I get a vision of Patrick and Tristan sitting close together on the couch, watching movies and chatting, and my heart constricts.
Wade would have given anything to have watched a movie with Patrick, to know him. To get the chance to tell him that he loved him. I imagine Patrick and how much he would have adored his father. They would have been best friends.
I angrily swipe the tears away, terrified that I won’t be able to stop crying when I need to. For five years I’ve cried here. It’s the only place my kids can’t see that I’m not coping. When the world gets too much, I go to my sadness sanctuary, the place where I can cry alone. I’ve cried buckets of tears in this shower. If the walls could talk, they would tell a very sad story indeed.
I close my eyes and take deep breaths, my ritual to stop the tears.
Breathe in . . . and out. Breathe in . . . and out.
It’s okay. It’s okay . . . stop crying. Stop crying. I shake my hands around and wash my face. I wash my hair and go through the process as I think of other things.
Other things I can deal with; other things don’t hurt.
Nothing could ever hurt as much as losing him.
My eyes fill with tears anew.
Stop it.
I get out, dry myself, and then dress in my pajamas. I put my head around the corner and see that downstairs all is in darkness.
Tristan would be lying on the couch down there, waiting for me to come and say good night.
I can’t.
I don’t want him to see me like this. I’m so fragile that I feel like I’m about to break.
And maybe I am.
I turn off the light, get into bed, and stare up at the ceiling as tears run down my face and into my ears.
I’ve never felt so guilty before. I’ve never done anything to ever feel guilt. I’m having some kind of personal crisis, but . . . it will be better in the morning. Everything is always better in the morning.
Go to sleep.
My door opens, and I close my eyes. I feel the bed dip. “Hey,” Tristan whispers. “Where’s my good night kiss?”
The lump in my throat is so big that I can’t speak. I screw up my face in the darkness.
Please go away.
He leans down to kiss me and stops. “You’re crying.”
“No, I’m not,” I whisper through tears.
“Hey.” He flicks the lamp on, and his face falls. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he whispers.
I scrunch my lips together tight, because nothing I say will make sense. Not even to me.
His eyes search mine. “What is it?”
I shake my head, embarrassed. “I’m just getting my period-overemotional,” I lie. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I get like this sometimes.”
He lies down beside me and pulls me into his arms and holds me tight, and the kindness of the act makes me lose it. I scrunch my face up in tears against his chest.
“Shh,” he murmurs into my hair. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
This isn’t who you are. Stop being so fucking nice!
“Yes,” I whisper.
He kisses my forehead as he holds me.
He feels so warm and here . . . and kind . . . and loveable . . . and here.
“I don’t like you being upset,” he murmurs. “I’m staying here with you.”
“No, Tris. You can’t-the kids.”
“I’m not leaving you upset like this,” he whispers.
“Baby, I’m fine. I’m just emotional. Hormones. It sucks being a woman sometimes. I’ll see you in the morning?” I smile through tears.
He pushes my hair back from my forehead as he stares down at me. The air swirls between us, and I want to blurt out why I’m crying.
Because I think that I love him and that I’m going to lose him too.
He opens his mouth, as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
Unspoken words hang between us, a promise . . . a feeling . . . a curse.
“Good night, Claire.”
I smile softly through tears, and I cup his face with my hand. I run my thumb over his stubble. “You’re such a beautiful man, Tristan,” I whisper.
He smiles. “Those hormones are making you crazy.”
I giggle, and then he bends and slowly kisses me. The guilt comes back, and I screw up my face in tears against his.
“Claire.” His eyes search mine. “Talk to me.”