Crossing the Lines

by S. J. Hooks

  “I can’t do this,” he whispers, clenching his fists at his sides.

  “Do what?” I ask, even though I know.

  “This!” he whisper-yells, making a sweeping motion with his arm. “I can’t do this again!”

  Again? “D-do what again?” I stutter.

  Instead of acknowledging me, he grabs the poinsettia in the window, crushing its petals in his fist before tossing it on the floor.

  “I don’t want this. I can’t have this. This isn’t what I wanted,” he sneers, finally looking at me. His eyes are cold. “This playing house bullshit!” He gazes at me like he’s silently daring me to disagree.

  “You’re a liar!” I blurt out, taking the bait. “This is exactly what you wanted from day one. You wanted to play house at first. To pretend. Then you wanted us to move in here with you.” I walk over to him and look up into his face. “Everything you’ve wanted from me—someone who takes care of you, someone you can care for and spoil, someone who enjoys the same kind of sex as you, someone to come home to at the end of the day—you know what that is?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “It’s a relationship, Simon. That’s what you’ve wanted all along. You never wanted a submissive. You wanted a girlfriend who’s submissive in bed. You want me. You want Luke too. I know you care about him. Whatever’s making you say this, please tell me. Because I don’t believe you don’t want this, that you don’t want a real relationship with me!”

  “My son is dead!” he shouts, squeezing his eyes shut before turning away.

  I freeze in place, shocked.

  “My son is dead. There. Now you know.” He turns to me again, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips curled. It’s a look of derision. He opens his mouth to speak several times, but nothing comes out.

  I’m having trouble breathing. He had a son. A son who died. “Simon—”

  Startling me, he grabs ahold of me and crushes me against his chest, holding on for dear life. But it doesn’t last. He pulls back slowly, running the back of his fingers across my cheek—a familiar touch that only brings me pain. Because deep down, I know what it means.

  “Simon, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine—”

  “No, you can’t. And I hope to God you never will.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you and I can’t—”

  “Yes, it does. This is too much. I thought I could … but no.” He takes a quick breath, avoiding my eyes. “We need to go back to how it was before.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll still take care of you and Luke. Get you a nice place to live. You can come and see me. Like we did in the beginning.”

  I take a step back, feeling stricken. Back to calling him Mr. Thorne, back to getting those manila envelopes. Having his body but not his heart. There’s no way. I could do it before I fell in love with him, but now the thought makes me feel sick. I’d end up losing myself. My heart would break every time I saw him, having him so close yet so completely far away, and ultimately I’d end up hating him. And myself.

  “No.” My voice is a lot stronger than I thought it would be.

  “I still want you,” he says, his voice raw. “I’ll always want you, Abigail.”

  My lips tremble, and I blink to hold back tears. I resist the urge to clutch my chest to make sure my heart is still there, that it’s still beating.

  “I know you do. You just don’t want all of me.” I wait for him to object, knowing in my heart he won’t.

  “I’m sorry,” he says brokenly. “I never meant—it’s my fault. This is all my fault.”

  I want to disagree with him, to tell him I’ve acted just as irresponsibly as he to enter into this sort of arrangement, that I’ve been a fool to fall in love with him, to think I could ever change him, but I can’t get it past my lips.

  “We’ll leave as soon as Luke is better,” I say.

  “There’s no rush.”

  I give him one last look, seeing the hurt on his face plain as day. I know he didn’t mean for this to happen and I believe he’s sorry. But it doesn’t change anything, and I can’t stay here a minute longer than I have to.

  “Yes there is,” I whisper, brushing past him.

  He doesn’t follow me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  What do you do when everything you hoped for turns out to have been an impossible dream all along? When you can’t see a happy ending for yourself anymore? When you realize that you’ve fallen in love with a man who isn’t only unwilling love you back, but actually unable to?

  I see Simon three times during the two days it takes Luke to recover. The first time, I find him with an anxious look on his face outside Luke’s room, watching him sleep. He excuses himself quickly when he notices me. The second time is in the kitchen the following morning. He stops abruptly inside the door, staring at me for a long moment before backing away. I leave him a plate of food, knowing he must be hungry and that he doesn’t cook at all. The last time is right before we move out. Everything is packed up in Thomas’ car outside, and Luke is already strapped in. I head into the room that used to be mine, placing every gift I received on the bed. A part of me wants to keep it all—the books, earrings, perfumes, iPad, and clothes, every token of his generosity and affection. But I need a clean break.

  Simon stands behind me in the door as I turn around, hands in his pockets, hair uncombed, a lost look in his eyes and dark shadows beneath them.

  Who will take care of him now?

  I approach slowly, feeling no anger, only sorrow for both him and myself. Maybe I should hate him, but I don’t. I just feel sorry, for both of us.

  “Where will you go?” he asks, his voice hollow-sounding.

  “Thomas and Jo’s.”

  He nods. “Will you be all right?”

  I look up into his face, swallowing back tears. “Will you?” I whisper.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches for my hand, lifting it up as he strokes my knuckles with his thumb before pressing his lips against my skin for just a second.

  “Goodbye,” he mumbles, hesitating before continuing. “I left something for you on the kitchen table. Please don’t argue. Just take it … and take care of yourself and Luke.” He lets go of my hand and turns around, walking away with fast steps.

  “Goodbye,” I whisper, pressing my lips together to keep from crying.

  This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

  On the kitchen table I find an envelope, similar to the one that started all of this, similar to the one that ended all of this. I fold it and put it into my jacket pocket.

  Later that night, in Jo’s kitchen, I open it to find that Luke’s tuition has been paid for the next six months so he can finish Pre-K, and a bus service has been arranged to get him there and back again every day. There is also a severance package for me: three month’s salary and medical insurance for the next year. I finally break down and cry in Jo’s arms, allowing myself to feel the full extent of what I’ve lost—though it was never really mine to begin with.

  I honor Simon’s last request and accept the contents of the envelope. I don’t want to be a burden on Jo and Thomas, and this, along with the amount of my salary I’ve been able to save, gives me at least a little time to figure out what to do next.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life can be relentless. A week after leaving Simon’s house, I find myself on a bus to Pinewood after receiving a frantic phone call from my mother.

  “Are we there yet?” Luke asks, shifting in his seat.

  “Soon,” I tell him, feeling a twinge of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. “Pippa and Piper’s grandma is picking us up at the station, and then you’re going to stay at her house for a little bit this afternoon.”

  “Okay.”

  I gaze down at him and smile. Half a year ago, separating from me would’ve made him scared. Everything that’s happened—staying at Simon’s house, making friends at school, and knowing Patrick isn’t going to
be a part of our lives anymore—has turned my son into a confident, happy kid, ready to take on the world. At least one good thing has come out of all of this. Turning my face toward the window again, I see the “Welcome to Pinewood” sign on the side of the road and draw a deep breath that does nothing to slow down the frantic beating of my heart.

  Jo’s mother, Cecile, is already there when we arrive, giving both of us warm smiles. Luke knows her from his sleepovers with Pippa and Piper, and I’m so grateful she’s willing to look after him for a few hours. I have to do this alone. We drive to her house, and I watch with gratitude as she starts fixing Luke a snack and finds some of the toys and books that her grandkids usually play with on their visits.

  “You can borrow my car if you want,” she offers. “Or would you like something to eat first?”

  “Thanks, I’m not really hungry.” I try for a smile even though my face feels oddly numb. “I think I’ll just walk over there.”

  She nods, pouring Luke a glass of chocolate milk before turning to me again, a look of concern on her face.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” I whisper. “My mom was vague.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she says. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  I welcome her arms around me as she embraces me, patting my back, her warm, soft body the closest thing to maternal affection I’ve felt in years. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes. I do my best to blink them away as she releases me, rubbing my arms.

  “Take as long as you need,” she says. “You and Luke can sleep here if you’d like.”

  “Thank you.” I sniff, pulling myself together. “Hon, I’m going now,” I call to Luke, who’s engrossed in a huge pile of toys. “I’ll be back before dinnertime.”

  “Uh-huh. Bye!” I can’t help but laugh as he dismisses me.

  Cecile walks me to the door, her hand on my shoulder. “You remember the way there?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget,” I murmur, pulling up the hood on my raincoat as I step into the light drizzle. “I’ll be back later.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  Walking through the once-familiar streets, I keep my head down. I don’t want to face anyone else. Seeing my mother and father is just about all I can handle, and I’m not even sure I can handle that. But I have to. My mom made it pretty clear on the phone that time was of the essence. In my mind, my father is a tall, strong, and intimidating figure. It’s difficult to imagine him sick at all.

  Growing up, I knew my parents were different from those of my friends from school. They had me late in life, having been unable to conceive for years and desperately wanting a son to carry on the family name. Instead they got me, and they pushed me toward academic, athletic, and social accomplishments with the highest expectations. I never felt good enough for them. When I became pregnant, it threw a huge wrench in their plans. They wanted me to attend an Ivy League university, join a fancy sorority to form connections with daughters of upper-class families, and marry an eligible young man with a bright future. My father was a small-town mayor with big political aspirations. An unwed pregnant teenage daughter didn’t fit into that scheme, and my parents gave me the choice of quietly terminating the pregnancy or hiding it and then giving the baby up for adoption. I chose neither. I was done being a pawn in my father’s game. I thought they’d accept things after Luke was born, their love for a grandchild overshadowing their disappointment, but I was wrong. I’ve been wrong about so many things in my short life, but having Luke is the best thing I ever did. And I won’t let my parents near him unless I’m sure they’ve changed, illness or no illness.

  The house looks exactly as I remember, but the woman who spots me through the kitchen window and rushes to the door as I walk up the pathway doesn’t. I stare at my mother. She looks disheveled and frazzled, her hair unstyled with gray roots showing near her scalp. She’s wearing a housecoat; I didn’t even know she owned one. She was always impeccably dressed when I lived at home, the perfect politician’s wife. It’s been less than two months since she showed up at my door, but she looks older. Much older.

  “Abigail!” she exclaims, her hand fluttering to her hair. “I didn’t think—I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Hey, Mom,” I say softly, approaching her with caution.

  She reaches for me but pulls her arms back immediately, holding out her hand instead, her eyes questioning. I take her hand in mine, and we stand there on the porch for a few seconds, just staring at each other. It’s nothing like the warmth I felt when Cecile hugged me, but it’s a start.

  “I didn’t think you’d come until tomorrow,” she says. “Your boss didn’t mind you leaving?”

  I know she isn’t aware of the double meaning of her words, but they still make my chest tight.

  “No, he didn’t mind,” I mumble, even though it’s a lie.

  “Come inside,” my mom urges, letting go of my hand. “Luke isn’t with you?”

  “He’s at Jo’s mom’s,” I tell her. She looks disappointed, the corners of her mouth turning down. “He’s never seen a sick person before,” I continue. “I didn’t know what to expect … here.” What to expect from you.

  “How long are you staying?” she asks as I remove my jacket and boots.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Upstairs. The nurse is with him right now. I was making coffee. Do you drink coffee?”

  I nod. “I started when Luke kept me up all night screaming from colic for three months straight, and I was so exhausted I thought I’d lose my mind, and no one was there to help me.” My words are harsh. I didn’t intend to say that much, but now it’s out there, floating in the air between us. The accusation. The anger I feel.

  My mom’s eyes dart around the room, focusing on anything but me. The awkwardness is palpable. “You, uh, were the same,” she finally says. “The colic, I mean.” She looks at me. “I wish I would have acted differently—helped you.”

  I give her a nod. “So do I.”

  More silence follows. I’m not sorry about what I said. I don’t want her to think I’ve forgiven or forgotten anything just because I showed up. They let me down so completely, and being a mother myself, I can’t imagine ever doing that to Luke.

  “I’d like that coffee, please,” I say. “We were up early.”

  My mom smiles, obviously relieved to change the subject, and leads me into the kitchen, where I take a seat at the table. The place looks the same—except for one thing.

  “No Christmas decorations?” I ask, watching my mom pour coffee for both of us.

  “No,” is all she says, bringing over the cups before sitting down across from me.

  We sip our coffee in silence, both of us stealing glances at each other, unable to think of anything to say. Thankfully, we’re interrupted a few minutes later when a woman in a nurse’s uniform comes into the kitchen, informing my mother that my father is done. Done with what, I don’t know.

  “Would you like to see him?” my mom asks me.

  “All right,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel.

  She leads me upstairs to their bedroom, pausing outside the door. I glance down the hall to my childhood room, overwhelmed by the onslaught of memories.

  “He’s changed a lot,” she says to me, a wary look in her eyes.

  I nod, trying to prepare myself as she opens the door. The first thing I notice is the smell: disinfectant and sickness rolled into one. It’s dim in the room, the curtains only open part of the way. My parents’ old bed is gone, replaced by a twin bed and a hospital bed next to it. The man in the latter bed is unfamiliar to my eyes, and I barely hold back a gasp. His hair is patchy and mostly gray, his cheeks hollow. His eyes are closed and his thin lips parted. He’s so gaunt and his skin is sallow. The bedside table is littered with medical supplies—tape, gauze, and various pill bottles. I approach slowly, taking a seat on the edge of the chair next to his bed.

  “George,” my mom says, walking
to the other side. She raises the head of the bed with the press of a button and arranges the pillow behind his head. His eyes flutter open, looking at my mom.

  “Abigail’s here,” she whispers, turning his face toward me.

  He blinks, his eyes focusing on me, and we stare at each other. I don’t know what I expected to feel when I finally saw him again after all these years, but it wasn’t this—overwhelming sadness and pity.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I say softly.

  He closes his eyes and his face scrunches up into a pained grimace, his lips trembling slightly as a sob escapes. When he looks at me again, his eyes are wet, the hand closest to me moving toward me. I don’t think about it; I reach out and take it into mine, feeling the papery skin and fragile bones underneath.

  “A … Abbi,” he rasps, tightening his hold on my hand, his eyes pleading with me.

  “I’m here,” I whisper, leaning forward.

  “Sorr …” he starts, drawing out the word along with a ragged breath. “I’m sorr—” A weak cough stops him from continuing, and after it’s over, he looks exhausted, fighting to keep his gaze on me.

  He’s dying. Unexpected grief sweeps over me, and I can’t hold back my tears. I feel no anger or resentment toward this shell of a man. It’s simply not there.

  “I forgive you, Daddy,” I blurt out. His eyes flicker and well up again before he closes them. “Sleep,” I whisper, stroking his hand with my thumb. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  I watch his face as his features relax and become peaceful, the sound of his breathing the only indication that he’s still alive. When I finally tear my eyes away, I notice that my mom has left the room.

  I sit with him while he sleeps, never letting go of his hand. After a while, my mom comes back in, carrying coffee and a plate of cookies that she sets down on the table next to me.

  “Can he have that?” I ask.

  “No, it’s for you,” she replies. “I thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

  I look up at her, surprised at her thoughtfulness. “Thank you.”

  “That was a wonderful thing you did, forgiving him,” she murmurs.