoyed every second I had with her.
"Oh God," I say, clutching at my hand, the flexing of my knuckles finally kicking in my pain receptors.
Fuck, that hurts.
"Come on, son," my dad says, pressing a kiss to my head and gently rubbing my back. "Let's get you cleaned up. You need rest. And tomorrow... we'll start fixing this."
I nod as my dad keeps one arm wrapped around my shoulders and leads us back to the car. I don't even know where to start to unpack this, to fix this, but... I'm not alone.
My dad's arm tightens around me. Wendy's smiling face and Noah and Liam's laughter wrap around me like an embrace.
I'm not alone.
???
I wake slowly, head pounding and feeling groggy like I have a hangover.
I'm in my childhood bedroom, the one that became me and Wendy's room after she moved in, pregnant with Liam.
I still remember those days, both of us squeezed onto this queen mattress, Liam's bassinet by her side of the bed, watching her breastfeed in awe...
The room is slightly different now, with new sheets and bedding, all of my knick-knacks and pictures at my house.
That reminder makes a sharp pain appear behind my eyes.Not my house anymore.The memories of yesterday make me nauseous. I flex my hand into a fist, then hiss as the skin pulls.
Coming home last night is a blur; my mom was concerned, speaking softly to my dad while she bandaged up my broken knuckles. Blood seeps through, the red stark against the white.
My dad had practically carried me to bed, and I'm still in my overalls from the shop, my boots tossed on the floor.
Sitting up, I wince at the pounding in my head and rub my temples, trying to breathe through the nausea and pain.
My mom cracks open the door and walks in when she sees me awake.
"How do you feel?"
"Like shit," I rasp, my throat feeling raw.
She nods, carrying over her first aid kit. Silently, she works to remove my old bandages, apply ointment to my open knuckles, and apply fresh bandages.
