She does look sad, dark circles rim her blue eyes in exhaustion, grief turning them a steel gray. Her expression is hollow, like her body is here but her mind is somewhere else. The flush is gone from her cheeks, and she looks so weary, I almost offer to carry her to the car.
The elevator dings and we step onto it. I’m grateful it’s just us.
“I’m not sure what’s open around here at nine p.m.,” I say, trying to keep the conversation normal. “I think I saw a McDonald's.”
“McDonald's is fine.” Melanie’s voice is weak, like all ability to fight has left her.
I don’t reply, and we ride in the type of silence that’s filled with everything and nothing at the same time. I want to say something—God, there is so much I want to say. That I’m gutted for what she went through. That I hate myself for not being there, for leaving her to carry it all alone. That I’m angry she didn’t tell me, and that I don’t know how to make peace with that. That I love her, still, maybe more than I ever have. But one look at her and I know it’s not the time. She’s already carrying enough. So, I swallow it down, let it press hard against my ribs, and instead just reach for her hand when the elevator doors slide open.
She slides her hand into mine without hesitation, and her touch is a small relief. I lead her out to my truck, open the door for her and help her in.
We’re in the drive-thru within five minutes. Melanie orders a quarter-pounder with cheese and a large fry with a Dr. Pepper.
“That sounds good,” I say, and I order the same.
Melanie shoots me a wry look. “Copycat.”
“Couldn’t resist,” I say, giving her a playful smile.
We pull around and pick up our food, and I pull into a parking spot.
“Car picnic?” I ask.
The first glimpse of a smile I’ve seen since we got to the hospital. “Okay.”
I hand her the food, and she takes hers out of the bag before passing it back to me. We eat in silence, both of us too hungry and drained to say much. When I finish, I shove the trash in the bag and start the truck.
Her voice is soft when it breaks the quiet. “Hey. I don’t think I said thank you—for today.”
My breath hitches and I glance at her. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She pauses. “Josh, I know we have a lot to talk about?—”
“Not tonight.” I shake my head, shifting into drive. “Not like this.”
Melanie settles back in the seat, folding her arms across her chest. She looks out the window and doesn’t say another word for the rest of the ride. She stays silent the whole way up to the room.
Inside, I stride over to the duffel bag that I packed, sitting on one of the queen beds. I pull out Melanie’s pajamas, the ones I know she loves, and toss them to her. “I hope these are okay.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs. Then she pulls off her shirt unceremoniously.
My heart stumbles. I turn away quickly, jaw clenched. I can’t look at her—not like this. Not when everything in me wants to forget the hurt and fall back into the very thing that feels like home.
“I’ll be back,” I say, grabbing my clothes and heading for the bathroom. I splash water on my face, giving myself a pep talk. When I come out, Melanie is tucked in the opposite bed, facing away. I move toward mine.
“Josh.” Her voice catches me off guard.
I stop, my heart lurching. “Yeah?”
“Will you sleep here? With me?”
I hesitate, searching her eyes. “You want me to?” I croak.
Melanie nods. “Please.”
I exhale. “Okay. Move over.”
She pulls back the covers and I slide into bed, flicking off the lamp. Then I gently pull her into me, her back against my chest. Our bodies meld together like they always have. We just fit.
