“No one was hurt,” he continues. “But I couldn’t stop picturing him lying on the ground. I see it all the time, Abby. It replays in my head constantly, haunts my dreams. It never stops.”
I lay one hand on his shoulder, using the other to stroke his cheek. We’ve never really talked about the accident itself–we talk about Aaron all the time, but always good memories, fun memories. Sometimes we admit how much we miss him, but we tend to move on quickly when the emotion gets tense.
The accident was the worst night of my life, but I didn’t see it. I don’t know why I haven’t thought about what Jack went through that night. What it must have been like for him to be there, to see him. What it must have been like to have to tell me.
I sit at a complete loss for words, hoping that he’ll keep talking. That he’ll finally let me share some of his burden in return for the months he’s spent shouldering mine.
“I can see the car, the ambulance, the paramedics performing CPR,” he says in a hollow voice. “But what sticks with me most is the look on your face. The way you crumpled. The way you screamed.”
He turns over to look up at me. “I will never forget that, Abby. I’ll never be able to forget the pain I caused you.”
“Oh my sweet Jacky boy,” I mumble. “You didn’t cause me pain. None of that was your fault.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, more tears breaking free.
“I couldn’t save him,” he whimpers. “I couldn’t save him, and I couldn’t help you. I’ve never felt so out of control.”
“Jack, I saw him," I say quietly. "At the morgue.” I’ve never talked about this with anyone, but it feels important to bare some of my soul when his is so wide open. “There was no saving him. No matter how quickly you got there, or how hard you tried, he was gone from the second that truck hit him. I know you did everything you could.”
His shoulders shake with silent sobs, and tears drip off my chin onto my forearm. “I’m glad it was you,” I continue. “I’m glad you were the one to tell me. You helped hold me together that night. You’ve helped me a million other ways every day since.”
His eyes open, looking at me questioningly, almost pleading with me to say it again.
“I mean it,” I reassure him. “I wouldn’t have survived that night–survived any of this–without you. It breaks my heart to think you’ve been carrying around any ounce of guilt.”
He rolls over entirely, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face against my bump. “I’m so sorry, Abby,” he says, his voice muffled.
“I know, Jack Robbit,” I say. “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I haven’t thought to ask you about it before. To ask what it was like for you. To give you room to feel your own grief.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely. “Never apologize for the way you’ve made it through this. Supporting you, being by your side…you have helpedmein a million ways.”
He pauses for a beat, then adds, “And don’t call me that.”
With a watery chuckle, I pat him on the arm.
“C’mon, get up,” I say, shoving him to a seated position again, then heaving us both off the couch.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re having a sleepover,” I say, more of an instruction than anything. “I don’t think either of us are up for sleeping alone.”
“I can’t do that,” he says hoarsely. “I can’t sleep in your bed–in Aaron’s bed.”
A pang of grief–or maybe guilt?–stabs in my chest. Is he right? Is this weird or wrong?
Shaking my head, I push the unwelcome thought away as quickly as it came.
“You can, and you will,” I say stubbornly. “Please?” I ask, my voice softening. “Sleeping alone is miserable. Can you please? Just for tonight?”
“You know I will,” he says, following me down the hall. “Even if it’s not just for tonight. Whatever you need, Abs. For as long as you want.”
We settle in side-by-side, not touching, but I am acutely aware of his presence. On impulse, I reach over to grab his hand, lacing my fingers through his. He doesn’t let go, but instead tightens his grip slightly, a silent reassurance that he’s not going anywhere.
Something settles in my stomach, a different kind of feeling–not pain or guilt or grief. I can’t exactly put my finger onwhatit is, but it warms me from the inside out.
Turning my head on the pillow, I close my eyes and begin to drift off. Right before I fall asleep, I realize what it is.
Home. It feels like home.
