Only One

sidewalks

Walking home from work is always my favorite part of the day. I love the way the golden hour sunshine feels on my face as my feet pound the sidewalk below. I love the way my heels sound as they click against the pavement. Each sound brings me joy, because everytime I hear it, it means I'm one step closer to Steve. Each click of my heels against the cement means I'm one second closer to seeing his face.

Every time I open the door to my apartment he greets me. It doesn't matter that we've shared this apartment for two years, every time I come home he acts like we hadn't seen eachother in years. The door will swing open and after a moment I'll hear the wooden floor of our one bedroom apartment creak under the weight of his footsteps. Then his face will appear around the corner, grinning like he's just won the lottery. Sometimes he'd wrap his arms around my waist, pulling me into a warm embrace as he asked me how my day was. Other times he'd take my face in both of my hands and press his lips to mine. I didn't care either way. He could just stand there and smile at me and I'd be just as happy.

When I reach the familiar oak entryway, I rifle through my purse, digging to the bottom to find my keys. I jiggle the metal until the key slides into the lock and turn it counter-clockwise until I feel the bolt behind it flip to open. When I make it through the door, I grab the keys out of the slot, tossing them onto the side table tucked into the front corner, my purse along with it.

I wait for the sound of floorboards creaking, or to see Steve's face appear around the corner. But there's nothing.

"Steve? Are you home?" I call out as I kick off my heels, but the hallway stays empty, noiseless.

I shrug off my jacket, hanging it over the hook on the back of the door, then I turn back towards the rest of the apartment. Down the hallway on the right, the hallway branches off into the kitchen. I peer around the corner, checking there first, but it's also empty. A few more paces down, the hallway splits to the left. That's where I find him, sitting on the small blue sofa we had bought the year before. He must have been home awhile, because he's changed out of his suit and into the navy sweater I'd gotten for him last Christmas. His head is buried into his hands, fingers curled around his hair.

"Steve?" I ask again. "You alright?"

His head shoots up, his neck craning to see me.

"Oh hey, Sweetheart." His eyes go a little wide, like he's surprised to see me. "I didn't hear you come in."

He smiles at me, but it's not real or right. He looks nervous and unhappy, and so unlike his normal self.

"What's wrong?" I move to the couch, taking a seat next to him. "Did something happen at work?"

I'd seen him get stressed by his job before, seen it turn him into a bit of a mess. To be fair it couldn't be easy, doing what he does, seeing the things he'd seen. I was more than happy to pick up the pieces when they fell, and put them back together. But something about this feels different. I can't put my finger on what it is, but I can tell that whatever it is, it's not the same.

"No- no work was fine, it's not that." He shakes his head lightly, confirming my suspicions.

"Okay..." I take my hand and rub it against his back consolingly. "Then what is it?"

My hand slips over the soft wool of his sweater, falling onto the now empty couch cushion as Steve stands up abruptly. He paces the length of the living room before turning to face me directly.

"This isn't easy for me to say." He says almost skittishly, his hand coming up to scratch behind the back of his neck. "I'm sure it won't be easy for you to hear either, but I have to say it."

A pit of dread started to bubble up into my stomach, one by one. Steve is the bravest man I'd ever met. I'd seen him run head first into traffic to pull two passengers from a burning car wreck without so much as flinching. Seeing him this scared truly terrifies me.