by Nina Lane
Another animal-like roar bursts from my throat. My muscles stiffen. I seize the edges of a bookshelf and overturn it, suddenly wanting to destroy everything. I pick up a lamp and crash it against the door, broken ceramic raining to the floor.
I sweep my arm across my desk, sending useless papers and books flying, and smash my fist against the stupid framed pictures of illuminated manuscript pages and historical paintings. When they’re all broken, I hit the walls until my knuckles bleed, unable to stop the rage detonating from the center of my soul.
When I slam my fist into the window, the glass shatters. Pain shoots through my arm, penetrating my black fury. Blood swells on my hands. Sweat drips down my temples. I sink back against the wall and slide to the floor. Through the darkness, a pure, crystalline image of Liv rises.
My face is wet. I swipe a hand across my eyes. My vision blurs again. Tears spill over, hot and fast. I start to shake, grief boiling through me as uncontrollable sobs and terror rip me into a thousand pieces.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DEAN
“DEAN.”
Her voice is sunlight through the blackness. A soft, gentle hand comes to rest on my cheek.
“Dean, love of my life. Open your eyes.”
I drag my eyes open. She’s right in front of me, her face filling my vision, her eyes brimming over with love and sorrow. The sight of her loosens the knot in my chest, but my blood is still trembling.
“Stand up,” Liv whispers, curling her fingers around my arms.
I struggle to shake off the fog. I’m still on the floor, slumped against the wall. My shirt is damp with sweat, my eyes burning and hands aching. Around me, the tower is wrecked—books and papers strewn everywhere, broken glass scattered on the floor, tables and chairs overturned.
I push to my feet, fighting a wave of dizziness. I move to collapse onto the sofa. Crush the horror of ever losing my wife.
Then Liv is there. Her arms surround me. The fragrant scent of her fills my head. My muscles constrict in automatic defense against the tangible reminder of what I could lose, but her power is too great. I sink against her. Bury my face in the warm arch of her neck.
Don’t leave. In the name of everything that’s holy, don’t you ever leave me.
Our breathing falls into the same rhythm. She takes the scarf off her head and presses it to the bloody cuts on my knuckles. I shift to my back, pulling her over me like a blanket. She spreads out on top of me, the curves of her body yielding. I drink in her softness, her warmth, the feel of her.
How many times have we slept like this? Or just lay together in this exact position, my arms locking her against my chest, my hand on the back of her neck, her head resting on my shoulder?
Countless times. Countless.
Liv turns, tucking her head beneath my chin. I close my eyes and breathe her in.
“Once upon a time,” she says, her breath warm on my neck, “there was a girl who lived in a lovely little village next to a river. She rented a room above the bakery where she worked. Her specialty was making elaborate houses. She made gingerbread houses decorated with multicolored candies and icing. She made log cabins out of chocolate-covered pretzel sticks, birdhouses covered with nuts and seeds, and she made a castle out of marshmallows and rock candy.
“The girl loved making houses, even though she didn’t have one of her own. Her confectionary houses were greatly admired among the villagers, and though the girl was lonely, she was happy.
“When she wasn’t baking, she spent her days in the garden behind the bakery or going for walks. The village was bordered by a forest, but because the villagers told tales of monsters, of people going in and never coming out, no one ever ventured into the woods.
“One day, the girl was picking mushrooms and flowers along the edge of the forest when an eastern storm descended on the village with sudden, violent fury. Lightning fell from the sky like swords, destroying farms and cottages, and the rain came so fast that floodwaters billowed over the shores of the river. The wind was the worst—ripping off rooftops, breaking windows, uprooting trees.
“The girl ran into the forest for safety, and the thick canopy of tree branches protected her from the storm. She stayed there for hours, but when she emerged, she found that the village had been destroyed. Everyone was gone, having either escaped or been taken by the storm.
“Remembering that she’d been safe in the forest, the girl hurried back, hoping maybe someone else had sought shelter there too. She walked deeper and deeper into the woods, looking for a friend, a fellow villager, anyone. But she was alone.
“And when she came to a stop, she realized she had lost her way. She kept walking forward, hoping she could find the other side of the forest, hoping she could find a companion.
“For months, she walked and walked, eating berries, drinking from streams, longing for shelter, a place where she could be happy again even if she was by herself.
“One morning at dawn she came to a clearing where, inexplicably, there stood a full-sized house made entirely out of snowy white paper. The girl was delighted. The paper walls had cut-out designs of intricate snowflakes and flowers, allowing the light and air to shine through.
“I could be happy here, the girl thought.
“She curled up on the floor to sleep, but that night it rained, and the girl woke to a soggy mess of wet paper. So she moved on. A few days later, she came upon another grove where a house made of red brick stood. Its walls were strong and unbreakable. Surely it could withstand the weather.
“I could be happy here, the girl thought.
“But when she went inside, she found the rooms were dark and cold. Not a single ray of sunlight could penetrate the fortress-like walls of the house. So the girl moved on.
“She came to another clearing where a bigger house stood, one made of thick, malleable vines twisted around oak logs. The vines moved to allow light into the house, and the walls felt solid and protective.
“I could be happy here, the girl thought.
“But it was a cold night, and when the girl woke she found that dozens of mice, squirrels, and insects had come through the gaps in the vines to seek shelter. The girl decided to leave the house to the woodland creatures, and she moved on.
“The next house was a strong, beautiful structure built of polished stones that felt smooth and warm beneath her palm. The house had windows of all shapes and sizes, some with brilliant, intricate stained-glass patterns the girl knew would take her years to fully decipher, like a puzzle with which she would never grow bored.
“The stone house had spiral staircases and rooms of all sizes, some big and filled with treasures—paintings, books, manuscripts, sculptures, and colorful tapestries that would endlessly fascinate her. There were smaller rooms, too, some with locked doors whose keys she would have to find for herself.
“The windows allowed in just the right amount of light, but the cool stone walls blocked out any scorching sun rays that might burn the girl. Although the house also kept out mosquitoes and flies, occasionally a bird flew inside, its sweet song following the girl and making her feel not so alone.
“In the very heart of the house was a fireplace, and that night the girl lit a fire whose heat flowed into every corner of every room. She wrapped herself in a quilt and lay on the floor, watching the flames leap and dance.
“Ah, the girl thought, just before she fell asleep, I am happy here.
“But when she woke, she opened her eyes and saw tree branches above her. She was lying on the leaf-strewn forest floor, and she was cold from the morning air. The house that had given her perfect shelter and had all the qualities for which she longed was gone.
“A rustling noise among the leaves caused her to sit up. From the woods emerged a tall, handsome man with dark hair and beautiful eyes the color of chocolate. He knelt beside the girl and told her he’d been enchant
ed by a wizard who was angry that he would never have the man’s nobility and strength.
“So the wizard trapped the man’s soul in the form of a house for years and years. Only if someone lit a fire at the heart of the house would the curse be broken.
“And because the girl had done just that, she’d freed the man’s soul and turned him back into himself again. And as she looked at him, the girl realized she hadn’t been looking for a house at all.
“She’d been looking for a home, one that made her feel warm and safe. A home with strong, unbreakable walls and brilliant glass windows that let in just the right amount of light and protected her from violent storms.
“She’d wanted a home that inspired her with its treasures, intrigued her with its secrets, one that even sometimes baffled and frustrated her with its locked doors. A home where only good dreams would flood her sleeping hours, and where she would find the courage to venture outward because she knew home would be waiting for her when she returned.
“She took the man’s hand, and the instant his fingers closed around hers she knew she had found her home with him. And the man knew he had been freed, that he would forever be warmed from the center of his heart.
“And so they lived and loved—with depth, passion, and happiness. They did not live without shadows, but the darkness they faced was like a night sky, a deep, rich black with a softness like velvet. And against this darkness, the stars shone so brightly they could see into eternity.”
A long silence falls.
“Liv.”
“Right here.”
“You… you live inside me.” I press a hand to my chest, my heart that beats in rhythm with hers. “Everywhere. You are the key to every part of me.”
“Except when you build walls that have no doors or locks.” She lifts her head, her eyes warm and gentle. “I can’t force my way in, Dean. You have to let me in.”
I have to keep her in, this woman who has all the power in the world over my pain. She’s my fire and my freedom. She’ll always be the girl who saved me.
“I will.” My voice is hoarse. “I promise.”
I tighten my arms around my wife. Sleep washes over me, heavy and unbroken.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
OLIVIA
STAR WARS BAND-AIDS COVER THE SCRAPES and cuts on Dean’s hands. His knuckles are bruised and swollen. Sorrow pulses alongside my heartbeat. I’d known he wouldn’t react well to what I told him, but I hadn’t expected this level of destruction, both to his tower and to himself.
And yet, I had to tell him. Though his reaction makes me ache, I’m relieved I was finally able to confess what I’ve been thinking for a while now. And I’d given him the unvarnished truth.
Dean will always have all of me—every warm patch of sunlight and every cold, dark corner. And while he has never flinched from any of the monsters lurking in those corners, he’s never had to battle the only one strong enough to destroy him. The acknowledgment that someday, he might have to live without me.
As we stand at the kitchen counter—Dean buttering toast, and me making sandwiches for the kids’ lunches—I reach out to touch his bruised hand.
“I love you like a shoe loves a sock,” I say.
“That’s why we’re sole-mates.”
He winks at me, and we exchange smiles. A pleasurable flutter of warmth goes through me, settling into my core. Momentarily surprised, I finish packing the lunches and go to join Bella and Nicholas at the table.
As we finish breakfast and head upstairs to get ready for the day, I covertly watch Dean, taking note of all the things about him that I’ve always found so wildly sexy. Which is to say… everything.
The way he lifts his coffee to his mouth by wrapping his hand around the mug rather than the handle. The way his watch curls around his strong wrist. The deft flick of his fingers as he fastens his cuffs. The perfect knot of his tie nestled into the hollow of his throat. The way he rests his palm on the back of my neck when he kisses me goodbye.
I keep the resurgence of arousal to myself for a couple of days, content to simply enjoy feeling it again. Dean and I have done a great deal of touching and hugging since I started chemo, but we haven’t had sex.
We haven’t done anything sexual, even. I wonder if Dean has actively been restraining himself from instigating sex, or if he hasn’t wanted to.
Definitely the former, I think.
Aside from the fact that Dean has never not wanted to have sex, if that’s the case now, that would mean he’s turned off by this illness, by stress and worry, by the battle we’re in, even by… me.
No. Not going there. If anything, he doesn’t want to put any undue pressure on me, since he knows very well sex hasn’t exactly been the first thing on my mind.
It is, however, one of the things on my mind now.
I’m in a stretch of time before my next treatment when I feel good—more energetic and more like myself. While feeling sexy still seems utterly elusive, I know I need to enjoy how I do feel rather than how I don’t.
Before bed, I slather thick lotion all over my skin to combat the never-ending dryness. I’m still not interested in wearing lingerie or anything that will show too much of my body, but I put on a tea-length, pink nightgown with decorative floral lacing on the bodice. With a pink scarf around my head and an application of makeup, I’m as attractive as I’m going to get right now.
I’m also nervous. Because while Dean and I have certainly had issues over the years, our sex life has always been powerful and intense. Even during our rough times and dry spells, sexual tension has always simmered between us, and I’d never doubted that our explosive heat would return full force once we sparked it back to life.
And it has. Every single time.
But now? For the first time in all our years together, the prospect of sex is yet another unknown element. I don’t even know if I’m capable of feeling any real pleasure. I don’t know if Dean is.
Instead of waiting for him to leave his tower office and come to bed, since I have no idea when that will be, I pick up my phone to call his cell.
“Do you need anything?” he asks.
“No, thanks. I was wondering when you’re coming to bed.”
“I don’t know. I got a few chapters from my book back from my editor, so I’m going over her notes right now.”
“Oh.” I’m suddenly too embarrassed—and worried—to mention the possibility of sex. I’m not at all sure I can compete with both Dean’s book and the effects of chemo. “Just checking.”
“Okay. I’ll try to turn in early tonight.”
I end the call and berate myself for not trying harder. I really don’t think Dean will be the one to instigate anything sexual for fear of making me feel obligated to do something I don’t want to do.
The thing is—I do want to. I don’t expect any wild, energetic, three-hour marathon, but getting our sexual intimacy back will make us both feel better.
I climb out of bed and push my feet into a pair of slippers. Even on a good day, getting around the Butterfly House can be a challenge, and the stairs have become my own personal Mount Everest. But in the past, Dean and I have had many hot encounters in the tower, even before we bought the house. Maybe we need that isolated seclusion again now.
I check on the children and take the baby monitor with me so I can hear either one of them if they call. I walk slowly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the spiral staircase leading to the tower curves down into a little alcove. I grasp the railing with one hand and start up the stairs.
After a few steps, my heart is beating with exertion. I remind myself that I’ve climbed these very stairs several times this past week, though maybe that’s the reason it’s more difficult now.
I stop, thinking this wasn’t such a great idea. By the time I get to Dean’s office, I might really be too tired to do an
ything except sit down and catch my breath.
A wave of frustration hits me—unexpected and hard. I’m a thirty-six-year-old mother of two young children, for God’s sake. I own a business. I decorate cakes, chaperone first-grade field trips, and plan birthday parties filled with games and balloons. I’m supposed to be upbeat and energetic, not shuffling up the stairs like a ninety year old needing to stop constantly just to catch my breath.
I grip the stair railing tighter and quicken my pace. I’m going to do this, dammit. I’m getting to the top of the—
The world spins. I stop. My vision blurs, my breath quickening in my lungs. The baby monitor clatters down the steps.
I grab the railing with my other hand and manage to sit down on one of the steps. Dizziness washes through my head, bringing a surge of nausea. I press my face to my knees.
A door opens from somewhere above.
“Liv?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Liv.” Dean’s footsteps echo on the stairs. “Baby, what happened? Are you all right?”
He crouches on the step behind me, his arms coming around me in that secure circle I know so well. But this time, it brings no comfort.
“Liv, breathe. Count of—”
“No.” I manage to choke out the word. “It’s not that, Dean. I just got dizzy.”
“Okay, sit for a minute, then. I’ll get you some water.”
“No. I don’t want any water.”
I press my face harder against my knees, fighting the inevitable tears. In addition to feeling stupid, I really don’t want to start crying.
I get myself under control and lift my head. Dean moves away from me to pick up the baby monitor from a few steps below me.
“Why didn’t you call me or text?” he asks, his forehead creasing. “You didn’t have to try and climb the stairs again.”
