“Holden, I just—” Natalie’s words die in her throat as she looks past me toward her finished porch. She looks around, mouth and eyes open wide—dumbfounded. “It’s done,” she whispers, tears filling her eyes.
“Yes.” It’s the only thing I think to say. The urge to run to her and pull her into my arms is strong, the urge to cradle her to my chest and beg her not to cry stronger. I want to take her by the hand and tell her I’d gladly fix everything she needs me to in exchange for the relief in her voice.
What is this feeling, and how do I make it lower its voice in my head? I’ve never felt the urge to erase someone’s problems before, and I’m not sure what to do with it.
“Let me grab my checkbook so I can pay you.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t do this for you to pay me.” I clean my hands on my worn jeans like I didn’t just wash them on the garden hose in the back. “I fixed that too.” I point at the swing.
I thought this would make her smile, but she breaks into tears instead, one hand wrapping around her waist while the other comes up to cover her mouth and nose. The tears fall faster than the summer afternoon thunderstorms.
I don’t know her well enough to know if I should hug her. Do you like hugs, Natalie? Or should I leave? That doesn’t feel right either.
“I can break it again, if it’s easier.” Holden, what the hell, man?
She snorts a laugh. “I’m so sorry. I'm ridiculous today.”
I smile softly, showing her what I would want if I were bawling my eyes out in front of someone I barely know—compassion.
“Can I hug you?” she asks, and never in my life have I been this happy over someone asking permission to give me a hug. I open my arms, allowing her right into them.
She rests her head right under my chin, wrapping her arms around me and hitting me right in the feels. I want to touch her, but I’m afraid that if I do, I won’t be able to stop touching her. She smells fresh and sweet, like lemonade on a hot summer day, lotion after a shower.
I bring my hands to her back, touching her soft skin. She digs herself in deeper, her sobs quieter, but her hold on me doesn’t relent.
“Thank you,” she mumbles against my chest.
“Nothing to thank me for. I'm happy to help.” I let myself enjoy this for a minute. Her in my arms, her hair and body invading all my senses. I take it all in and then let out a breath.
She’s not yours, Holden, and you don’t deserve her. She deserves wholeness and goodness, and you’re too broken to be either of those,the frequent little voice in my head says. Yeah, I may not deserve her, but I want to help and ease her load. I want to know more about her.
I want to,fuck, I don’t know. Literally anything.
I think I actually want to be her friend more than anything. She seems like one of those people you don’t forget. And judging by how she’s been living in my head rent-free since I met her, her advice, her laugh, and the little dance I caught her doing, I know it to be true.
A ringtone snaps us from this moment, and Natalie jolts away from my arms.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. God, I’m a mess.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, and I pull a handkerchief from my back pocket, handing it to her.
“Do you walk around fixing women’s broken houses and handing them tissues when they inevitably fall apart?”
“What?” I ask between chuckles, thoroughly surprised by her boldness.
“Seriously, thank you. The past few years have been hard. We’ve found our footing, but the last few months—” she shakes her head and looks into the distance “—I can’t catch a break. I’m thankful life’s busy, and my girls are growing, but it’s a lot, you know?”
I nod, although I can’t necessarily relate. Also…girls? Does she have two kids, or was she including herself in the process?
“There’s never enough time. From the moment I wake up, I feel like I’m on the go, between getting ready, breakfast, packing bags, school drop-offs, and then the store. Which is not for the faint of heart, owning a business, you know? Then there's pick up, drive to therapies or extracurriculars or the grocery store, and then back home to do dinner, play for five minutes, bedtime, rinse and repeat.” She lets out a sigh when her to-do list ends, and she needs to breathe again.
I guess that’s how she feels all the time, and I can only imagine. “When am I supposed to have time to fix all the broken things in this house?”
Moms are superheroes. I know it. I realized it while watching my mom trying to do it all while burning herself out in the process.
“You’re not meant to do it all on your own, you know?”
“I know,” she breathes out. “And I truly have a really good support system, but everyone has their own lives, and asking for help feels like a burden sometimes.”
They do, but in order for a village to work, you must communicate as a villager. However, it’s neither the time nor the place for my opinion, so I say the one thing I know I can. “I don’t. Have a life, that is. Call me anytime. It’s not a burden.”
