Henry
5:35 PM
All afternoon, Henry had felt like he was wading through a mud swamp of dread. In a way, it reminded him of those unbearable days and weeks after he'd given Elizabeth the hard truth—If you go to Baghdad, I don't know what things will look like when you come back. Each afternoon as the clock on the wall of his office at UVA had clunked its way closer and closer to the end of the working day, inevitably his thoughts would turn to what would be awaiting him at home. Would it be another night of wrangling the kids through dinner, bath, story and bed on his own before dialling Elizabeth's number at Langley every ten minutes until eventually someone—usually Conrad—picked up, only to say that she was working and couldn't come to the phone right now and it didn't look as though she'd make it back that evening either, or would it be another night of stewing in resentful silence where the only time she didn't outright blank him was when they were putting on a show in front of the kids?
At least back then he had understood what the problem was, and it hadn't come out of nowhere; after all, their arguments over her job had been building for years and they both knew it would come to a head at some point, especially after the events of Iraq. But today, her 'don't' had struck him like a train T-boning a truck on clear railway crossing. They had been doing fine before the poisoning. Better than fine. With the issue of Dmitri mostly behind them and with him having more time at home after quitting SAD, they had found a closeness similar to that of their early relationship, only—with all that life and understanding between them—so much richer: no longer exploring a new culture, but immersed in it and fluent in its native tongue.
Yet, when she should have smiled back at him and teased him for his cheesy line before kissing him and murmuring, 'I love you too', she had looked up at him with pain in her eyes and cut him off with a 'don't' before walking away and saying nothing more than, 'I'll talk to you at home'.
For a brief time, he tried to console himself with her parting words of 'I love you', but his mind only lured him down paths he'd rather not think about: I love you, but I'm no longer in love with you; I love you, but I can no longer be with you; I love you, but things have changed, I've changed, I'm not the person who I was before.
Now, he found himself stood in the deep blue shadows of twilight that hung outside their front door, trapped in the amber haze of street lamps that reflected up off the quilt of snow and drifted like a mist at waist height, whilst the mud swamp of dread had thickened so much that he could barely take a step; it made the sludge on the sidewalks easy to trudge through in comparison. She was waiting inside, waiting for them to 'talk', or so said the three black SUVs parked along the snow-hugged kerb and the DS agents who had asked him to pass along the box of walnut muffins from that bakery on the corner—the ones stuffed with red bean paste that reminded her of those Korean things, hodu-something-or-other, the ones she loved but pretended she only bought because other people liked them, the ones her agents said came with one condition: No more predawn runs.
For weeks, he would have given anything to talk to her, but now... What if he didn't want to hear what she had to say?
Part of him wished he could stand outside forever, stuck not only in dread but in limbo, because just like in those endless minutes after he'd learnt that she had collapsed, when he was waiting to hear whether she was alive or not, there was some small comfort to be found in not knowing. Until the words were spoken and the executioner's blade had dropped, there was hope. Hope that his fears were wrong. Hope that when she said she wanted to 'talk', that meant she was at least prepared to listen as well.
***
With his hand wrapped around the edge of the cardboard bakery box and pinning it against his side, Henry eased the front door shut behind him. The soft click rang out through the silence that engulfed the house. He paused for a moment and listened.
Nothing, just the clink...clonk...clink...clonk...clink...clonk... of the clock on the mantlepiece in the living room, the faint rattle of the central heating pipes reminding him that the radiators needed bleeding again, and the splosh of a car ploughing through the snow-sludge outside.
He toed off his wet-soled shoes—they tumbled with a thunk to the floorboards—and he padded through the shadow-thick lounge and dining room, towards the soft glow that emanated from the floor lamps in the den. The yellow light gave the room a subtle warmth, like the lingering heat of coal embers dying. He thought about calling out to her, but before he could, his throat closed around the sound. He wouldn't know what to say next anyway, something that wasn't monosyllabic, or hurt twisted into anger, or reasoning that verged on desperation. The thought of pointing out that a separation wouldn't play well in her bid for the White House had crossed his mind once or twice that afternoon. As had the question of whether he would consider a charade of marriage if it would help her career, and if it would buy him time to make her see sense, to win her over again. (...And to avoid having to tell his family, of course. Especially Maureen.) Though maybe she didn't want the presidency anymore either. In which case, what did she want?
Henry placed the cardboard box down on the kitchen table, in front of the chair where the bag he had packed for her all those weeks ago now sat. A heavy frown furrowed his brow at the sight of the two stuffed envelopes that lay on top of the bag, the upper one addressed to him in Elizabeth's cursive handwriting, the other one left blank. He picked them up and studied them for a moment, and then pivoted towards the stairs. He was about to call out her name when—
A snuffled snore came from the couch, followed by the rustling of a blanket.
His heart slammed into his ribs, and he spun around.
The buh-boom, buh-boom, buh-boom softened immediately though.
Elizabeth was snuggled into the cushions of the couch, both swathed in shadows and bathed in the glow from the lamps. The grey woollen blanket that usually draped over the back of the sofa now slipped down from her legs, whilst one of Alison's magazines splayed across her chest, and her reading glasses—frames askew—perched on the bridge of her nose. Her sneakers lay in a toppled heap next to the wall at the end.
He studied her, and as he did, he allowed himself a small, if pained, smile. She looked peaceful. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her look peaceful while she slept. No pinch in the middle of her brow, no frantic flicker as her eyes jerked back and forth, no muscles tensing as though she were trying to rip herself free from her dream.
His smile faded into bitter. Maybe 'don't' was the price to pay for that. If so, he'd pay it again.
He placed the envelopes down on the armchair in the corner, opposite the couch, and shucked off his blazer and laid it over the back. He stooped over her, unhooked her reading glasses and lifted them away, as carefully as he would were he playing a buzz wire game. Then he folded in their plastic arms and set them on the footstool. The magazine he left, seeing as she hugged it to her chest, but the blanket he tucked around her before it could slide down and pool on the floor. In the shadow-tinged light, the gold of her rings gleamed atop the glossy cover of the magazine—another thing that made no sense. Why put them back on just to twist them around and around if she intended on taking them off again?
Or maybe that was just for show. A necessity in front of her DS agents, the White House staff, Conrad, Russell and Stevie.
But he couldn't believe she would do that. She might be an ex-spy and get a thrill from tradecraft, and she might partake in the occasional ruse at State, but she didn't do deceit when it came to their relationship.
Did she...?
Perhaps the only thing that hurt him more than the thought of that 'don't' and the fear that she might want to leave him was how the uncertainty of it all made him question his trust in her once again. He had hoped—had let himself believe—that once she returned home they would find their way back to the simplicity of his 'Always' that followed her 'Trust me?'.
Love could lull you into believing the impossible, though; love could blind you from undesirable truths.
He watched over her for a moment longer, and though the tug in his heart urged him to brush a kiss to her forehead and murmur, 'I love you', he resisted and retreated to the armchair instead. He picked up the envelopes and sank down onto the cushioned seat. The reading glasses she had returned to him earlier now hid in the pocket of his blazer. He twisted around and retrieved them, and then swapped them with his regular specs. The dim light in the den would most likely strain his eyes, but he didn't want to wake her and—for now, at least—he didn't want to go anywhere else.
He slipped his thumb beneath the unsealed flap of the first envelope—the one addressed with a flourishing 'Henry'. A wad of five or six narrow-ruled A4 sheets, folded into thirds, was stuffed inside. He eased them out and smoothed away their creases, took one last look at her asleep on the couch and tried to fix in his mind the warmth he still felt for her now—despite the hurt and the fear—lest in a moment it might change, that the way he saw her might change, and then he stared down at the writing that flowed across page. The ink held her voice, and through her voice her words spoke to him.
***
Dear Henry,
On my first night here, I was told that I had to hand over my shoelaces. Of course, you were here with me, so you know that I had to hand over my watch and my rings and my belt too, but on reflection, it's the laces that have stuck with me and bothered me the most. Sure, it was degrading to be told I couldn't be trusted with something as basic as laces, and it was shameful because in all honesty I knew that the staff were right not to trust me, and it's just one example of the many ways in which I felt stripped and left as less than a person. (You think DS get a little overbearing at times? Try having someone never more than a pace away from you, sitting at the end of your bed while you sleep, and watching you while you take a shower.) But the degradation, the shame, the depersonalisation—they're not why handing over my laces bothered me so much.
I suppose the true reason it bothered me is because I never really thought about them before. Shoelaces are one of those things that you just don't think about. You take them for granted. You never imagine, or even think to imagine, that you'll find yourself in a situation where you don't have them. Until, of course, they're taken away from you. And then you can't help but miss them. You're reminded of their absence with every single step, whether trying to walk in your sneakers without them or deciding to go barefoot because you're less likely to trip.
I'll leave you to draw the analogy with the loss of my parents and my loss of 'mental wellness'. Just another couple of things that I took for granted.
I like to think that one thing I don't take for granted is you.
The night I handed over my laces was the last time I saw you or spoke to you, but I've spent a lot of time thinking about you and talking about you since, this last week especially. I wanted to find the perfect way to explain why it is I ended up being here, to reassure you that I'm better now and that I won't get like that again, to prove to you that you can trust me even if you can't know what's going on inside my head, and to tell you how best you can support me going forward. There are several drafts of this letter written to that effect currently residing in my bin.
The more I thought about it, about all the things I wanted to say to you and all the things I would ask of you, the more I realised how unfair I was being on you and how what I would be giving you is less than the truth. Before I came here, I lied to you in many ways, and in others, I withheld the truth. You're a generous man, Henry McCord, and you see the best in me even when I don't, so I know you'll excuse the way that I acted as part of the struggles I've faced. But it doesn't change the fact that I did lie to you and I did withhold the truth.
Which then makes it seem awfully unfair that one of the key things I asked of you in those drafts was your trust. I wanted you to trust that I'm well and that I'll do everything in my power to stop this from happening again; I wanted you to trust me when I say that I'm okay, even if you have your concerns; I wanted you to trust me enough to know that you don't need to monitor me or try to protect me from myself. But I know that trust is a fragile thing, and after what I've put you through over the last couple of months, I don't know if that's something you'll be able or willing to give.
I think that what I wrote also failed to take account of your experience of this. Our journeys have been opposite and parallel in many ways. Maybe I'll never truly appreciate how my being here has affected you, but I saw the terror in your eyes the night I tried to tell you what I was thinking and you realised that I might hurt myself; I saw the pain and fear when you saw my answers to that questionnaire and you realised how bad it was; I saw the hurt and loss when you had to say goodbye to me, leave me here and face returning home alone and telling our children; and since then, I've heard how much you've struggled without me, how much you've missed me and how much you've feared for me while I've been gone. Given what happened to your father and how much his passing hurt you, and given that you were the one to find Ivan and all the guilt you felt around that, I can only begin to imagine how hard this must have been on you. If there's one thing I understand, it's loss and fear of loss. I never wanted to put you through that, and I would take it all back if I could.
But I can't. The most I can do is to give you the truth as best as I can now. These words are far from perfect, but you're a generous man, Henry McCord, so I'm sure you'll forgive me of that.
I have a dream. It comes back the same time every year—around the anniversary of my parents' crash—and whenever I'm worrying about Will. I have a dream. It's about running through a field at night, it's about being thrown to the cusp of an abyss, it's about a black walnut tree half lodged in the earth that I knew and half jutting over the darkness that I didn't. I have a dream. It's about clinging to that tree, it's about looking up to the stars above and down to the chasm below, it's about wondering what would happen to me if I were to let go. Would I fly or would I fall?
I have a dream. Only it isn't a dream.
It's a memory.
The evening that I learnt of my parents' crash, I had been sat on the front porch waiting for them to come home. I watched the top of the track that led towards the house, and I counted down the seconds as they passed. Ten seconds and I'd see the headlights of my father's car turning onto the track. Ten seconds and I'd hear the gravel beneath the tyres. Ten seconds and they'd be back. Ten more seconds. Just ten seconds more.
As I waited, I thought about all the places they might be, all the reasons why they might have left me there on my own. I thought maybe they had gone shopping. After all, Will was constantly getting into scraps at school or tearing his jeans on the barbed wire around the farm, so he was always in need of new clothes. I thought maybe they'd decided to go out for a pizza and make a full afternoon of it, rather than just the milkshakes that they'd planned. I thought maybe they'd gone to the movies. After all, Will was constantly pestering them to take us to the theatre more. The more I counted down the seconds and the more excuses I came up with, the angrier I became. I thought it was typical of them. Of course they were out having a great time together, they'd probably forgotten all about me, they'd always preferred Will. I felt stupid for sitting out there on the porch, in the dark, waiting for them to come home.
By the time the headlights finally turned onto the drive, I'd resolved not to speak to them for a whole week, to not so much as acknowledge them, to punish them for being so thoughtless and leaving me there on my own. I stood on the bottom step and waited for the car to pull up, still deciding exactly how I would play it to achieve maximal response. Though, of course, it wasn't my father's Buick that rolled to a stop on the track. You know that. You know how much the irony of those thoughts hurts me now. You know how this story goes.
The policeman didn't need to say it. The look in his eyes and his silence said it all. He tried to tell me a few times—if I close my eyes, I can still hear his voice, 'Miss Adams, Miss Adams, Miss Adams'—but I wouldn't listen. I didn't want to hear what he had to say. I didn't want to hear the words that would take away everything I knew.
And so I ran.
On the other side of the paddock there was a field that backed onto the old quarry. There used to be a fence there, but it had blown down in a storm. My father had never gotten around to fixing it; it was constantly second from top on his list of things to do. Right at the edge of the quarry there was a black walnut tree, its roots half grounded in the earth and half jutting out over the pit below. I don't know how exactly it happened—I must have tripped, maybe on a piece of the old fence, I don't know—but a moment later, I was at the brink of the drop, clinging to the tree trunk. I could hear Will shouting my name as he chased after me, I still can, and I remember looking at the stars above and the darkness below, and thinking what if I just stopped, what if I never had to hear those words, what if I let go—would I fly or would I fall?
I suppose what happens after death is a question that plagues most people at some point in their lives. Unfortunately, the dilemma I faced that night plagues many people too. Rather than continuing in a world where I would lose everything that I had ever known, I wanted to let go.
I think maybe I would have, if it weren't for Will.
He caught up to me at the edge of the quarry. I remember his fingers trembling and the look of absolute fear in his eyes as he begged me to take his hand. I don't think I've ever seen him so afraid in his life. I remember thinking that I could do it, I could leave this nightmare behind and let go. But at the same time I was thinking that if I did that, what would happen to Will? He would be alone in the world, no one to look after him, no one to protect him. He would have witnessed our parents die, come home, only for me to die too. I didn't want to take his hand. I didn't want to cross that cusp from my old life to this world where nothing was fair and nothing made sense and everything was this wasteland that somehow I'd have to navigate through. But I couldn't do that to him. So rather than doing what I wanted to do, I did what he needed me to do: I took his hand.
Like so much of the time around the crash, that night became a bad dream.
I don't know if I ever truly grieved their deaths. I guess the process is different for everyone, and the expectations of grief and loss were different back then than they are now. But I know this—looking after Will and dealing with his crises kept me going, it gave me a purpose, it pulled me through. Perhaps it's no surprise then that the prospect of losing Will now dredged up all these old feelings. The thought of losing him when I'd lived for him made me not want to live anymore. Some of those thoughts were on a subconscious level, some not so much.
I wanted to find the perfect way to explain to you why it is I ended up being here. This is far from perfect, but my hope is that in sharing it with you, it'll give you some insight into why I felt the way that I did. I also wanted you to know that it wasn't your fault.
Henry, I am not your fault.
I've never considered myself to be depressed, but over the past week I've been reflecting on how my parents' deaths impacted my life. I don't have a diagnosis, and I'm not sure that a label would help anyway, but I know that I have my melancholic moments, and my down days, and those times when I'm away with the horses. I've come to realise that, no matter what you want to call it, I do have this darkness inside of me. It crops up from time to time. Apparently, it can get out of hand.
Another thing I wanted to tell you in those original drafts was that I won't get like that again. But I can't. Because in truth—as much as believe that I'll be okay, and that if I'm not, I'll reach out—I just don't know. I don't know what's around the corner, or how I might react. None of us do. I promise I'll do my best to stay well, but I know that if I slip into that state of mind, all good intentions go out the window, and even if I recognise I need help, I might not want it. It's hard to fight for yourself when you've given up hope.
The final thing I wrote about in those drafts was how I wanted you to support me going forward. I wrote about how I'll need someone to lean on, to be my counterbalance, to warn me when I'm about to veer off course. I wrote about how I wanted you to support me but not stifle me, how I wanted you to help me but not overprotect me, how I wanted you to be the person I lean on but also to be my equal. But what I realised through writing those drafts was that I wasn't thinking about what you wanted or needed, and I wasn't treating you as my equal.
I have hurt you, Henry. I didn't mean to, but I did. And I can't promise that I won't hurt you again. In all likelihood, I will. I've thought a lot about what makes our marriage work and how we've made it this far. In the end, I think what it comes down to is this: trust, commitment, communication, intimacy and equality. And I think it's safe to say that most of those things have been tried, if not broken, over the past couple of months. We can rebuild them, we have before, but I guess—in a somewhat 'chicken or the egg' scenario—we also have to have them to start with if it's ever to work. This letter might help with some of those things, I hope it does, but so long as I'm making these demands of you in terms of what support I want and need without considering what you want or need, I'm not treating you as my equal. I guess that's what this letter is really about. It's about treating you as my equal and giving you a choice, because I know what it's like to be in a situation where you feel you have no choice.
After I left the CIA, you told me that I made it seem like staying with you and the kids was a moral obligation. You were right to call me out. I was making us both miserable. But it stemmed from me feeling like I didn't have a choice. I don't want to recreate a situation like that now. We've done duty. We've done resentment. It didn't work for either of us. I don't want you to feel forced into doing something you can't or just don't want to do, all because of the vows you made nearly thirty years ago. It's not fair of me to demand this support from you for my issues, especially when I know I have this thing inside of me, and perhaps I'll always be at risk, and I can't promise you that I won't hurt you again.
You're a good man, Henry McCord; it's one of the many reasons why I love you. The next few weeks are going to be tough, the next few years tougher still, and I know that you'll feel that it's your duty to stand by me and support me as my husband. But I don't want to be a burden or an obligation. You once asked me to tell you what I wanted—not what I thought I should say or what I felt obligated to say—but what I wanted, and you said that no matter what my response, you would understand. I'm asking the same of you now, and I'm telling you, I will understand.
You can open the second envelope now.
***
Henry's frown grew deeper and deeper as he stared down at the letter. He thumbed back through the pages—the ruffle of paper on paper lifted into the room and displaced the silence like the sound of shutters flapping in the night—and he read the words over and over and over again.
...I realised how unfair I was being on you...trust is a fragile thing...I don't know if that's something you'll be able or willing to give...I never wanted to put you through that...I have hurt you, Henry...And I can't promise that I won't hurt you again...It's about treating you as my equal and giving you a choice...I don't want you to feel forced into doing something you can't or just don't want to do, all because of the vows you made nearly thirty years ago...I know I have this thing inside of me...I can't promise you that I won't hurt you again...I will understand...
He looked up at his wife, still fast asleep and curled into the cushions of the couch, the cuts that flecked her face and hands almost maroon in the dim light, her rings still very much in place and gleaming beneath the soft glow of the lamps. Her words from earlier that afternoon as they stood outside the Oval Office came back to him: I didn't mean it like that...I just wanted to talk to you first. The way she'd looked up at him with hope and a wince, the way her anxiety had crept through with a bite of her bottom lip, the way she'd cut him off because she hadn't spoken to him yet and given him 'the truth as best as I can'.
If she was already anxious about handing him the letter and what his reaction might be, his less than warm welcome couldn't have helped. Perhaps she was worried about revealing the truth about her dream too, or maybe ashamed—if his eyes had been lit with fear and pain when he'd seen her answers to the questionnaire, hers had been a bomb blast of shame. More than anything, she seemed afraid that she might hurt him again, and that because of that, being with her might no longer be right for him nor what he wanted anymore.
I know what it's like to be in a situation where you feel you have no choice...I don't want to recreate a situation like that now...I will understand.
Would he resent her for demanding support from him? Would it be easier to distance himself than to live with the fear that this might happen again? After all the worry, hurt and dread, after all the guilt, stress and living on a knife-edge over the past couple of months, was distance what he wanted, was that what was right for him?
He balanced the pages next to him on the cushion of the armchair, and then hooked his thumb under and lifted up the unsealed flap on the second envelope. He peered inside, and frowned. Then he turned the contents out into his palm. It was a simple friendship bracelet made with thick black and white threads. The past echoed out to him: I think it's best for both of us if we stop now, before anyone gets hurt, and we can stick to being just friends instead.
He grabbed the final page of the letter and turned it over to read the last little bit.
***
This is me embarrassing myself with a pathetic attempt at a romantic gesture. It's meant to be a bracelet. It took a shocking amount of help from an art therapist, and not an inconsiderable amount of concern. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that it's been written up in my notes. But given how much you've done for me over the last thirty years, from the right words at the right time to the thoughtful gifts big and small, I wanted to do something for you, and though I mean everything that I've just said and I promise you I will understand, in the interest of equality, I want to make my position perfectly clear:
Henry, I've come a long way without my laces, but I don't want to go anywhere without you.
Either way,
Yours always,
Elizabeth
***
Henry placed the final page of the letter down in his lap and looked at the bracelet again. She'd made it? She'd made him a bracelet? Elizabeth and crafts went as hand in hand as...well, Elizabeth and cooking. But something niggled at the back of his mind, like a realisation trying to worm its way to the surface.
His gaze darted to the sneakers that formed a tumbled heap next to the wall at the end of the couch. Wiry, black dress shoe laces had replaced the flat, white laces she had removed from her shoes the night she had checked in at the clinic.
He held the bracelet up to the light that flooded out from the floor lamp, and studied it again.
Then it hit him.
A soft laugh escaped him. It left him winded
She'd made it out of her laces.
***
Elizabeth
6:54 PM
Something nudged Elizabeth's shoulder. Her eyes jolted open and she scrambled up to sitting, causing both the blanket that had been draped over her legs and the magazine that rested on her chest to spill over the edge of the couch and crash to the floor. "I'm awake, I'm awake."
The jaunty refrains of Christmas music—What...Was that...'Christmas Wrapping'...?—drifted through in the background. She blinked her vision into focus. White light blared from the suspended lamps in the kitchen; it melded with the yellow glow of the floor lamps in the den to pinprick her eyes with a sharp ache, until it felt as though the photons were blunt-tipped needles that gouged at her retinas. She pinched her eyes shut, and then attempted to prise them open again.
"You know it makes you look like a mole when you do that." Jason met her with an incredulous frown from where he perched next to Alison on the footstool.
Alison bunched her shoulders to her ears, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. "And people think it's the lizard people we need to be worried about."
Elizabeth swung her legs over the side of the couch, and all but flung herself at them. "My babies. Come here." She wrapped an arm around each of them. She pressed a kiss to Jason's cheek first and then to Alison's as they both huddled their arms tight to their chests, wrinkled their noses and tried to squirm away. She clung to them. "God, I missed you two so much."
Alison patted Elizabeth's shoulder. "We missed you too, Mom."
"But do you think you could not full-on assault us?" Jason leant away.
"I warned you not to prod the mama bear." Stevie's voice came with the uneven bounding of footsteps down the stairs. "At least you didn't get attacked in front of the president and your boss."
Elizabeth let go of Alison and Jason, and with her fists pressed into the cushion on either side of her, she twisted around to frown at Stevie, who leant her shoulder into the wall that cornered onto the kitchen as she sipped from a bottle of water. "I did not attack you."
"Mom." Stevie raised her eyebrows at her and held the bottle poised in front of her lips. "You practically knocked me over. People were watching. And it was embarrassing."
"Embarrassing? I'll show you embarrassing," Elizabeth muttered. She turned back to face Alison and Jason, and her expression softened as she leant forward and laid her hands on their knees. "But how are you both? Everything all right?"
"We're good," Jason said with a nod, though his expression had turned a touch more hesitant. Then his lips drew into an anxious pout, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek. It looked as though he were daring himself to ask the question: "So...how are you?"
Elizabeth gave them a steady smile. "A few cuts and bruises, but I'm okay."
Jason's pout tightened. Something akin to fear gleamed in his eyes, and it made him look no more than ten years old again. "I meant..." He trailed off and ended the sentence with a shimmy of a shrug instead.
Oh. Elizabeth's smile faded a fraction, but she caught it before it could slip. Honesty, patience and time. She squeezed their knees. "I'm good." The words came out breathless. She turned her head from side to side, and set the ends of her hair quivering. "I know it might take a while for you to see it and believe it, but I'm doing well, feeling like myself again. And I'm sorry—"
But Jason shook his head. "You don't have to apologise."
Alison covered Elizabeth's hand, and gave her a warm smile. "We're just glad that you're home."
Elizabeth turned her hand over, caught hold of Alison's hand, and tangled their fingers together. She squeezed tight. "Me too."
Jason scooted to the front edge of the footstool and opened his arms to her. He gave her a proper hug this time, fleeting but fierce, and a kiss on the cheek too. "Love you, Mom."
"Love you too, baby." She clutched him for the moment that he was there, and ignored the dull ache that seeped out from her ribs. Then she welcomed Alison for a real hug as well. She wrapped her arms around her daughter, and as she pressed a kiss to the side of her head, just above her ear, she breathed in the scent of her tea tree and mint shampoo. "Love you, Noodle."
"Love you, Mom." Alison rubbed Elizabeth's back. "It's been too quiet here without you."
Elizabeth gave a 'hah' as she drew away. "Well, we'll see how long that sentiment lasts."
Stevie's cell phone pinged. She fumbled it out from the pocket of her burgundy sweatpants and glanced down at the lit-up screen. She clicked it off and stuffed it away again. "So, anyway...we ordered takeout. It's on the way, but delivery might be slow because of all the snow, so we thought we might decorate the tree until it gets here."
Jason braced himself against his knees and pushed himself up from the footstool. "Yeah, because that thing's just depressing."
Alison and Stevie both stared at their brother with looks somewhere between disbelief and thinly veiled panic as an anxious silence swept into the room and jittered through the air.
Alison lowered her voice to a hiss and swatted Jason as he clambered past. "Jay-son."
"What?" Jason scowled at Alison. But when her eyes widened until the whites flared and she gave an exaggerated sideways nudge of her gaze towards Elizabeth, his frown fell away and his gaze darted to their mother, a completely unveiled panic gripping his expression. "Oh, no, wait, I didn't mean..."
Elizabeth chuckled and held up one hand. "It's fine. Really." She rose to her feet. "It is a bit bleak, if you ask me." She stooped down and picked up the blanket and magazine from the floor. Her voice strained with the stretch. "And although I appreciate your sensitivity, you don't need to tiptoe around me. As I said, I'm good, and I'm happy to talk, if you want to talk." She dumped the magazine on the couch and then flung the blanket over the back of the cushions. "Any questions, and I'll try my best to answer them."
Alison and Jason led the way through the dining room and towards living room with its glow of wall sconces and Christmas tunes, their sock-muffled footsteps thumping off the floorboards. Alison whispered furiously at her brother and she jostled him with her elbow at least a couple of times. Elizabeth truly didn't mind the comment though; she wasn't made of glass, and God only knew Russell and Mike had said things far more offensive—and had meant them too—though their jibes were probably no more than a scratch compared to what some people would post on social media. Perhaps Carlos Morejon would get his 'Secretary of Unfit Mental State' hashtag after all. It would be a lie to say that it wouldn't bother her; after all, no one wanted to be lambasted in the court of public opinion, especially not over something so personal. But she would put on a brave face, and she would get over it. Those weren't the people whose opinions she cared about.
The tightness in her chest gathered again, like ropes taking up slack. She touched Stevie's elbow as they walked into the dining room. "Hey, have you heard from Dad at all?"
Stevie pulled a face, her lips downturned, and she shook her head. "He sent a message earlier. Something about some faculty meeting, said he'd be back late."
"Oh." Elizabeth's heart slumped, the ropes cut loose. She fought to keep it from her expression though, and mustered a smile instead, full of false cheer. "Well, nevermind. More takeout for us."
There was no faculty meeting though, not this close to Christmas, she knew that. Which only meant one thing: Henry would rather hide in his office at the War College, surrounded by musty old texts, than come home and speak to her. Not that she blamed him. It wasn't a conversation she was looking forward to either, especially not after their exchange at the White House, but that didn't change the fact that they needed to talk. Of course she hoped that after he read the letter and they'd talked it through, he'd want to stand by her, and that by her respecting him and giving him the freedom of that choice and the time to discuss and decide, there would be no feelings left unspoken or unacknowledged that would fester into resentment in the following months. She hoped that the letter would enable them to reconnect and would lay the foundations for their relationship going forward. But given that within minutes of seeing him, she'd managed to hurt him again, and given his response to her at the time and his absence now, she was growing less and less certain that his answer would be the one that she wanted. The only thing more cringeworthy than the bracelet she'd made for him would be if he were to reject the bracelet she'd for made him. But, if that was what he believed was best for him, she would understand. And she would put on a brave face, and she would pretend like she would get over it.
Jason dumped a cardboard box, which had 'Xmas Decorations' scrawled in black marker pen across the side, at the foot of the couch and then slumped down onto the cushions next to Alison, who had taken a seat in the middle. He stooped forward and folded back the flaps. Then he and Alison began sifting through the contents. The grating of strings of metallic beads running over one another, the jingle of bells rolling against the base, the whispered rustle of tinsel and the knocking of baubles weaved into the soft strains of 'Fairytale of New York' that floated through the room from the speakers balanced on the mantlepiece. Every couple of seconds or so, Alison and Jason glanced up, as though checking on Elizabeth's progress in making it to the living room. Perhaps they were worried she might disappear again. She wished she could promise them she wouldn't.
Stevie skirted around the edge of the coffee table and joined them on the couch. Bags of salted popcorn and shiny apple-candy red cans of Manzanita Sol buried the glass top of the coffee table, a K2 of carbs and soda.
Elizabeth halted behind the armchairs and frowned down at the table for a long moment. Then she looked up at the kids on the couch. "What's all this?"
But the kids just stared back at her, the box of decorations now forgotten, whilst not so subtle smiles played on their lips. Then their gazes drifted over her shoulder, a little to her right, just as the floorboards creaked and—
"Apparently Slice was discontinued a while ago," Henry's voice came from behind her, "but I thought we could make do with a different brand of apple soda instead."
Elizabeth's heart lurched, and she spun around.
Henry stood next to the piano, presumably having emerged from the shadows of the pantry. His reading glasses hung from the neckline of his button-up shirt, but rather than him looking at her with that blank and lost expression as he had done when she'd returned the glasses to him earlier, he gave her a warm smile. "Hey."
Her mind continued to reel. Henry, Slice, what the...?
"Henry..." She clutched the back of the armchair, as though that might steady both her mind and herself. She pivoted to face the kids before she returned to him with a frown. "But...I thought..."
He eased a step closer, his smile twinkling in his eyes, and he gave a small shrug. "I asked the kids to be a little covert...but you're a generous woman, Elizabeth McCord, so I'm sure you'll forgive me of that."
The words struck her. The letter. He'd read her letter. Oh God. This was so not what she'd planned. Now would be the perfect time to drag him away so that they could talk—in private—but his hand disappeared into the back pocket of his jeans, and he pulled out a couple of sheets of wide-ruled notepaper that he'd folded into quarters. He unhooked his reading glasses, slipped them on, and then smoothed the creases out of the pages. Her stomach sank with a sicky feeling like it had done back when she was in middle school and her name had been called in assembly, and she had to rise from her seat on the floor, stumble and trip her way through the cross-legged masses, climb up all those rickety wooden steps onto the stage in front of the whole school who watched on in bated silence as they teemed below her, whilst she panicked in the uncertainty of whether she was about to be awarded something or publicly humiliated, the only surety being that either had the potential to be utterly mortifying. "Henry...what are you doing?"
But Henry didn't reply. Instead, he stood facing her, no more than a couple of paces away, and he stared down at the neat yet laboured handwriting that crawled along the lines of the page. "I know a girl who sat on my doorstep with a bag of popcorn and a can of apple Slice. She told me that her life was a chaotic mess of baggage, that she'd spend forever cleaning up after her younger brother, and that it would be best for both of us if we remained just friends.
"I know a girl who had an answer to everything and who was never afraid to speak up, yet she stayed silent when my family were unkind to her, and she turned the other cheek when they called her names." His gaze lifted to meet hers. It touched her soul. "She knew what it was like to lose her family and she didn't want me to give up mine for her sake."
He held her gaze for a moment longer, just long enough for the ache that strummed out from her heart to fade, and then he returned to the page. "I know a girl who forgave me for walking out on her for three, maybe five, days—the true length is still up for debate." At her 'hah', a smile lit his lips. "She said 'yes' when I came back and proposed to her, even though I'd hurt her, and even though half the letters were missing and I know she thought the skywriter was kinda lame."
"Hey, I never—" she began.
But he lifted one finger to his lips, concealing his smile, and when she bit her bottom lip and held to her silence, he continued. "I know a woman who stood by me while I was away on active duty, even though she faced the fear of losing me every second of every day. She showed me patience and compassion when I returned to her, even when I yelled at her about the milk—though it wasn't really about the milk—and she gave me the time that I needed to adjust and find my way."
The sheets of paper bowed away from his hands as he moved his grip to the bottom of the page. "I know a woman who was worried that she wouldn't make a good mother because she'd lost her own mother too young and she felt like she had no one to turn to during her pregnancy or those tough first days and weeks. She gave me three beautiful, intelligent, weird children—" He shot their kids a funny look, causing her to laugh again, though as she did, her bruises stung like loss. "—she made me a father; and she inspired me to step up and become the man I am today."
With a flutter, he turned over the top page. "I know a woman who not only gave up the career that she loved for me and our family, but who gave up a home, a family of a different kind and a piece of herself. She deserved better than the words that I said to her, and I wish I could have found a different way to express my fears, but I'm grateful that she remained committed to us and that we worked our way through it, even if some small part of her will always resent me a little bit."
He paused for a second, his lips parted, and a frown pinched the middle of his brow. Behind his glasses, his eyes gleamed. "I know a woman who supported me and consoled me after the death of my mother and then my father. She listened to me when I was angry; she held me in her arms, she shielded me, she made me feel safe enough to cry; she talked me down from all my regrets and from my sense of guilt, and though I know that in helping me it forced her to revisit her own grief, she never once belittled my feelings or made it about herself.
"I know a woman who can get anxious about pretty much anything—our children, her brother, the world, our household appliances, whether our adult children have eaten enough, whether her brother is spending enough time with his family, whether her blazers make her shoulders look boxy, whether her job gives her too much masculine energy, whether our adult children are spending too much time at home, why our adult children aren't spending more time at home, whether I checked the back door before coming to bed, whether I double-checked the back door before coming to bed, whether I remembered to check the window before double-checking the back door before coming back to bed."
"I don't—" she began.
"Babe." He gave her that look. After a three-second silence that felt more like three minutes, he returned his gaze to the page. "She obsesses because she cares and she seeks control because there was a time in her life when she had none, and though I can't say that I enjoy checking every window and door in the house at two AM—"
"So that's what that noise is," Alison cut in.
Henry smiled. "—she tells me that I'm her hero when I do eventually come back to bed, and I always enjoy the challenge of talking her down from the ledge."
He swapped the pages over, and his smile tinged with sorrow as he looked down at the second sheet. "I know a woman who sometimes forgets how to breathe. She thinks that makes her a burden that I'm forced to carry, but I feel privileged to be the who gets to hold her and to count each breath for her until she's ready to stand on her own again.
"I know a woman who has things in her past that are painful for her to talk about, some so painful that her mind has hidden them from her, some so painful that her mind makes her relive them again and again and again. She doesn't give in but she faces these fears, and although I wish I could take away her pain, I'm in awe of her strength and I'm grateful that I'm amongst the handful of people whom she trusts enough to confide in."
He moved his thumbs down the page, and his frown deepened further still, causing the pit of Elizabeth's stomach to tighten around nothing. "I know a woman who feels low sometimes—we call it her melancholic moments, her down days and those times when she's away with the horses. She tells me that she has this darkness inside of her, but even on her darkest days, she makes my world light up, and although I know it's not my job to make her happy, I'm grateful that I get to be the one to hold her hand until she feels better again.
"I know a woman who said 'don't' when I tried to tell her that I love her, because she was afraid I might get hurt if I didn't have the truth 'as best as she could give it' first. She thinks she should blame herself for the pain I've felt while she's been away, and my response to that is 'don't'—" He looked up at her with a stare so firm that it impressed the word on her mind. Then his gaze dipped back to the page. "—and although it's true that I'll always fear the day will come when I'll lose her, when it does, the memories I have of her will bring me comfort and bring me strength."
Tears had welled at the edges of Elizabeth's eyes, but she blotted them away with the cuff of her sleeve before they could gather into droplets and fall.
"I know a woman who wrote a letter about the importance of communication, commitment, intimacy, equality and trust. She opened up to me, she committed herself to me, she made herself vulnerable to me, she treated me like her equal, she gave me truth and honesty—" He met her eye again. "—and she always has my trust."
He held her gaze as he turned over the page. When he looked to the first paragraph, his expression softened, and at the hint of his smile, the pressure in her chest lifted. "I know a woman who thinks she can't do romance, but she gave me her heart in a bracelet, and as she did, she captured my heart all over again. She does that every day with her smile, her laugh, that time I found her shaking the toaster upside down over the sink because she didn't realise there was a crumb tray..." He grinned.
"Shut up." Elizabeth shoved his chest, only lightly, and her own grin sprang to her lips through the blur of tears whilst he chuckled and the kids laughed.
He caught hold of her hand, laced their fingers together, and looked her in the eye. "She doesn't know it, but every day, she captures my heart again and again and again."
He squeezed her hand, and when he returned his gaze to the page, he kept their fingers entwined. "I know a girl who sat on my doorstep with a bag of popcorn and a can of apple Slice. She told me that her life was a chaotic mess of baggage, that she'd spend forever cleaning up after her younger brother, and that it would be best for both of us if we remained just friends. Her life can be chaotic and, yes, she's a little neurotic, perhaps even more so than the day we first met, but I love her quirks and idiosyncrasies and that she's comfortable enough to be herself around me, and what she calls her baggage will never be my burden. She has spent forever cleaning up after her brother, and I think I understand why their relationship is the way that it is, but even if I don't, her brother is part of our family, I consider him my brother too, and I will never resent her for wanting to look out for him. She definitely made the right choice that night when she agreed to go out with me again, though I'll admit that perhaps I'm a little biased, because she's more than just my friend—she's my best friend; my wife; my lover; the mother of my children; my past, present and future; my forever; my everything."
He reached behind him and placed the pages on top of the piano, followed by his reading glasses, and then he returned to her and took hold of her other hand too. He met her gaze, the hazel of his eyes never warmer, never kinder, never more like home. "I know a woman who asked me to tell her what I want, not what I think I should say or what I feel obligated to say, but what I want. And the answer is as simple now as it was back then. Her." He shrugged, and as his shoulders fell, he squeezed her hands. "I want her. She has things in her life that are painful, but I'll never want to be without her because of them."
Then he let go of her hands, unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt sleeve, and pushed up the fabric to reveal the black and white friendship bracelet she'd made tied around his wrist, just above the links of his watch. "I hope that makes my position perfectly clear."
She beamed up at him, on the brink of a laugh and tears. "Crystal."
"Good." He smiled back at her. "You still fascinate me, Elizabeth Adams, and I'm nowhere near done getting to know you." His smile widened. "And you can try and push me away—"
"But you'll get all stalker-y. Got it."
"Good." He held her eye for a long moment, still smiling at her. Then his gaze flitted to her lips, and his eyes darkened in a way that made her heart skip. He cupped her cheek, whilst his other hand found her waist with a firm yet tender grip and he drew her body into his so that his heat rolled over her and reminded her of sun-soaked evenings spent lounging on the porch trading sips of Merlot and languid kisses until both the alcohol and the gentle tide of his tongue made her body limp and her head spin, and as she nuzzled against the warmth of his palm, he swept his thumb over her cheekbone, once, twice, and then her breath hitched as he tilted her chin up and leant in.
Her eyes slipped shut, and she anchored herself by gripping the cotton of his shirt over his hips, her fingers curling into fists. After weeks of nothing but the lingering scent on his tee to breathe in, the rush of the spice in his cologne, the hint of sandalwood, the kick of black pepper and—beneath it all—just him was overwhelming. She'd felt like she was drowning before, the night she'd said goodbye to him at the clinic, but right now, she wanted nothing more than to drown in him.
He nuzzled her nose, and the hot puff of his breath fell against her lips. She sensed the buzz of his smile like a tingle in the air, a frisson of static electricity, as his thumb resumed sweeping back and forth over her cheekbone, back and forth, back and forth, lulling her and luring her, reeling her in. He was so close she could almost taste him. Almost. Then his thumb stilled, and a wicked smirk thickened his tone like a rolling wave of dark honey as his words reverberated against the sensitive skin of her lips. "Is this okay?"
She yanked at his shirt. "Henry, I swear to God, if you start that ag—. Mmmph."
His lips crashed into hers and swallowed her words. Her hands leapt up to clutch at his neck, clawing and tangling, whilst his arms wrapped around her and pulled her flush to him. It felt as though every cell of her body melted into his until she wasn't quite sure where he began and she ended; the only thing she could be sure of was this—she couldn't care less, so long as everything was him. Her lips parted, and—
"Right," Jason said. "I'm out."
Cardboard chafed across the rug. Ornaments jangled and clinked. Footsteps thumped away.
Elizabeth's heart pounded into Henry's, so loud that it dulled the ache in her bruised ribs. Her fingers threaded through the soft strands of his hair, alternating between swirling fingertips over his scalp and gently tugging until she coaxed a moan that hummed through their lips. His hands slid down past her waist, hot and heavy, skimming the arch of her lower back, down, down, down—
"Guys." Stevie's voice was sharp with incredulity. "Can you at least try to keep it PG?"
"Yeah, Dad, quit mauling her," Alison said.
Henry laughed into the kiss and broke away. "I'm not mauling her."
But at the same time, Elizabeth turned to them and said, "I like it."
Stevie pulled a face. "Ugh... Gross."
Whilst Alison just stared up from the screen of her cell phone and gave them a look that said, 'Please tell me you did not just say that.'
Footsteps padded through from the dining room, and Jason emerged with the house phone clutched in his hand. He nodded towards the door. "DS said takeout's here."
"I've got it." Both Alison and Stevie shouted at the same time, and they scrambled up from the couch and hurried towards the front door.
Jason stared after his sisters with a puzzled frown. Then his gaze lowered to where Henry's hands currently rested. His nose wrinkled, and he recoiled, turned on his heel and disappeared into the dining room. His mutter trailed after him. "And I'm gonna go get plates."
'Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)' drifted through the room from the speakers balanced on the mantlepiece. Elizabeth smiled up at Henry, her arms loosely linked around his neck, whilst her whole body still thrummed with his presence. "So...what are we having?"
Henry smoothed his hands up to settle in the curve of her back. "Chinese. The greasy kind."
"God I love you." The words tumbled out in a breath.
He chuckled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. The lightness that danced in his expression lifted her heart like a warm current buoys a balloon. "DS bought you some of those walnut and red bean muffins too, so there's that and ice cream for dessert. Though they did ask me to tell you that there'll be no more early morning runs."
She shrugged. "Suits me just fine."
He brushed his thumbs against her lower back through the cotton of her shirt, the touch soft and warming. His gaze dipped for a moment, and when he met her eye again, there was a raw sincerity there. "I want to support you, but I know there's a big difference between me saying that and actually making it happen, and there'll be plenty of things we need to figure out, so I was thinking, if it's something you'd be comfortable with and if it's something you'd want too, I'd like to come to one of your sessions with you so we can talk about what you'd find useful and what you won't, and we can talk about anything else that you want to talk to me about."
"Like the dream that wasn't a dream?"
"Anything at all."
She toyed with the hair at his nape. "I'd like that." She gave him a soft smile. "Thank you."
He smiled back at her. "You're welcome." Then he leant in and brushed his lips over hers again, the touch featherlight. "And welcome home."
***
Henry
10:01 PM
"Well, that felt like a mix between 'This is Your Life' and '2 Minute Drill', and my diary's never been so full." The bathroom light clicked off, the background hum cut out, and Elizabeth's footsteps padded through to their bedroom. The soft thump of each step against the floorboards said that her feet were bare. "Do you think it would be okay if I asked Blake to organise my personal life too? I mean, he is my personal assistant, after all, so surely that's gotta be within his remit."
Henry chuckled. He slotted the book he had been pretending to peruse—The Intellectual Powers: A Study of Human Nature—back onto the bookshelf, and he pressed on its glossy orange spine until it slid into line with its neighbours.
The kids had taken his advice to make the most of their parents to heart, and they had spent all of dinnertime and all of the hour or so that they devoted to decorating the Christmas tree afterwards quizzing Elizabeth about the clinic, the CIA, her childhood...—everything was fair game in their smorgasbord of personal trivia, and for the most part, Elizabeth had indulged them. They had jostled with one another to arrange brunches, last minute Christmas shopping sprees, and movie nights with her too. (The movie nights were somewhat of a necessity, given that the cupboards in the pantry were now stuffed full of enough bags of popcorn and cans of apple soda to last them through the winter.)
Whilst the kids had bombarded their mother with their questions, Henry had enjoyed the simplicity of his own silence. Or, more accurately, he had enjoyed listening to the life in Elizabeth's voice as she talked, seeing the way her whole body lit up with each gesture, and hearing that touch of grit in her laughter. He had enjoyed the way she kept one hand on his knee beneath the table throughout dinner, the way she turned to him every other minute or so with a smile that felt as though it had been crafted just for him, and the way she snuggled into his chest as they curled up on the couch in the living room and directed the kids in hanging the ornaments from the tree. And more than anything, he had enjoyed how every so often she would look up at him, quirk an eyebrow, and coax him in for a gentle kiss.
The pad of footsteps neared, and he turned his chin to his shoulder, just in time to catch a glimpse of her ambling towards him, now wearing a pair of indigo plaid pyjama bottoms and the faded National War College tee he had given her on her first night at the clinic. The t-shirt was far too big on her, and it looked perfect. "You know you love it really."
"I do." Her voice turned wistful. She gave a short sigh. Then she wrapped her arms around him from behind and peppered kisses between his shoulder blades before breathing in a lungful of him and then resting her cheek against his back, just below the base of his neck.
The supple warmth of her body melted through him, and his eyes slipped shut. The tide of her breath rose against him and gave life to his inhale. It made him wonder how he had ever breathed without her, and at the same time, it reminded him that one day the time would come...
He tried to push the thought aside before its bitter ache could grip him again, but it lurked at the periphery, a wheeling vulture, ready to sweep in. He rubbed her wrists where they crossed in front of his stomach and then smoothed his hands up her arms, until his palm met jagged snags of—
She flinched, and her hold loosened.
His eyes snapped open, and he twisted around to face her as her arms fell away to her sides. A heavy frown gripped his brow. "What happened to your arm?"
A cut ran from just below her elbow to more than a third of the way along her right forearm, the margins of the scarlet line held together by twenty or so blue-threaded stitches.
"Oh, that?" She peered down at it as though she hadn't noticed it before, and then she looked up at him again and gave him a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. "Just glass from the explosion. Will patched it up for me though."
His frown deepened. Incredulity stained his tone. "You let your brother stitch up your arm?"
Her smile vanished. Her jaw tensed, and her chin jutted slightly to one side. "Well, he is a doctor, Henry. It's not like I let an accountant loose with a needle on my arm."
His eyes widened. "Even so. Siblings don't sew up other siblings' arms."
She hugged her arms across her chest, and her whole body shrank back from him whilst her gaze sharpened. The look in her eyes and her stance told him it would have been wise to quit this conversation before it had even begun. "You let our daughter—" Her hand chopped the air to the left of her. "—date my doctor—" Her hand chopped the air to the right of her. "—not to mention letting her yell at the Vice President of the United States about 'saving the freaking orphans'—" She tossed her hand up, her fingers spiked. "—so now not only do I get to enjoy the mortifyingly awkward conversation that is bound to ensue when she decides to invite her new boyfriend to a family dinner, but I'm going to have to suck up to Teresa Hurst the next time I bump into her at the White House or try and pretend like the whole thing never happened. And don't even get me started on you getting into an argument over me with Maureen. I mean, Hen-ry, I know that I left you in the lurch, but do you think—"
At the smile that blossomed on his lips during her rant, she stopped. The pinch in her brow tightened. "What?"
He stepped towards her, bringing them toe to toe, and as she gave him a somewhat suspicious look—apparently a smile was not the response she had been anticipating—he ran his hands up and down her upper arms and then massaged her shoulders. He relished the feel of her and the fact that she was here and he could touch her, even if she was ranting at him. Perhaps even relished the fact that she was ranting at him. "I'm just glad that you're you again."
She stared at him. Puzzled.
Then her frown collapsed in an instant, and her head bowed as she gave a soft huff of a laugh. When she looked up at him again, light danced in her eyes, and her voice softened. "Me too." She rested her hands against his waist, and as she plucked at his tee, her fingers and thumbs fumbling over the cotton, she swayed her hips into his and her gaze settled on his chest, just below the neckline of his t-shirt. "So, I was thinking...seeing as how I am me again and I'm here, and seeing as how you're here and you're you, and given that I'm not tired yet seeing as someone left me to nap all afternoon...maybe we could pick up where we left off earlier before the kids interrupted us, and we could kiss and cuddle for a bit?"
He arched his eyebrows at her, his lips twisted with a smirk. "Kiss and cuddle?"
"Kiss...cuddle..." Her shoulders rose in a shrug that didn't fall, and as she shook her head, the ends of her hair quivered around the line of her jaw and the silky strands caught shimmers of light. "...and if somehow I were to end up wearing nothing but your tee and if somehow you were to end up wearing nothing but my bracelet, then so be it." She stilled and her gaze flicked up to meet his. The glimmer in her eyes was all innocence and utterly sinful.
The thud of his heart trampled out all coherent thought. "God, I've missed you."
"Good." She grinned. Then she stretched up onto tiptoe, still clinging to his tee at his waist, and she leant in. With her chest pressed against his, her breath fanned hot across his cheek and her throaty whisper unfurled into the shell of his ear, causing a shiver to ripple up his spine and ignite every last nerve end. "I want you to hold me. I want you to touch me. I want to feel your skin on mine. I want you to kiss me. I want you to make love to me. Then I want you to—"
His head swam. It felt as though the fog of white light from the bedside lamps had seeped into his mind and left all his thoughts thick and hazy. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Well, for someone who claims she's not a fan of monosyllabic words, you sure know how to use them."
She laughed. That laugh that he loved—the one with a little snort at the beginning, the one that made his chest swell with a rush of warmth. Her hips arched further into him as she leant her upper body back just enough that she could smile up at him and bring her palms to rest against his chest. Her fingertips fluttered. "That's going to become a thing now, isn't it?"
He gave a small shrug, his lips downturning in sync, whilst his thumbs rubbed over her lower back through her tee as he held her against him. "Possibly."
She studied him, a slight flicker to her gaze, and as she did, the light in her eyes dimmed a fraction, like a breeze had swept in and blown out a single line of votives one by one. Then her smile withered too. Her chin dipped, causing her hair to sway forward. She shook her head. "Henry...I'm sorry. I should have—"
"Don't." He tilted her chin up, and looked her hard in the eye. He wanted to impress it on her mind. No more guilt. No more blame. Not now.
She paused for a moment—three seconds, maybe more—and then yielded a nod. She cracked a smile. It was only weak though. "I guess that's going to become a thing too."
"Not if you don't want it to." He tucked her hair behind her ear. All those years on and the strands still made silk feel coarse in comparison. He had learnt since then that her skin did too. The tract on the inside of her upper arm, the curve of her throat, the expanse of her inner thighs.
She stared up at him as his fingertips lingered over the strands. It looked as though she were seeking something from the depth of his eyes. Then the words poured out in a rush of breath; it gave them a certain vitality, a truth. "I love you."
"Good." He smirked. "Because I'm kinda fond of you too." Then his smile softened into sincerity. He brushed his thumb over the sweep of her cheekbone, and drew her up to meet him as he leant in and grazed her lips with his. "I love you."
When he deepened the kiss, she slid her hands up and tangled her fingers through his hair. She pulled him down against her lips and tugged at the strands, eliciting a sweet sting that heightened the throb of his pulse, whilst her chest crushed into his. Her lips parted, their tongues touched, and she gave a mix between a sigh and a humming sound.
But no sooner had the reverberation buzzed through him and scrambled all his thoughts again until the only thing left certain in the world was her than she drew back.
With a wicked smile, she raised her eyebrows at him, hooked her finger over the neckline of his tee and plucked at it so that it pinged against him. "Now, come to bed."
She took a step back, and then turned on her heel and sauntered away.
He blinked. Dazed. "Yes, ma'am."
At her laugh, he snapped back into focus and he looked to her, just as she reached the burnt-orange bench at the end of their bed. The white light from the bedside lamp framed her with its halo. But it cast shadows around her too, and the warmth that had overwhelmed him just a second before drained away as all those midnights and mornings when he had awoken to icy sheets and nothing but her scent, once so comforting but now a cruel reminder of her absence, flickered through his mind.
His mouth hinged open, and then closed.
He swallowed, his throat tight.
The words stumbled out, too thick and too heavy for the weightlessness of moments before. "Promise me you'll still be here when I wake up."
She stopped. When she turned to him, her smile had fled. She mustered a new one, though it was less playful, more bitter than before. "I promise I'll try my best."
Because no one knew what was around the corner, or where they would find themselves come the dawn. And a promise was not a truth, but an intent, and perhaps that they both tried their best was all that he could ask for. Hadn't it served them well so far?
She held out her hand. Her fingers thirsted for his.
He couldn't know where tomorrow would take them or when he'd find himself confronted with the prospect of life without her again. All he knew was this: No great height would ever be reached without the fear of falling.
And for her, he would fall time and time and time again.
And so he trusted himself to her and to that fear. He stepped towards her, his fingers outstretched. He took her hand.