Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
When I run out of words, there’s just the hum of the radiator and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
He takes my hand. It’s not a big gesture—just his palm on mine, warm and dry and grounding. His thumb traces slow circles on my skin.
“Simone,” he says, and that’s all, but it’s enough. It’s the first time I’ve ever told the whole story to anyone, and the relief is dizzying. The fear is still there, but it feels lighter.
I let myself lean against him. My head fits into the crook of his shoulder. He doesn’t try to kiss me, or pull me closer. He just holds my hand and lets me be.
We talk, in fits and starts, until the sky outside starts to change color.
He tells me about his own father, about the way he used to sneak out of his house to walk the old man’s beat with him after midnight, about how he learned to read poetry by reciting it to his dad in the dark, about how he’s never felt good enough for anything in his life, not teaching, not relationships, not even his own fucked-up dreams.
He tells me about the years after the divorce, the string of nothing nights, the way he sometimes wishes he could just disappear.
We talk about pain. We talk about wanting to be whole, and what it costs to get there.
At some point, I realize I’m not shaking anymore.
I realize, too, that I’m exhausted. The kind of tired that goes down to the bone. My eyes burn and my mouth feels dry and every muscle in my body aches.
He lies down on top of the blanket, fully clothed, and I curl up beside him, my head on his chest. His hand never leaves mine. He doesn’t say anything else, but I feel his breathing—slow, deliberate, even—and it’s enough to lull me into a gentler kind of darkness.
When I wake up, the sky is the color of peach sorbet and I feel something close to peace.
I look at Liam, sleeping hard, the lines on his face deep and unguarded.
I don’t know what will happen after today, or after the surgery, or after the next time I inevitably ruin everything. But for now, I just let myself be held. I let myself belong, if only for a single sunrise.
Andie returns around seven, bagel in hand, hair wild from wherever she’s been. She clocks the two of us on the bed, my face mashed against Liam’s chest, and grins.
“Guess we survived,” she says in a droll tone.
Liam sits up, blinking. He looks as stunned as I feel.
I stretch, my body sore and loose, and smile at Andie. “You didn’t have to leave all night.”
She shrugs. “Looked like you needed it more than I did. I slept fine. You know me. I’m like a cat. I can curl up anywhere.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I almost laugh.
She tosses me the bagel. “Eat, or I’ll narc on you to the nurse.”
I bite into it, the carb rush grounding me in the moment.
Liam stands, stretches, and says, “I’ll wait outside. Give you some space to get ready.” He squeezes my shoulder, a silent promise, and ducks out the door.
Andie sits beside me on the bed, her eyes a little softer than usual.
“You good?” she asks.
I nod, the answer honest.
She bumps her knee against mine. “Good. Now put on real pants. We don’t want you dying in whale pajamas.”
We get ready together, the normalcy of it soothing. I pull on my oldest jeans and a hoodie, brush my teeth, and braid my hair the way my dad used to like.
When I look in the mirror, I almost recognize myself.
I gather my stuff. I look around the room—at the messy desk, the tangle of sheets, the single lamp still glowing in the corner. For the first time, it feels less like a prison and more like a home.
We step out into the hall. Liam waits at the far end, hands in pockets, his face as open and unguarded as I’ve ever seen it.
He smiles when he sees me. I smile back.
Maybe the world isn’t fixed. Maybe I’m not, either.
But for the first time in a long time, I believe I could be.
One step at a time.
One sunrise at a time.
Let’s go.
The car ride is a vacuum. None of us talk. Liam drives, knuckles white on the wheel. Andie sits behind me, knee bouncing, muttering to herself about traffic, the weather, the inequity of morning hours. I watch the city slide by, all the windows fogged and the sky a flat, metallic grey. I try not to think about where we’re going. I try not to think about the way my insides feel: tight and twisty and somehow hollow, like the walls of my stomach have sloughed off overnight.
We get there super early, and the hospital lobby is mostly empty. A single woman in scrubs sits behind the intake desk, clicking through a game of solitaire. The smell—antiseptic, lemon-pine, and something underneath—hits me like a flashback. I double over, clutch my arms to my ribs, and suck in a breath.