Lover of the Light

by Sydney Taylor

Again, it's when she says:

  "I can't do this."

  And then there's the most important part of our decision…

  Having the confidence to hold her head, look into her eyes and say, "Yes you can, and you're so fucking beautiful but, Brightside, you're hurting my hand."

  Moments after, there's a cracking sound, but it's not my hand this time; it's the beginnings of the sound of a loud, squealing infant.

  Seeing him for the first time is so simple. I'm not doubting, panicking, I don't have any reason to freak out at all because he's here and he's okay. He's screaming his head off just to let us know, and we do. It's the most amazing thing I've ever felt in my entire life.

  And then Brightside—the girl who taught me it's okay to smile without a reason—turns to me and gasps. Her eyes look wide, kind of terrified, but the curve at the left corner of her lips would suggest otherwise.

  "Channel Three?”

  Everyone looks at us like we're crazy, and I can't help but bust out laughing. It's choked, kind of terrified.

  Love:

  It's crazy and confusing, and more than anything, I wish I knew sooner that this was going to be us.

  This is new beginnings.

  Epilogue

  At twenty-four, I've never before appeared so old. My green eyes, which were once vibrant and light, are now a dull olive. My facial features are sharpened, more defined, than they were in my teenage years. The slight roundness to my cheeks gone, and my form slim. The worst, and perhaps most obvious of my features, would be my hair. I have more gray hair than ever, and certainly more than other men my age; a result of stress over the years.

  “You look just like your father,” my mother once told me, one evening after I complained of my old looks. “He started going gray when he was about your age as well.”

  My father went gray from his time in medical school. I went gray trying to follow in footsteps, and instead found myself with a nursing degree and an insatiable need to become more. I’m currently back in school, working twelve-hour shifts, and trying to maintain my sanity by drinking coffee as if it is fuel, and turning my lunch breaks into my study breaks.

  “Heads up.” Tearing my gaze from my textbook, I’m fast to catch an apple before it hits my shoulder. Kenny, one of my closest friends at South Haven Hospital, takes a seat across from me on the break room couch. “Good catch.”

  “I played a little baseball in high school,” I murmur, biting from the apple as I move to the next page in my textbook.

  “Position?”

  “Pitch.”

  “Nice. Why did you quit?” he asks. I tear my eyes from my book, pushing my glasses up my nose as I reminisce. Kenny has never hesitated to ask questions, whether too personal or not. He believes we spend too much time together to hold back information.

  “Well, I remember I gave up a lot of things I liked when my dad died,” I explain. “I think after the car accident I shut down, you know?”

  Kenny nods, his expression patient and understanding.

  I tune out momentarily, tired and dazed from the long workday.

  It has been so long since I've spoken of my dad to anyone. Sometime after my eighteenth birthday I started seeing a therapist and addressing the depression and anxiety that followed my dad's death. If it hadn't been for the encouragement of my family, I may not have realized I needed it.

  Losing a parent is the most painful and traumatic event one could ever experience, and there are few things that could top that anguish. When I was younger, avoiding the past all together was my coping mechanism.

  “I'm sorry, man.” Kenny moves over to the table to sit next to me. “My girl, she went through the same thing a while back. I know it can be tough.”

  I nod. It took a lot of therapy to get through my head.

  “I don't think I would've gotten around to mourning him properly if it hadn't been for my wife,” I confess, running a hand through my hair. “She's one of those girl's”—I laugh, partially amused—"she wouldn’t leave it alone if I begged her. If she thought something was bothering me she scraped it out.”

  Kenny chuckles. “Yeah, I got one of those at home too. Annoying, but you can’t live without ‘em.”

  “You can't,” I agree, resisting the urge to yawn. “She makes me crazy, but I don’t know what I’d do without her, man.”

  Talking about her just makes me miss her more.

  Kenny checks his watch and sighs. “I don’t know how you keep up with it all, man. It's like you always got your head in a book or your fixing someone's IV. When do you get a break?”

  I resist laughing. Kenny thinks this is hard, but he has no idea why I do it all. I'm not here because I hate myself, I’m here because I want to be. Pushing myself to be more is my addiction, and every night when I come home, I can settle in and know without a doubt it pays off.

  My alarm goes off, and I bid farewell to Kenny. My break is over, but I know I won’t see him for the rest of the night. I do my rounds and start my shift change within two hours, and before I know it it's time to go home.

  “See you Wednesday, Tucker,” Amy, a nurse who shares my shift Wednesday nights, says as I slip my coat on. “You better bring your A-Game.”

  I smirk. “Always do.”

  It's a cold night, one of the coldest we've had in a while. I turn the heat on when I get into my car, a new Challenger I treated myself to a few months ago, and turn it on one of the stations that play strictly alternative music. The ride home is otherwise quiet, just my thoughts to keep me company, and the eagerness to get home.

  I pull into the driveway at precisely three in the morning, my usual time, unless something happens at the hospital that keeps me from coming home on time—which happens more often than not. The blue house is dimly lit by the stars and moon, a small three-bedroom home I purchased shortly after we got married. While comfortable, I know it won’t be long before we sell it and find another home. We need more space, more room to grow. This house is just the beginning for us.

  As soon as I open the door, I’m greeted with the mouthwatering aroma of chicken parmesan. I find myself smiling as I remove my jacket and set my keys on the hall stand, kicking off my shoes and leaving them by the door. Most people would come home to silence this time of night. Not in my house.

  She's setting my plate at the dining room table when I enter. I greet her with a kiss that lasts for moments but ends too quickly. “You didn't have to,” I tell her, like I always do.

  “But I did anyway,” she replies, like she always does.

  I start toward the table but find myself losing my footing and having to catch myself on the chair.

  “Shoot,” she whispers, bending down to pick up whatever it was I tripped on. “Sorry. I swore I picked them all up.”

  Audrey sets the toy on the table and I shake my head. “I think they come out on their own at this point.”

  We take a seat, and our ritual begins. I ask her about her day, and she asks me about mine. We laugh over typical issues. I tell her about tripping into a doctor this afternoon, and I listen as she describes a kid in her class and how obnoxious he is.

  “If that was Luke.”

  I laugh. “Luke is like you. It’s possible.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  By the time the clock hits four-thirty, we're both dragging to bed. I manage to remove my scrubs before crawling into bed with Audrey, pulling her close, as I know my time with her is short. In a few hours, I’ll wake up to do it all again.

  At twenty-four, I struggle to make the best of myself for us. I’m still learning. I make mistakes. And I still have my worries, but nothing can keep me from this.

  I am simple. Boring.

  But I wouldn't have it any other way. This is my bright side.

  A Note from Sydney Taylor…

  I wrote Lover of the Light a few years ago as a fanfiction. I would not have gotten as far while envisioning and creating the story without the help and encouragement of a bunch of people in the
fandom. I want to thank Fran, who helped me throughout my first initial telling of this story and led me to a group of people I would call friends. I also want to thank Cece, she was so passionate about the story and it fueled me to keep going. Lastly, I want to thank April, who has now read this story a few times and came to my rescue on several occasions with a red ink pen and an eye for details. Thanks, Birch (insert heart emoji times a thousand.)

  Re-writing this story has been a rollercoaster, but I couldn't have initiated without my family. Jon, Suzanne, Shelly, my beautiful son, and my parents. My family was here every step of the way.

  On Lover of the Light…

  While I've told Blake and Audrey's story, the ending may leave some guessing the truth about their decision. Lover of the Light was not just intended to lead you to believe one option is right or wrong. The choice was not their journey alone, rather the events that lead them to grow and make the decisions. Specifically, I was interested in telling this from the viewpoint of the father, who feels he doesn't have a voice, nor does he have a rightful choice in the matter. His story is finding his voice.

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