“He said that?” I question, the pitch of my voice rising with surprise.
“Yep. And I had to stop myself from laughing because when he said it, he was dead serious.”
“The sad part is that he’s right. I do—did—really need a new tool belt.”
“Unfortunately, though, we’ll have to order the Bat-a-rangs and Batcuffs separately. I asked the guy, but he said we’d have to find the accessories elsewhere,” she adds, clearly appreciating her own humor. I want to return her clever little joke with one of my own, but the extent of my appreciation suddenly sinks into me and makes me feel very serious.
Instead of poking back with a joke, I put the belt around my waist and slide the prong of the metal buckle into one of the holes. I nestle the belt low on my hips and run my hands along the leather. It’s tooled beautifully. I flip open one of the compartments, and the solid pop of the snap tells me the craftsmanship of the artist is second to none. There are two hammer loops, numerous pouches and nail pockets, and the whole thing is put together with metal rivets. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“I’m not sure what to say right now, Emma. It’s really great. Really.”
“Just say you like it.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, trying to show her that it’s the truth through both my words and my expression. I’m silent then, and so is she. Neither of us have words to say, and the gravity around us has never been so thick. To her, it is just an awesome tool belt, but to me, her gift is a light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
A few weighted seconds of silence linger between us before she grabs the belt and pulls me toward her. Pulls me into her arms and against her heart. Pulls me up by my metaphorical bootstraps and turns me into a better man with this one simple, loving gesture. Pulls me into the fold of her body and invites me to have a future. With her.
She is intoxicating and repairing and right.
“I love you.” I hold her head against my heart, running my fingers through her hair.
“I love you, too,” she says back, her breath raspy, yet solid.
“Best?”
“Best.”
I hold her like that for what seems like forever, my fingers in her hair, hers looped through the back of the tool belt. I take a deep breath and think very carefully about what I’m going to do next because I don’t want to have to watch her crumble. I don’t want her to shatter like she did the night she opened the package from Michael and found her father’s cut-up dog tags. That’s the last thing I want to happen.
I inhale and start talking.
“I have something for you, too.”
“Oh yeah?” she says, separating her chest from mine and meeting my eyes with hers. “Is it something I’m going to like a little or a lot?” Her voice is laden with innuendo and promise. But, regardless of how much I want it to be something in one of those two categories, I’m not sure it will fit into either one of them.
“Let me run upstairs to get it, and we’ll see.” I try to keep my voice flat and unwavering. “Why don’t you get us a couple of beers, and I’ll be right back.”
“You got it.” She pulls away and turns to make her way to the kitchen. “But don’t take the tool belt off yet. I wanna ogle you in it for a little longer.”
“Maybe I’ll grab a few tools to fill it out while I’m up there…” I hope my flirtatious words will keep the mood light for as long as possible.
“Oooooo!” she says from the kitchen. “I’ll be waiting.”
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I walk up the stairs and into my apartment, heading first to the bed to grab my backbone. She’s there, in the bottom of my pillowcase, just where I left her. I pull my little yellow Emma out of her nest and slip her into my front pocket. Having her there braces me for whatever might happen. On my way over to the closet, I grab a few tools from the old tool belt sitting on top of my dresser and tuck them into the new one. The leather loop creaks under the weight of the hammer, but everything fits in it like a glove. It’s making me feel guilty. Guilty that I have to do this now, on the heels of something that made her so happy. I feel like I’m playing with matches.
My conscience convinces me that it might be best if I don’t leap into this full force, as I had originally planned. If, instead, I only show her one small thing to start. One piece. Maybe it will be easier on her. Maybe it won’t be so damaging.
I open the closet and bend down to pull out the backpack. I lift it up and carry it over to the bed, unzipping it and sorting through the contents. I find what I want, take it out of its box, and tuck it into one of the pouches of the tool belt. Then I zip the backpack closed and put it back in the closet.
Chapter 35
David—Present Day
By the time I make it back downstairs, Emma is splayed out on the couch with two open bottles of beer on the coffee table. Her eyes move immediately to the tool belt and a suggestive smirk touches her lips. She watches me walk toward her, hammer swaying against the front of my hip. I hook my thumbs into my back pockets and stand in front of her, trying my best to look confident and in control.
“Nice tools,” she says.
“Thanks.” I take a step forward so I’m within an arm’s length of her. “There’s something in one of the pockets for you.”
“Is it a screwdriver?” She sits up and leans forward, trying to look into the leather pockets without touching them. “I’ve always wanted one of my own.”
“Nope.”
She lifts her arm and sinks her hand into one of the empty pockets. She searches three more before her fingers come out holding what I wanted her to find. She puts it into her palm and lifts it up to her face, carefully examining it. I know the very moment she recognizes it because her jaw drops open and her eyes lift to mine. Her face is overflowing with shock and wonder, but also with sadness and fear.
“Where did you get this?” she asks, her voice soft and still. I’m left, yet again, having to choose my words very, very carefully. I will not strike the match.
“From Michael’s house.” She rubs the glittery stones of the bracelet between her thumb and forefinger, as if she’s testing it to be sure it’s real.
“This was my mother’s.”
“I know.”
“Michael took this when she died. My brothers were supposed to get all her jewelry, but Michael hid it from them.”
“I thought you should have it.” I can’t read her face because it’s tilted down toward the bracelet and away from me. I sit down on the coffee table so my knees are brushing against hers. I want to make sure she doesn’t run.
“I don’t understand. How did you get this?” She lifts her head, and her eyes meet mine. In them, I see grief and confusion. I see no anger. For now.
“I took it.”
“You what? When?”
“Last week. While you were at work.” Her brow furrows. I need to give her more information before her assumptions take on a life of their own. “When I went to pay Ricky the last of his blackmail money, it was sitting there, on the kitchen counter, with a bunch of other stuff that had obviously belonged to your mother. I couldn’t take it then because he was standing right there. But when I saw it, I knew it should be yours. So I went back later, and I took it.”
“That was a stupid thing to do,” she says. Her voice is still calm, but I see a faint flush of pink starting to make its way up her neck.
“No, it wasn’t. This is yours, not his.”
“He’s going to know it’s missing. It’s a diamond bracelet, for Christ’s sake.” The pink rises into her cheeks. I don’t move a single muscle in my face when she says this because if my expression changes, she’ll know immediately that there’s more. That the bracelet isn’t the only thing missing from her stepfather’s house.
“I don’t know about that,” I say, “There was a lot of stuff there. And even if he did notice it was gone, there’s no way in hell he would ever know where it went.
” She sighs quietly and shakes her head in such a way that the movement is barely perceptible. She’s thinking.
“Why did you do this?” she asks. I’m surprised by the placidity in her voice.
“Because even after we looked thorough all those boxes Michael sent you, the only thing you had of your mother’s was her picture. You should have something of hers. You deserve to have something of hers.” I feel my own voice start to rise, but not with anger. With passion. And maybe even jealousy. Jealousy over the fact that now she has something of her mother’s, and the only thing I have from mine is a water-stained piece of paper that I carry around in my wallet like some kind of goddamn Rosetta Stone.
She’s quiet for a few seconds, rolling the idea around in her head. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back onto the couch pillows.
“Look, I know that you’re confused right now, and maybe even a little angry,” I continue, “but this bracelet belongs to you.”
She leans forward, moves my knees to the side, and stands up. “I know you did this because you think it was the right thing to do, but I’m confused by it. You had to know this would open an old wound.” She’s standing next to me now, her arms still crossed over her chest in a protective gesture. Her body weight slung over one hip.
“I didn’t give it to you to open any wounds. I gave it to you to close one.”
Her eyes narrow, and she unwraps her arms just long enough to brush the bangs out of her eyes. There’s a small amount of forgiveness on her face now, though it’s still ripe with confusion. Her eyes fill with tears, and she swallows hard, not letting them spill over the edge.
My heart leaps up into my throat as I suddenly realize that I’ve hurt her. I’ve given her a piece of the past—a piece of her mother—without considering that it may be a part of her past she would rather forget. I haven’t closed any wounds; I’ve stabbed her in the gut.
A metallic jolt washes through my mouth. Regret fills my brain and my body. Inside, a small something breaks. A fraction of my heart perhaps. Seeing her like this, because of something I did, rips me open. What a fool I am. I step over and wrap her into my arms, holding her cheek against my chest and telling her I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went back into that house. I’m sorry I assumed something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry I hurt her.
I hold her against my chest for a long time, my brain firing with activity, thoughts and ideas mixing and evolving. Thoughts and ideas about all the other things in that backpack and how much worse it will be when she sees them.
When we separate, she apologizes for getting so upset. For being weak. For not being able to handle this piece of her past. Her words drop into my soul and push me down. She doesn’t need to apologize. I do.
“You’re not weak, Emma. In fact, you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.” I look down at her face and think about how very true my words are. She’s also the only woman I’ve ever trusted. The only woman I’ve ever let in. The only woman that’s ever mattered. “It wasn’t fair of me to assume you wanted something of your mother’s. I shouldn’t have put this on you. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.” She sucks in a deep breath and drops her shoulders and eyes as she exhales. Her fingers begin to fidget with the bracelet that somehow has made its way around her wrist. “But…still. Thank you. Really. Thank you for this gift. You shouldn’t have taken the chance you took, but you’re right. Having something of my mother’s feels good. It’s scary, but it feels right.”
“I’m glad.” I rub the round of her shoulder with my hand. She looks at the tool belt.
“Just please tell me you don’t have anything else in there for me,” she says.
“Not unless you want a pair of pliers.”
“No thanks,” she says, eyes rising. “But, I’ll let you make me something with them.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Surprise me,” she says.
“How about a grilled cheese sandwich?”
She laughs, loud and freely. The sound is comforting and bright. “You’re going to make me a grilled cheese sandwich with a pair of pliers?”
“Sure.” I shrug, glad I have somehow been so quickly forgiven. “It’s more manly than using a spatula anyway. And grilled cheese sandwiches are the only thing on my dinner-cooking repertoire that doesn’t include opening a can.”
“You’re on,” she says, leaning over the coffee table and picking up the beers. After handing one of them to me, she adds, “I’ll take mine with a side of chips and a pickle.”
“Consider it done,” I say on my way to the kitchen.
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I somehow manage to make a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches without setting fire to Emma’s new kitchen. When they were ready to be turned, I called Emma into the room to watch me pick them up and flip them with the pliers. She said it was quite an impressive trick. I told her she should see me do it with a putty knife. Damn, I’m smooth.
When we finish eating, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, and we decide to watch a movie. My new tool belt has long since been removed from my waist, so when I find my place on the couch, Emma snuggles up against my side. It is all so normal. So ordinary, yet so inspiring. It makes me realize that, despite the small hole I ripped open earlier, we’re alright. I’m alright. Everything is alright. Everything.
As she’s flipping through the movie choices on Netflix, I can’t help but open my mouth to tell her exactly how alright I am.
“You know,” I say to her profile, “I never realized how empty my life was until I found you.” Though I’m sure she’s going to turn around and look at me, she doesn’t. Instead she sets the remote down on the coffee table and puts her head on my shoulder.
“Two of the same,” she says.
“Yep.”
After a few solid beats of silence pass between us, she asks, “So, what was your life like before me? Besides empty, I mean.” Her voice is tentative but steady.
I’m not sure how to answer her. Other than honestly. Because she deserves it.
“It was…bare, I guess. Only I didn’t know it. I thought that was how it was supposed to be. I mean, I thought I knew who I was. I thought I knew what I was. But now I think that maybe I was wrong.” The small sliver of hope, the one that worked its way into me when she told me to consider myself born-again, is growing. I’ve been watching it. Emma’s been watering and feeding it with her epicness and love. It’s almost full-grown now. And the grown-up me—he’s real now, too.
“Yeah?” she questions. “And what was it that you think you were before?”
“Broken. Unfixable. Unsalvageable.” I put my arm around her shoulder and pull her tighter against my side. “Dead.”
“And now?”
“Reconstructed, I guess. Awake. Not redeemed, not yet. Maybe not ever. But maybe repaired,” I say. She leans into me, and I feel her body completely relax.
“I told you.”
“I know you did. I just didn’t believe you. I couldn’t believe you, because that was all I’ve ever been. I’ve never been anything more.”
“You’re more now,” she says, lifting and turning her head to look at me and then planting a quick, soft kiss on my lips. “A lot more.”
“Thanks for giving me a reason,” I say. “Thanks for giving me hope.” I mean every word. She smiles, and in that smile is compassion and truth and faith and forgiveness. All the forgiveness I’ve ever needed.
“You’re welcome,” she says with a breathless sigh. After a long second, the smile moves into her eyes and she adds, “Even superheroes need help sometimes.”
“Yep,” I say, now with a small smile of my own. “That’s why we have sidekicks.”
“So I guess I need to get an official sidekick name, don’t I?”
“How about Bat Babe?”
“Too self-serving.”
“The Savior?”
“Too respectable.”
�
��Sexy Pants?”
“Too slutty.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe I’ll have to think about it for a little while.”
“I’m sure you’ll come up with the perfect one,” she says. She reaches forward and grabs the remote, leaning back into me and returning her head to my shoulder. As she starts scrolling through the movie choices, one more sentence pops into my brain. And before I can overthink it, the words come out.
“I guess maybe I really was waiting for you.”
“I know,” she says matter-of-factly. “I told you that already, too.”
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Thursday morning arrives way too early. Emma is ready for work before I can even manage to open my eyes. I hear her open the bedroom door to come in and give me a small kiss before she leaves.
When she bends down over me, I open my eyes and half sit up, reaching for her and grabbing her by the hips. She smiles at me and her red hair swings down around her face as I pull her toward me. I want to fuck her. I want to make her shine.
“Good morning, Batman,” she says. “Aren’t you bright-eyed this morning?”
I groan a little and lift up her blouse, smattering a handful of small kisses across her stomach. She puts her fingers into my hair and massages my scalp.
“Now, now,” she says. “Don’t make me late for work.”
“I’ll drive you if you give me fifteen minutes,” I say between more kisses. My hands move down to her bare legs and make their way up her thighs and under the edge of her skirt. Her skin is getting warmer.
“You’re gonna have to wait until tonight,” she says. “I’ve already showered.”
I put on my best little-boy pouty face and let her go, dropping my head back down on the pillow.
She winks at me as she’s fixing her blouse and tugging at her skirt. I watch her walk over to the closet and pull out her favorite navy-blue heels. She gives me a knowing smile as she slips them on. And then, a minute later, she’s gone.
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