Like He Never Left

Chapter 8: Distance

"I found them at the bottom of the tote. I had gone through the pictures, and I saw these and I just couldn't help myself."

That's the worst explanation I've ever heard. If I'd heard a client say that, I'd probably send him or her out of the office because it's a worthless excuse to do anything. 

She nods, eyes looking at the letter, but she's not focused on it at all. She turns around and drops her hand with the letter to her side, bringing the other one up to wrap around herself.

"How many—" she clears her throat. "How many did you read?"

"Two."

Her head falls back in exasperation before she brings it back up, and I hear her sigh heavily through her nose.

"I should have burned them when I had the chance," she mutters. Josie turns around and places the letter back into the envelope and drops it into the big tote. The uncertain tension cuts through the air, restricting my breath, and then she continues. "SueEllen had me write these for the sake of closure. I guess I bottled up my feelings and. . .and 'turned into a robot,' she would tell me. She said that I could get my feelings out by writing to you, and that it was. . . good because I'd never be able to send them to you, so I could say whatever I wanted. She wrote the first one with me, and we burned it. It helped. A lot. So I wrote a letter every time I got sad or began to miss you. . .I was talking to you even though you weren't. . ." She pauses, and I watch her walls go up. "You weren't here." She looks me right in the eye as she phrases the last part.

I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to that. It's not like I can justify my actions or tell her that I didn't mean for this to happen. What could that possibly do to make this better? 

Nothing.

And I hate that. 

"I know I wasn't," I murmur, glancing away. 

I caused this, and I can't even fix it. 

"I. . ." I trail, trying to figure out what I want to say. I cast my gaze her way to see her waiting for me to speak. "Listen, you know that this wasn't your fault, right?" 

"What wasn't? The miscarriage, or you leaving?" she asks bitterly, and I ignore her tone because I deserve it. And even though I meant the miscarriage at first, we should acknowledge what exactly had happened all those years ago.

"Both," I reply.

"Was I supposed to?" she retorts, shrugging her shoulders innocently. 

"That's—that wasn't fair. You know it wasn't your fault."

"Yeah? Cause you left maybe three months afterwards, Cole," she bites.

"Look, Josie, yeah, I know I left. And I've owned up to it every time it's come up. I'm a goddamn asshole! Is that what you want to hear?"

"Damn straight you are," Josie cuts in, her blue eyes icy, and although we're insulting me and my reputation, I have to bite back a smile. I'm just glad her anger is being directed at me, and not herself. 

"I know I was—am a dick for doing that," I continue, pulling up her desk chair that so that I can sit in front of her. "I have no good explanation or excuse for you as to why I did. I don't. But I can tell you that I had done it for a somewhat decent purpose. For some reason, I needed to prove to you that I was serious about you, Josie. I needed to prove that I was worthy of you, even though you thought the opposite, which I still can't comprehend." I have no idea where I'm going with this, but I keep going anyways.

"When we first found out that we'd had a miscarriage, I was devastated, Jo. You know that," I start softly. "I was so excited to be a dad, your kid's dad. I was ready for a new adventure with you, but that's not how it happened. Then you fell into a. . .a state of depression I'd never seen, or expected you to fall in. You kept begging me to leave, to find someone that I knew would be able to give me a family, and I'd only felt that kind of helplessness when Mom died. I had thought that if you could bring me back out of my despair from that, then I could get you out of this, but you only got worse the more I tried to show you that I wasn't going anywhere." I grab her hands and hold them tight, my eyes boring into hers. I need her to see that I regret every decision since I packed my bags forever ago, and I hate myself for it. I need her to see that I'm so sorry for making the same mistake twice. I gave my mom what I thought she needed: the cigarettes; I gave Josie what I thought she really wanted: space from me.