Oh, no! No, no, no! What was I supposed to tell my mom? Why, oh, why Zayn? Why did you have to show her that painting?
We both stood, staring in horror at my mom, wondering what the hell to say.
Finally, I said, "No, Mom, don't be silly. When I found out he was from Leigh-on-Sea, I showed him some of my pictures. He said he wanted to paint a portrait of me, so he used one of those pictures as his inspiration."
"I don't remember seeing that picture, River," my mom insisted.
"Artistic license," you told her. "I re-created her the way I might have seen her on the beach, near my home."
She nodded, but I wasn't entirely convinced she was buying it. I decided to usher her out the door before she discovered anything else.
"Well, Mom, thanks for helping me settle in. I think I can take it from here." I hugged her tightly and then I whispered, "I still need you, don't forget that."
Her face softened and she left.
"Whew!" I breathed after I had closed the door.
"I'm so sorry," you said. "I don't know what I was thinking."
"How are we going to stop slipping up?" I asked, putting my arms around your waist and leaning my head on your chest.
"You mean, how am I going to stop slipping up?" You asked.
"It could very well be me next time," I assured you. "I've come close to saying things I shouldn't...too many times."
We just stood and held each other for a while. Then we made dinner together, almost giddy about the fact that we were finally home together.
You started going to therapy two times a week, while I went less frequently because I was doing better. At first, you would come home and talk about your experiences with Dr. Conyers.
Dr. Conyers was finally relenting on her Stockholm Syndrome theory, gradually believing our well-rehearsed stories. She couldn't tell me any specific details about your sessions, but sometimes I asked how you were doing. She would just reply with a generic, "He's making progress," or "I think this is very good for him."
You resumed your job as a handyman, and I worked as Coach Freeman's assistant swim coach. We were both happy with the hours and the flexibility so that we could work on therapy together and build our new life as well.
After you had been in therapy for about a month, I noticed a change in your moods. You seemed moody, tired, even depressed. I'd seen plenty of depression in my life, so I recognized it easily.
I tried to talk to you about therapy but you no longer wanted to confide in me. I started to fear the worst, something that I never imagined about you. I feared that you were starting to regret your decision to be with me.
I tried laying low for a little while, giving you some space. But after a week of you barely talking to me, I couldn't stand it. I knew you needed me, but I needed you, too.
One evening, after we'd eaten a quiet dinner, you went to our room and closed the door, as you'd been doing for the past several nights. I would usually crawl into bed after I was sure you were asleep.
But I was finally fed up. I went into our room without even knocking. I didn't even care if you were naked – neither one of us was in the mood for anything remotely physical just then.
"Zayn, can we talk?" I asked quietly.
You were lying there in the dark, doing absolutely nothing as far as I could tell. But you were still awake because you quickly shot back, "About what?"
I was hurt by the tone of your voice. You had never been anything but sweet towards me, but now you were making it sound like I was annoying you.
"We haven't talked in weeks."
"That's not true!" Your voice was punctuated with hostility. "We talk every day!"
"Yeah, discussing our work hours and deciding what to buy at the grocery store. That's not talking. I mean, let's talk about something meaningful."
You sighed deeply. "Fine, what?"
I was tempted to just walk out and sleep on the couch. But I didn't want to walk away. I wanted to get to the bottom of whatever was bothering you.
"I want to know what's wrong with you." I tried to keep my voice even and gentle.
"I'm fine," you snapped. You had always given me abbreviated answers during our first days at the cabin together, but you had never used that tone with me.
"You're not fine. You're not acting like yourself at all. You're not the tender and loving Zayn that I know."
"I don't know what to tell you, River. Maybe this is the real me!"
"No, its not!" I said, almost in tears. "I'm sleeping on the couch!" I yelled as I rushed out and slammed the door.
I heard your pleading voice softly calling after me, but I ignored you. If you wanted me badly enough, you could come after me. But you didn't.
I hoped to heaven that this wasn't the real you as I cried myself to sleep.
I let you have a few more days of quiet, but my heart was breaking. I didn't know what to do, so I put on a brave face and went to work and came home and cooked dinner for you, and then I tried to ignore the hurt that was building inside of me.
Finally, one Saturday morning, I'd had enough. Neither of us had to work, and I wasn't going to let you squirm out of telling me what was going on with you.
I lay there awake for a while, until you woke up. I stroked your face softly and ran my hands through your hair. You didn't resist and you actually looked relaxed for the first time in weeks.
"Will you please talk to me? I know something is bothering you, and I want to help."
Suddenly you weren't so relaxed anymore. "River, I already told you – I'm fine!" You let out an exasperated sigh and jumped out of bed. You rushed into the bathroom and locked the door. Within seconds, I heard the shower running.
Well, that went over like a lead balloon, I thought.
I got dressed and made some breakfast so you could eat when you got out of the shower. And then I was going to somehow coax you into talking to me.
You came out a bit later, wrapped in your towel. I looked away immediately, not wanting to get myself all hot and bothered by the sight of your naked body. You hadn't kissed me in weeks either, so I was desperate for some contact, some connection with you.
When you came out and sat at the breakfast table, I had everything laid out for you – tea, toast, fruit and some hard-boiled eggs.
We ate in silence. I really didn't want to anger you, but what you were doing to me wasn't fair either.
As you finished, I tried again. "Zayn-"
I didn't get any further than that when you shouted, "River! Just drop it! I'm fine!"
I flinched at the volume of your voice and I blinked back tears. You had never yelled at me before and somewhere in the past few weeks, you had stopped calling me "Love."
"You're not fine! I'm not stupid, Zayn! What is going on?!" I moved to kneel in front of you and tried to reach out for you, but you threw my arms away from you.
"Don't touch me!" You screamed.
"Why?" I started crying but I wasn't going to back down. I tried to hold you, hug you, somehow touch you to help you calm down. But you threw my arms off of you again, causing me to fall backward, landing on my bum.
"So, is this over, then?" I screamed. "You want me out?!"
"Maybe."
That one simple word made my heart shatter. That's what it was – you didn't know how to tell me it was over.
"Fine!" I hollered. "I'll start packing my things!"
I went to our bedroom, which was soon to be only yours once again. I sobbed and cried, not even bothering to wipe away the tears and snot streaming down my face.
Then I heard you scream the loudest, angriest scream I'd ever heard, coming from your mouth. I cautiously went back out to the kitchen just in time to see a glass leave your hand and shatter when it hit the wall, right next to my head.
I froze and looked at you in terror. What was happening to you, to us?
You finally realized how close the glass had come to hitting my head. The look on your face was heart-wrenching. You finally stuttered, "I...I'm so sorry. I wasn't trying to hit you."
When I still stood in the same spot, rooted to the floor in shock, you gently came to me and put your arms around me. I stiffened at first, but when you whispered, "I'm so sorry, love," I melted in your arms, letting a fresh round of tears take over.
You called me love.
"I don't want you to move out," you whispered, still holding me so close that I could hardly breathe, but it was a good feeling to be in your arms again. "Please don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere," I assured you. "I will be here for you, no matter what you're going through. I promised, remember?"
"Then why were you going to leave?" You asked innocently.
"I thought you wanted me to go."
"Never. Please don't ever go."
"I told you I'm staying. But will you please talk to me? You can tell me anything. You know I love you."
You took a deep breath and answered, "That's the problem; I don't know what's wrong."
"Why didn't you just tell me that?" I wrapped my arms around your neck and pulled you in for a quick kiss.
"I wanted to have it all figured out, you know," you said, rolling your eyes in embarrassment. "I wanted to handle it myself and not burden you with it."
"Well, to be honest, you did burden me because I've been so worried about you."
"Maybe you can help me figure it out then, yeah?" You gave me a pouty look that made me laugh.
I helped to clean up the broken glass, and then we sat on the sofa for the rest of the morning, just chatting. I didn't try to pull any more feelings out of you. We held each other, kissed a little and just enjoyed being connected again.
Sadly, the peace didn't last long. After another week of work and therapy appointments, you were back to your moody, crabby self.
Friday night, I expected you might be more willing to talk to me since our breakthrough the previous weekend. I thought that maybe I could help you to figure out the reason for your depression.
"So, what's wrong, Zayn?" I asked lightly.
"I told you I didn't want to talk about it," you muttered.
"No, you told me you didn't know what was wrong with you."
"Well, now I don't want to talk about it!"
Great, we were back to the yelling and screaming.
"You don't really have a choice, you know," I told you. "I promised I wouldn't leave, and I'm not going to leave. You can't avoid me forever."
"Well, maybe you should avoid me! Maybe you should leave now because I know you will eventually."
"Don't you dare tell me what I'm going to do!" I cried. "I promised we would be together forever, and I meant it. And I'm going to marry you. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"God, River! Just back off, okay?" You walked over to the living room window and glared out, as if the conversation was over.
"No, I'm not backing off! I'm here whether you like it or not. I am not walking away!"
I stomped over to you and wedged myself between you and the window, forcing you to look at me.
"Are you listening? I want to help you!"
You gritted your teeth and said, "I don't want to talk right now."
"Too bad!" I screamed.
The next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. You gave me a vicious look. Then you drew your arm back, forming a fist and you let your arm fly directly towards my face. In a split second, you threw your fist through the window behind me, shattering it into a million pieces.
I slumped to the floor and wept uncontrollably. You almost hit me!
You hit the floor right in front of me, tears streaming down your face. "Oh, my god! I didn't mean that, I really didn't! I would never hurt you. You pulled me into your embrace and sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry, love. Please forgive me, I would never hurt you."
The sound of your pitiful pleas made me feel like my heart had been stabbed. I comforted you, hushing you and telling you of course I forgave you.
You reached up to move a strand of hair off my cheek and I noticed your hand was bleeding profusely.
"Oh, my god!" I grabbed your hand and knew we had to go to the ER immediately. I raced to the bathroom, grabbed a large towel, and back to you. I choked on the sickness in my throat when I saw the blood pulsing from your wrist. I wrapped your hand tightly, bent your arm so that your hand was resting on the opposite shoulder, and I told you to put as much pressure on it as you could.
Then I headed for the door, but you still sat on the floor in a daze. I went back and pulled you up, saying, "Let's go!"
You followed me blindly and I became worried that you were losing too much blood. I debated about calling an ambulance, but the hospital wasn't too far, so I shoved you into my car and jumped into the driver's seat.
I'm sure it only took me about three minutes to come to a screeching halt in front of the emergency entrance at the hospital. And I'm also sure that I didn't follow the speed limit.
As soon as I opened the passenger door, emergency personnel flocked to the vehicle, shooing me out of the way and dragging you onto a stretcher.
I gave the security guard my key and he parked the car for me.
I sped along after you and watched as they unwrapped the blood soaked towel. You seemed to be dazed, enough so that you didn't answer when the doctor asked, "What happened?"
"He...um, punched a window," I said, hoping it didn't make you sound too crazy.
"Domestic dispute?" He asked while examining your hand.
How should I answer that? I wondered.
"Ma'am?" The doctor urged.
"Yes," I squeaked. "We were fighting."
"Do you want to file a police report?" He asked.
Wasn't his mind supposed to be focused on the patient right now, not on me?
"No! It wasn't anything like that," I insisted. "We were both fighting. He got angry and put his fist through the window." I conveniently left out the fact that you were actually trying to hit me.
The nurse had already started an IV, the doctor and his assistants were already talking stitches, of course. I squeezed my way around the doctors and nurses so that I could be by your side. I ran my fingers through your hair and tried to soothe you with my voice.
You looked awful. Your face was extremely pale, your breathing was shallow, and your eyes kept fluttering closed like you couldn't stay awake. I was a lifeguard - I knew the symptoms of shock when I saw them, but I couldn't believe that you looked so bad after cutting your hand.
"What's wrong with him? Why does he look like that?" I was desperate for a response, but everyone's attention was squarely on you, as it should have been. I tried to glean as much as I could from what the doctors were saying. I heard the words transfusion, heart rate and blood loss tossed around and I became alarmed. How much blood had you really lost?
I looked around the room, trying to find a mirror. I noticed one above a small sink. I turned to look over my shoulder, and all I saw on the back of my shirt was blood. I guess that I hadn't fully understood how much you were actually bleeding. I looked at the discarded towel on the floor; it looked like it had been soaked in red dye.
I whispered into your ear, "Hang in there, babe. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you. Ever."
But when alarms started beeping loudly, an intern came and ushered me out of the room, very much against my wishes. As I was dragged away, wailing and pleading for them to let me stay, they were starting CPR on you.
I had told you many times that I would never leave you. But suddenly, all of my fear was poured into one thought: you were leaving me.