Now, I’ve got to earn her back. Deserve her.
The light shines through where Lo tore away the blinds. I sit where I’ve sat since she left, where the room is still in shambles. I should clean, get rid of the mess before the kids see it, but the hopelessness has settled in. What’s the point? I’ve lost them all. I’ve literally lost them all before I had the chance to fix what I’ve done.
Waiting for my mom’s text has me nearly a mess. The heel of my foot connects with the ground again and again and again. My leg bobs up and down from the motion, but I can’t stop. Is this how she felt? Alone and empty? Lost completely?
I try to imagine how my wife felt in these past few years, how she mourned while I couldn't experience it with her. One thing I learned from Brant was that you can get over death easily without a heart. Maybe all this time, I never had a heart. Maybe it was lost so long ago that I carried a body without one. I mean, I didn’t even mourn the loss of both of my closest friends. Denny, the kid that singlehandedly saved my life on several occasions, and Francis, the friend that kept my head on straight. Everyone dies, right?
I’ll call you later, my mom responds some time later.
The fact that her text is impersonal and thoughtless has me angry and irrational. My mind keeps festering on my past—on death, life, and choices that changed my life forever.
Denny’s death didn’t hurt me like Lo’s mom’s death hurt her. I loved Anise. She was a breath of fresh air on a crisp, after-rain, spring day, but her dying didn’t hurt me either. It was sad, seeing it cripple my wife, seeing it kill her inside, but nothing hurt me until Lilac’s funeral.
I didn’t understand Lo’s pain, but I experienced my own. One thing that hurt more than seeing my wife break was realizing I had to stay strong the entire time.
Lilac was my baby girl, too. I bought her so much already; not expecting to have another kid, we had to start afresh. We had her nursery ready, and cleaning that room out was the second hardest thing I’ve done.
But, Lo and I coped differently.
I was angry and hated the world for choosing us to lose our child. The sadness went away fast, but the unfairness of it all stuck with me. After I started therapy, I broke down. It was the first time I allowed myself feel the entirety of my loss.
“Mr. Collins,” Joan says, bringing her hand forward to shake mine.
“Jason,” I reply, gripping her hand gently.
She smiles, not outwardly or with a flirting lilt but with an understanding I don’t quite comprehend.
“We’ve been meeting for weeks now, Jason, yet this is the first time you’ve allowed me to call you by your first name. What changed?”
I recall the suicide attempt.
The blood.
The cold skin of my wife’s body.
Ace’s vacant face as the ambulance revived his mother.
My eyes prick with tears, but I hold them in. I’ve become a pro at containing my emotions for my kids. I’ve become a hollow box without love or care.
“My wife,” I muster after a few breaths, my heart hammering in my chest with the need to be set free, to let it all out, to not hold back.
“What about your wife?”
We both sit down, and she pulls out a notepad and the pen from behind her ear.
It’s been days since Loren decided her life was no longer worth living. It’s been days since Ace hasn’t left his room. It’s been days since I’ve slept. I’m unable to stop watching her chest rise and fall, making sure it isn’t the last moment I’ll ever have with her.
I haven’t been back to work since that day.
I haven’t left her side.
I haven’t breathed air that doesn’t feel like it’s suffocating me.
Toby and Ellie haven’t been over. I won’t tolerate it.
When either of them are around, she is worse off. They try coaxing her out of her stupor but neither get anywhere. It seems to worsen her condition, not help, so for now, I’m there. Our kids are there. No one else is allowed.
“Five days ago, she attempted suicide,” I admit.
My heart hammers to the point I’m sweating and my palms are clammy. The term attempted suicide always grinds on my gears. The fact that it’s an attempt to kill oneself sets the wrong precedence. When you attempt something, it’s an accomplishment waiting to happen, but what does suicide accomplish? Death. That’s all it succeeds in.
My mind goes over that term again and again and again as I rub my palms on my jeans, trying to get rid of the excess moisture.
When she doesn’t say anything in response, I peer up at her. Her eyes are a little hollower, less lively, and sympathy traces every line on her face.
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Jason.”
Her sympathy isn’t welcome.
“Don’t,” I nearly yell, putting my hand up. “She’s not fucking dead, Joan. Her heart still beats. Her blood still flows. Her lungs still breathe.” I’m seething. My hands shake on my legs, and my stomach hollows at her implications.
“You’re right, Jason. I’m not sorry because your wife is gone. I’m sorry for the detrimental choice she made.”
My eyes burn with the need to cry, the one thing I haven’t allowed myself to do. It’s something I pride myself in, not crying, being this strong man—husband for her and father to my kids.
“Thank you.” It’s all I can offer, even if I don’t feel it. Even if the thought of thanking her for such a thing makes me nauseous.
“I want to go back a little, Jason. Since we’ve been here, you don’t really talk about anything other than your job, kids, and your need to be strong for Loren. What about you?”
Her query confuses me. It isn’t really a full question, and when I don’t have a response, I think she realizes it, too.
“What have you done for yourself to cope with the passing of your daughter?”
A burn clogs my throat, making it impossible to swallow the bile that’s rising like a tornado at rapid speeds. My stomach hurts in that uncomfortable way after you’ve done something wrong or you’ve worked out without eating beforehand. I’m getting sicker by the passing second remembering her tiny body, seeing her frail little fingers that never got the chance to squeeze my hand, the curls that nestled atop of her head, and her warm damn body never getting the chance to inhale.
As I exhale the pain, willing myself to breathe the ache that has been left from my daughter, a single tear escapes. The fucker bleeds from my eyes like a slit across my wrist. It trails down my face like a stamp of betrayal from a lover, and it brings more awareness to where I am than having my eyes open.
“I haven’t,” is all that releases from me.
It’s true. I haven’t given myself that time. I’m a man. I don’t grieve. I power through. I’m a man. I can’t allow my kids to see me as weak. I’m a man. We aren’t allowed to show pain.
I’m a man.
“And why’s that?”
Her clinical tone allows me to not feel as much shame as I normally would. It humanizes me, makes me feel relief, almost taking it as permission to do so.
“One thing my stepfather taught me in life is to never show weakness, that it was a sign of being spineless,” I begin, detailing everything with Brant and how he inflicted pain in the hopes I learned that’s what being a man was. Her face goes from detached to horrified. I’m sure she’s heard stories of abuse from both ends of the spectrum, but the way she’s looking at me is with both compassion and understanding and also just a little touch of empathy.
“So, in hopes of being a man, you didn’t allow yourself to feel the pain of your loss?” she asks, but she isn’t rude, I can tell she’s trying to interpret the feelings I didn’t realize were there.
“Pretty much.”
“Then, right now, tell me how you feel about the passing of your little girl.”
She says little girl instead of daughter or child. She takes off the kid gloves and puts her entire fist through my chest, gripping my vital orga
n with those simple words.
My heart squeezes, or rather, a pain forms in my chest. Unnatural. It’s almost like I’m having an anxiety attack, the kind that brings the twinge of discomfort in sharpened spouts.
It isn’t until she’s handing me a box of tissues that I realize I’m crying, that I understand this aching is as fresh as the day at the hospital. The wound is laid open, burning with fresh salt and rocks. It’s the same, if not more intense. My shoulders shake with the power of my sobs, my body trembling.
My baby girl. Gone.
She didn’t get to smile, call me Daddy, or let me kiss her booboos better. She never experienced what life has to offer, including her first missing tooth, her first dance or her first heartbreak.
The injustice of her being taken overwhelms me, and for the rest of my session, I just cry. Not only do I remember the short time with her still form, but I also remember the funeral and the emptiness I feel every day following it.
She’s gone, and I can’t fix it.
Isn’t that my job as a husband and father? To fix the things that they can’t? To be strong and support them and make things better? I’ve always tried being a good dad and a good man to my beautiful wife, but I’ve failed.
And as much as that felt emasculating, it felt more devastating to my confidence. I no longer felt strong and brave and perfect. All I felt was broken, empty, and a failure.
“Our time is up, Jason, but I feel as if we’ve broken ground. You can finally accept what you can’t change, and you can start the true grieving process.”
That was the first time I truly cried.
After that, I confessed all the things I wished my daughter would have had the chance to experience, and spoke about my wife and her struggles. My therapist gave me the best advice and direction on how to be strong.
When Lo didn’t get better, and I stopped going to therapy, it was a lost cause after all. Once again, I swallowed the resentment, bitterness, and hatred, and in doing so, I gave up on my marriage all together.
With Ellie, she was the nicotine I needed to breathe, the cancer that came into my lungs, the river of death to drown me in my sins. She came at the right time. She said the right things. We had a past. From the first time we met at that drive-in to now, she’s always been by my side. She never ceased to put me first. In her eyes, it was only me.
But Lo did the same.
The more I think of it, the more I realize Lo did everything Ellie did. She was here. She loved me unconditionally. She made me a better man.
But I was blinded. So goddamn blinded.
My phone rings, and when I see the time, I realize it’s been hours since I texted my mom. It feels as if time hasn’t passed at all.
“Jason,” she says when I answer. Her tone isn’t rude, but it’s hurt, like I hurt her and not the other way around. She’s the one who made me this way.
“Can I see them?” I ask, cutting to the chase, not wanting a play-by-play of why I’m a bad husband and father. Not that she gave me any reason to be a good one.
“I don’t think that’s for the best, Jason. They’re hurting from both you and Loren. Ace has smiled for the first time in months today. Don’t take that away from them. They’ve been through so much.” Her voice softens at the end.
She’s right, but I want to make amends with Ace and Jazzy, fix them and our relationship, fight for them since I’ve failed to do it for so long.
“Okay, Mom.” It’s all I can offer because if I allow more words to pour out, I’ll shout at her for not wanting to help me. But I caused all of this myself. I did it.
“I love you, baby boy.”
“Love you, too,” I offer before hanging up.
Where do I even go from here?
chapter thirty-eight
Lo
Where do I go from here?
Sitting in my 4Runner, I cry. The tears drip out like faucets, and the sobs rack my frame like thunder in a cloudy sky. My heart just hurts, and there’s no salve, no easy fix. Actually, there’s no fix at all. I can move on, finalize my divorce, say goodbye to the man I’ve loved since knowing what love was... but will it solve anything other than my resilience as a mother?
Isn’t it the easy way out, the simple explanation for not fighting for me? Or is it the definition of fighting for me and loving myself enough to move forward?
The only problem? I still love him.
Even with everything he’s done, that love hasn’t lessened. Yes, he’s fucked up. Yes, he’s broken me. Yes, he’s given another woman what I’ve always wanted... but he’s still my Jase. My love. My life. My ending.
It’s time, though, to choose my kids, me, and my mental health. It’s well overdue, and by picking this—picking us—I’ll need to tell Toby.
With that decided, I drive over to his house. My mind immediately goes to the other day and the orgasm he gave me, the almost-sex we had, Jase barging in... As I park my car, my stomach fills with a buzzing, warning me not only of a fight to come but a heartbreak or two to match.
As I exit the car with a little less oomph than normal, my feet meet the pavement. They drag because he’s my best friend. He always has been. He’s the first love of my life, maybe not in the way he wanted or deserved, but the first nonetheless. Walking through this door and having this conversation is the last thing I want, but it’s necessary.
It’s the kind of heartbreak that will hurt but you know it’ll mend you in the end.
It gives closure on both ends, but also, it gives hope for a future, too.
It’s like seeing a caterpillar break free from its pod and become a butterfly. It died to make that possible, but the beauty and strength required for that process makes it reborn as a new entity.
Unlike with Ellie’s house, I don’t knock. I use my key and walk in. It’s quiet as I meander through his house. It’s welcoming like my own. I’ve spent so much time here and it never dulls. It always offers what I’m missing.
But I can’t string this along and give him false hope for something I’m not capable of giving him. He deserves more than that. He deserves the truth.
When I round the corner toward his bedroom, I figure he’s taken a nap. He does that on occasion. Since everything went down with Jase, I haven’t been back to work. It’s like Toby knew I needed the air to breathe because he hasn’t even given me a set schedule. And today, now, I can’t even be the chef he needs. I’m going to have to find another job.
He’s not in his room or the guest room. His car is here, so he must be somewhere. When I go back toward his bedroom, I notice the bathroom door is closed. Wanting to give him privacy, I turn to leave the room.
But then I hear him grunting.
Is he masturbating? I’m sure my mouth is open like a fool as I imagine him trying to get his need out of his system. It was only hours ago, not even a full day, that I left him to himself. With the argument and fight he and Jase must’ve had, I’m sure he’s pent-up with a barrage of emotions.
Each step that should take me away from the door only brings me closer. There’s no argument to brook for this. It’s wrong.
My hand connects with the wood, and I knock twice. On the other side of the door, a barely there fuck fills my ears.
“Lo?” he asks while shuffling ensues.
I smile, feeling like a teenager all over again. This isn’t the first time I’ve caught Toby in an awkward situation, but it’s just the lighthearted feel I needed after what happened with Jase.
“Out here,” I say over a laugh. It escapes without warning, and then I’m a fit of giggles outside his door.
It opens, and his eyes don’t look at me, the guilt in his expression only eggs me on.
“Were you really just...” I don’t finish, unable to keep the laughs at a minimum.
His eyes finally connect with mine. They’re angry, aggravated, and full of heat. Whoa. He’s staring at me like he wants to rip me apart, and suddenly, those giggles are stolen from my lungs.
“I
’m sorry,” he musters, his chest rising and falling heavily like he’d just finished a run rather than got caught with his pants down. He hasn’t taken his penetrative gaze away from me, and I’m flustered for words.
If this was before we fooled around, I would tease him. If this was before he touched me in places only Jase has ever touched, I would laugh some more. If this was before my release coated his lips, before his cock almost entered me, before I allowed him to have a piece of me, I would shrug this entire thing off.
The problem is that it’s no longer before. It’s after. It’s different. We are different.
“Loren,” he huskily calls out to me. My name is thick in his throat, as if it’s something to overcome, something to fight and win and defeat in the next swallow, but he can’t.
In the entirety of our friendship, he’s only called me Loren a handful of times. He reserves it for when he’s angry, serious, or in this case, exasperated. What is he trying to say? What is he trying to tell me with that word?
“Tobias,” I tease, attempting to lighten the mood and make it less frenetic with energy that won’t stop zipping up and down my skin.
He pushes closer, his body large and hovering. He’s both protective and aggressive, both tempting and anxiety-inducing, both welcoming and a painful reminder.
I place my palm on his chest, halting his closeness, knowing we need distance. I’m hurting, and he’s jealous. We can’t do this.
“Toby,” I try again, his face close to mine, so close that his breath hovers on my forehead, warm and erratic.
“Sparkle,” he imitates.
His mouth descends. And as much as I need to, as much as it’s a necessity rather than a want, I don’t pull away. I allow his lips to connect with mine. It’s not frantic like yesterday. It’s soft and bereft. His lips barely touch my own and neither of us move. We breathe in this shared air, just standing here. My eyes are closed as I absorb this moment.
His hand snakes up my waist, sending shivers and goosebumps to caress my skin. His palm continues its trail up. It rests on my left breast, not stroking, not squeezing, or even fondling. It continues its slow ascent to where my heart rises.
Inhale, Exhale Page 33
