Push

33. He Made Some Plans

TOBY

Gwen was the type of person you always wanted on your team. The cheerleader who encouraged you to keep going. The one who dug deep even though everyone else had already given up.

To have reduced her to the broken woman in my arms, chest heaving in quiet sobs, I knew I'd screwed up in the worst way possible. I took her for granted. I gobbled up all her strength and gave her nothing back to keep fighting. I was an emotional vampire. A leech. And even if I was trying harder—and I was—it was as useless as a band-aid plastered over a gash.

Gwen had helped me through the toughest times in my life. What the hell had I done for her?

Nothing.

Worse than nothing.

I destroyed her.

Darkness wrestled to fill the void in my chest. I was shit at understanding my feelings. Everything too uncomfortable to deal with was brushed away with a few laughs. I tried to focus like Dylan taught me. Let myself feel. I hated that part. What was the rush of dread clutching around my throat and squeezing my lungs so tight I couldn't breathe? Shame? Guilt? Regret? All of them?

I wanted to whisper something to Gwen. It's going to be okay. Was it, though? I'm here. Was that enough? Probably not after I'd mentally checked out of our marriage.

We needed to talk, but my mouth stayed clamped shut. I didn't want to joke my way out of this. It was my turn to be the strong one. Gwen was safe on my lap, her head tucked under my chin and my arms nice and tight around her for as long as she needed.

I glanced over at Noah. He was the happiest little dude. He didn't know his brave mama was falling apart. He was too busy singing and painting his highchair—and himself—head to toe with yogurt. If his big eyes blinked in our direction to make sure he was still numero uno, I scrunched up my face in some stupid way or poked out my tongue, and he squealed a laugh and went back to making his mess.

"Toby." Gwen's voice was as small as the ball she'd tucked herself into on my lap. Swollen, red eyes lifted to meet mine. Tears still stained her cheeks, but her breathing had slowed. Almost back to normal. "Sor—"

"Don't say sorry." I wasn't letting her feel bad for letting out all that pain. "You cry as much as you want."

"I hate crying."

That was one thing I did know. Showing weakness was Gwen's kryptonite. "It's normal."

"Not for me."

I squeezed my eyes shut and let those words punch me in the gut. No, it wasn't normal for her. She'd cried more in the last two months than I remembered for the last five years. "It's good."

"Says who?"

"People. Smart people. Even without those brainiacs, I know you're still perfect even if you need to have a good cry, Super Mama."

"I'm not Super Mama." Her voice was small again. Did she not want me to hear her, or did she not want to admit it to herself? "I'm not perfect."

"You are to me. And to Noah. Not because you always have your shit together, but because you're..." I shrugged. "Just you."

"Really?"

"Yep." I jerked a nod. "Times a hundred."

A tiny smirk danced on her lips. "Only a hundred?"

"Overachiever." I exaggerated an eye roll. "How about infinity, then?"

"I guess infinity's okay." The big smile she beamed up at me faded. "Thanks for—you know—not being weird about..." She grimaced. "This."