Depending on You

by Melissa Jagears

  He let out a loud, impatient breath. “What would you like me to do next?”

  She shrugged and continued ironing.

  After a few minutes, he swallowed hard, but scanned the room, hoping to figure out something else to do. He wasn’t going to force her into a heated conversation when a customer could interrupt at any moment. He headed for the large bags slumped against the wall.

  “You can’t leave.”

  He stopped.

  Her words had been quiet, heartbreakingly so—but at least she’d said it loud enough for him to hear.

  He turned. “Why not? You don’t want my help. You don’t need me.”

  “I do need you.”

  “But you don’t. You’ve proven you can get on fine without me, so much so you’re even shunning me.”

  Silence, yet again.

  Except was that a sniffle?

  Despite his entire being wanting to rush over and scoop her up, he clamped his arms hard against his sides. He was barely holding onto his self-worth as it was. If she rejected him, how could he remain in her presence?

  She sniffled twice more, but kept ironing.

  He took a step closer. “My leaving won’t be because I want to abandon you. I know I left you in a financial lurch last spring, but I have to go elsewhere if I have any hope of rectifying that. However, if you don’t come with me, I trust you can take care of yourself and Ava without me.”

  “But that’s just it.” She dropped her wet laundry and whirled on him. “You didn’t trust me.”

  He blinked. “Well, I do now. You’ve proven you can take care of yourself.”

  “I’m not talking about surviving. What you didn’t trust me with was what you were going through. You didn’t trust me to be able to help you. You didn’t trust me with your secrets, your difficulties, nothing.”

  He let his shoulders slump. So many times over the past year he’d played out scenarios where he’d told her about every dark thing, every insecurity, every failure. In all those made-up conversations, he’d failed to imagine how exposing his every flaw wouldn’t have pushed her away. But could any of those imagined reactions be worse than how things were going now?

  “You’re right, I didn’t trust you.” Despite how hushed his voice came out, the words still tore him up. “Though not in the way you think. I could’ve told you about the gambling. I knew you would’ve been able to handle it. You would’ve set me back on the straight and narrow, absolutely. But what I didn’t trust you to do was to still love me.” He thumped his chest. “Me.”

  He stared off at nothing, letting his vision fuzz, leaving his fist pressed against his sluggishly beating heart. “You’ve always loved what you saw in me. You’ve always looked past my flaws as if they weren’t there, seeing the man I could become. However, if I’d laid out my flaws in a way you couldn’t have missed, where you’d have realized I was never going to become the hero you believed me to be, I was afraid you’d…” His throat closed up too much to go on.

  She didn’t say anything, so he finally forced himself to continue. “I love that you wanted to be my encourager—every man wants that—so I tried to live up to your expectations. However, when I ruined everything, I was sure you’d—”

  “You thought me capable of hating you?” She stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Of leaving you?”

  “I didn’t expect you to hate me or leave me, no. I was afraid if I didn’t become the hero you were so certain I could be, your love for me would never be the same. And I wasn’t sure my heart could survive that, or rather, I was sure it couldn’t, because I hated myself. Why would you be any different?”

  She began to walk toward him, and his heavy heartbeat consumed his body.

  “Do you love me at all anymore?” He scrunched his eyes tight and grimaced. He shouldn’t have asked that.

  The coolness of her hand cupped his cheek, and when he opened his eyes, he was confronted with the scar that ran through her brow, the droop that weighed down her mouth, the sadness permeating her expression—all the results of his selfishness. “Forgive me?” His question was nothing but a voiceless rush of air and he tensed in anticipation of her answer.

  Her hand slipped from his face, and for a moment that seemed like a century, she blinked up at him. No malice shone in her eyes, but then, she wasn’t looking at him in that tender way she always did—or rather, used to.

  And then she looked down and away. “I…um. It’s time to close up the laundry.”

  Close up?

  Yes, that’s what he needed to do right now. Close up. Close down. Whatever it took to shut off these emotions.

  Leah turned and walked away, picking up wet laundry as she headed to the back room and disappeared.

  She hadn’t said she loved him. She hadn’t forgiven him.

  Imagining Leah refusing to forgive anyone was something he’d never thought he’d be able to do.

  Which meant…

  Jangle, Jangle.

  He jolted at the door’s opening. “We’re closed.” His voice rang out harsher and sharper than he’d meant.

  When heavy footfalls thudded in anyway, he pushed off the counter and forged through the back room, past his wife, and out into the frigid air.

  He couldn’t disappoint his wife anymore today. But would he have any better of a chance at winning her over tomorrow? What if his best would never again be enough?

  Chapter Six

  Down on her knees, Leah scrubbed the kitchen’s baseboard a second time. Her hip throbbed, her joints screamed, yet she continued. She wouldn’t get up until everything was spotless—and Bryant was sure to be asleep.

  She glanced toward the hallway, where her husband had stood not more than an hour ago. When she’d told him she didn’t need his help cleaning the kitchen, he’d stood there for a long time. Sadness had radiated off him so thickly, she’d nearly crumpled.

  But she’d kept scrubbing.

  Today, they’d worked in silence at the laundry for the second day in a row. She’d not allowed herself to speak, even on their walk home. For what was there to say?

  He’d already asked her to forgive him, if she still loved him. And she’d said nothing.

  She’d wanted to tell him she’d forgiven him, but she wasn’t certain she had. He’d looked so crushed that to give him some hope, she’d crossed the room to cup his face.

  And then all her words had jammed up.

  Touching him, well…

  She shook her head and dunked her cloth in the bucket again. Touching him had stirred up such a slurry of emotions that half of her had wanted to kick him in the shins, and the other half had wanted to step into his arms and weep.

  Leah wrung dirty water out of her rag and started scouring again.

  Before she’d gotten herself sorted out, Bryant had left and Celia had come in with a load of laundry. The young lady hadn’t seemed to notice anything wrong. In fact, she’d worn a grin through most of their discussion. How long had it been since that girl had smiled? Not only was Celia smiling now, but whenever she helped in the laundry, there was no awkwardness between them—despite how the girl had been partially responsible for every scar Leah had.

  But with Bryant, even mornings were awkward. Since she’d returned to the house last week, she never could decide if she wanted to ask him what he wanted for breakfast or force him to fend for himself.

  She slapped the rag back into the bucket of water, sloshing the foamy slush onto the floorboards.

  She had to forgive him, but how to do so when her emotions were completely opposed? She’d expected them to mellow with time, but waiting for her feelings to change toward Bryant wasn’t doing either of them any good.

  After shoving the bucket and rag under the sink, she crossed to the kitchen table and snatched up her Bible. She normally read a passage or two while drinking coffee in the morning, but waiting until then wouldn’t do them any good now, either.

  She blew out the lanterns and trudged upstairs.
What should she read? Were there any marriage reconciliation stories that could help? Hosea and his wife, maybe? No, Bryant hadn’t cheated on her, nor continued to do so—but he had betrayed her trust. Hosea’s story did illustrate that God loved the disloyal Israelites no matter what they did. She certainly ought to do that in regard to her own husband, but how could she make herself want to?

  Maybe Ruth and Boaz’s story would be better.

  In the guest room, she dressed for the night, then turned the flame down, curling up on the bed with her Bible, determined to read the whole story, hoping to glean something.

  Half an hour later, she closed the book, rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling.

  Had Ruth felt love toward Boaz when she’d lain at his feet? Maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t. The story simply recorded that Ruth did as her mother-in-law instructed, believing all things would be well because of the God Naomi served, for whom Ruth had given up everything to follow.

  And because of that trust, Ruth had acted, and her obedience resulted in a fruitful union. Acting in faith—was that the key?

  Pushing herself up to sit on the edge of the mattress, Leah put on her slippers, smoothed her nightdress, and blew out the light.

  Then stood and put one foot in front of the other.

  Not worried about waking Bryant since he was a heavy sleeper, she crossed the hallway and opened the door to their room.

  In the dark, she listened to his soft breathing and contemplated the foot of the bed. No, sleeping there would be strange. Her side of the bed would do.

  Leah picked her way across the room and slipped under the covers. The second his warmth registered, every bit of tension rushed out of her, the familiarity nearly making her cry. After seven months alone, the comforting smell she could only describe as belonging to her husband made her body relax more than it had since the night she’d almost been killed. The pull to snuggle into him was so overwhelming, she had to flip over.

  She blinked unseeingly into the blackness for a while. Turning her back on him was not the point of this exercise. Pulling in a fortifying breath, she rolled back over and gently placed a hand on him. A symbol of sorts, indicating her dependence on him, like Ruth with Boaz.

  She might have told Bryant she didn’t need him, but she was only kidding herself. If he could feel she intended to stay by his side, maybe he wouldn’t leave. With Oliver and Ava’s struggles, with Lenora just learning who he was, they needed him here.

  Bryant’s soft breathing continued unaltered. Within minutes, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the smell of his bedclothes, the warmth of his body pulled her closer. Her nights of tossing and turning without him beside her were over.

  If only her heart would figure things out soon.

  Something stirred. Bryant opened his eyes to complete darkness. It was far too early to be awake. He forced himself to lie still and listen. What had awoken him?

  And then a soft breath registered against his neck, causing him to shiver. Leah.

  He froze. Had she gotten up in the middle of the night and walked in half asleep out of habit? Slowly, he rolled toward her. The silkiness of her hair cascading off his arm made him clench his hands to keep from scooping her up and threading his fingers into her long, soft tresses.

  Should he wake her? Let her know she’d accidentally wandered in after a trip to the necessary?

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared up at the ceiling he couldn’t see. It’d be best to go back to sleep. To let her awake before he did, so she’d not know that he knew she’d ended up where she hadn’t wanted to be. Oh, how that hurt.

  How many times over the years had Leah said she couldn’t stand the thought of them being apart and begged that he wouldn’t die before she did?

  But now, the only reason she was under the same roof was because of Ava’s wishes.

  Unable to help himself, he turned to take in her silhouette as the subtle gray of morning crept in. He took up one soft curl and rubbed it between his fingers.

  Having her choose to endure him rather than live with him was worse than anything he’d ever imagined back in prison.

  Jacob had warned Bryant not to give in to dark thoughts. His friend had encouraged him to serve his time, get out, and live again. But the dark thoughts had come anyway. At one point, he’d stopped talking to the other inmates, even gave up eating, but Jacob had insisted on leaving behind a Bible, and the uncanny pull of a God who wouldn’t let go had tugged at him.

  Reading over the many stories demonstrating how God never stopped loving His wayward children, a bubble of hope had emerged—that no matter what he’d done, God wouldn’t leave him—and that his wife, a woman of such grace, wouldn’t leave him either. He’d begun eating again, forcing himself through the motions of living, so he could return home and set things right.

  Though once he’d returned to Armelle, the darkness had threatened to drag him back down. He’d always said he didn’t deserve Leah—and now, he knew that with certainty. His actions had turned his compassionate wife into a woman who could actually hold a grudge—

  Her head rolled toward him, and he stiffened.

  Please don’t wake up.

  Her eyelids fluttered, and he held his breath. After a blink or two, she looked straight at him for one second, then another.

  He braced himself for her to stiffen once she realized she’d somehow ended up beside him.

  She kept looking at him, her lashes fluttering on occasion as her eyes cleared of sleep.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I know you didn’t mean to come in here—”

  “I did.”

  What? “On purpose?”

  Her head made a slight dip. “I just… I…” Her eyes closed, and she nestled her head back into her pillow. Maybe she hadn’t actually awakened.

  “It’s not that I can’t,” she whispered, followed by several soft, even breaths. “It’s just that I don’t want to.” She yawned. “Which isn’t right, so I thought I could.”

  He clamped his mouth so he wouldn’t ask her to explain. Her incoherent babble indicated she was still asleep. When they’d first married, her sleep talking had awakened him several times. Perhaps she’d never stopped talking in her sleep and he’d learned to sleep through it.

  “I thought I’d trick my body into liking you again, but I mif… I can’t. I wanna but…” And with another slur of unintelligible syllables, her breathing slowed, and her body went slack.

  She was trying to trick herself into liking him?

  What if she woke up in the morning and felt as if her “trick” hadn’t worked and she never returned to his side again?

  Though he’d be worse off if such a nightmare came true, he wedged his hand under her and pulled her as close as he dared so as not to wake her. Turning his face into his pillow, he muffled the sound of his heart being rent in two.

  How low could a man sink before all hope disintegrated?

  Chapter Seven

  The back door to the church banged open, causing Leah to drop the greenery she was winding around the railing.

  A bark echoed through the sanctuary, then another.

  “Is there a dog inside the church?” Leah turned to her daughter, who was decorating the piano.

  Before Ava could answer, the Keys’ black dog ran into the sanctuary, wearing a chemise with … cotton stuck to it? “What in the world?”

  Spencer ran in after the canine, sporting a huge smile. “Mickey’s going to be our sheep!”

  “Our sheep?” She took in the dog’s costume, which twisted around his torso with his every bouncy step.

  “See, I told you no one would know what he was.” Celia followed them in, her scowl firmly in place. “He looks ridiculous.”

  “So did that pig you dressed up in Mrs.—”

  “Shhh.” Leah widened her eyes at the boy and scanned the sanctuary, hoping Mrs. Tate hadn’t slipped back in with the candles. The recollection of that pig we
aring the older woman’s undergarments never failed to bring a smile to her face—especially since it shouldn’t.

  Spencer crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at his sister. “Doesn’t matter what you say anyway. Mrs. Key said I could dress Mickey up if I wanted to. Said everyone should ‘fodder a kid’s creativity’.”

  Celia punched him in the shoulder. “Foster.”

  He ducked despite having already been hit. “That’s what I said!”

  “Mrs. Key doesn’t get to make the decision, anyway. Mrs. Ronstandt does.” Celia pointed toward the dog as if he were on trial for something heinous. “And she’s not going to allow a dog in cotton-covered undergarments to be a sheep. If she wants a sheep, there’s plenty of sheep around Armelle.”

  He flung his arms open wide. “Nothing’s real in this pageant. Jesus is a girl, and you’re a boy—”

  “And you’re certainly no angel.”

  He planted his hands on his hips and nodded as if that settled the matter. “So the dog can be a sheep.”

  “If Mrs. Ronstandt says so.” Celia lifted her brows as she looked to Ava, her eyes wide and pleading.

  Ava shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “Yay!” Spencer grabbed the dog’s paws and danced with him while Celia groaned.

  A clatter sounded at the back of the church, and Leah cringed. She looked over to where Lenora had been laid on a pallet of blankets—still asleep thankfully.

  “Can someone help, please?” Jacob’s voice called out.

  Minutes later, he and Ava dragged in a ladder and a long coil of rope.

  “You’re really going to fly him?” Leah couldn’t stop her chuckle.

  Jacob’s grin was cheeky. “Always wanted to fly when I was a kid.”

  Though her daughter’s childhood dream wasn’t going as she’d hoped, Leah was proud that Ava was willing to make this a wonderful memory for Spencer. “He’ll remember this forever—though you may regret it. He’ll want you to fly him every year.”

  Jacob dropped the ladder near the back wall. “I saw Bryant’s arms the other day. He can take over for me next year.”