The Way We Feel

Chapter 17

And I prayed that I would be able to give that to him. Children. Several of them if that's what he wanted. But thinking about that—about myself, about my ability to carry a child to term—it only made me anxious. It only made tears spill from my eyes from fear. So, I took deep breaths and focused on him. On each soft breath against my chest. On the dull thumping of his heart against my body. On the silky strands of his hair between my fingers.

And I prayed—begged whatever that higher power was to get him through this. That I'd be able to love him through this, even if I was the reason for his pain.

I was always the reason for his pain, it seemed. And as I lay there holding him that night, all the ways I'd hurt him in the past came back to me, flooding through my mind.

I'd lain awake all night trying to shut them out, watching the darkness of night turn to murky gray, hazy blue, right before the sun peeked through the curtained window. And my eyes were burning with exhaustion, and my heart was heavier than it had been when we got back from the hospital—but Harry was still in my arms, barely having moved throughout the night. So, once more, I focused on him. Ran my fingers through his hair, traced a finger over his brow, gazed at the peace sleep had written all over him, and hoped he would stay asleep a good while longer.

But he woke sooner than I'd wanted him to, and it was cowardly of me, but I pretended to be asleep when I felt him stir, afraid to watch reality settle back into his open eyes, afraid for the way it would make me feel to see that pain again.

So, when he shifted out of my arms, so careful not to wake me, I'd truly fallen asleep not long later, the guilt and grief in my heart finally easing into nothing as I slipped into oblivion.

I'd slept for much of the day, until Anne had woken me up just after lunch.

Harry had gone out, she'd said. I still didn't know where he'd spent the rest of the day, and still didn't have the courage to ask.

In fact, we'd barely spoken for the past two days beyond what needed to be said.

"Let me take those", or "No, I've got it", or "Do you want a coffee?", or "I'm just gonna use the bathroom."

That didn't mean we didn't communicate in other ways, though. He'd grabbed my hand after we'd said goodbye to his family (after too many hugs from Anne to count and with the promise to call as soon as we landed), and he'd held it the entire car ride to Heathrow, where more of our "conversations" had taken place.

"Are you cold?", then "Do you want me to turn the air off?", then "No, that's okay. I'm fine.", then "Okay."

It was... "Strained" wasn't the word. It was careful. We were careful. Like... like we didn't know how to navigate each other's emotions and had mutually decided, without any meaningful words exchanged between us, that we wouldn't talk about those emotions.

And that was fine for the time being. The last thing I wanted to do was confront Harry and make him explain to me what he was feeling when he was still trying to process. When I was still trying to process. I wanted to give him as much time as he needed, and I needed more time myself.

Because the second-to-last thing I wanted was to confront any of it myself.

But... I would admit that despite his hand clasping mine whenever and wherever he could manage it, despite the strained attempts at smiles we shared with each other when we caught the other's eye, despite the quick kisses he would plant on my forehead, or that I would brush against his cheek when I could grab the chance...

I missed him.

He had been right beside me the whole way home, but I missed him. The way we were before we knew this sadness. The way we were before three days ago. The way his eyes had always been full of love, and the way they'd seemed to be full of even more light these last couple months, knowing that I carried his baby.