Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
16
Noah
“Maxwell is my son?”
The words don’t make the least bit of sense, but when I say them out loud again, they fall into place. “Maxwell is my son.”
Devastation tears Liv apart right before me, her tears falling as silent sobs wrack her naked body. I can’t seem to make myself move to comfort her. All I can think about is the little boy in the next room.
As if I’d been drowning, I break the surface, suddenly feeling everything all at once—air in my lungs, the sound of a siren somehow reaching this building’s floor, my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room as if it’s noon.
I go to the bathroom and begin pulling on my clothes. I don’t care about wrinkles or that I’m tugging on clothes that were left in a pile on the floor. I just need to be ready.
For what?
A conversation with her?
To barge into that bedroom to wake up the baby? My baby.
Call my brothers, or talk to my mom?
I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to do, but my thoughts are too muddled to think clearly. Before I button my shirt, I go to the sink and splash water on my face, hoping it wakes me from whatever this is—nightmare, daydream, requiem, celebration. “Fuck,” I mutter as water drips from my chin.
I look up and see Liv in the mirror—her beauty, full defenses in place under crossed arms, and the vulnerability of fear hanging in her eyes. Clothed in a short robe, she leans against the doorframe, cautiously watching me. I grab the towel off the nearby bar and dry my face before tossing it on the counter and turning around.
She says, “I know you’re angry.” I hate hearing her voice shake, and then I see her hand doing the same.
“I’m not angry, Liv. I just need to sit with this before—”
“Before what? I need to know what you’re thinking, Noah. Can’t you understand that the silence or the blowup was my fear all along? But at least if you’re yelling, I know where you stand.”
That only leaves one place for me to reside in this situation—in the middle of the two. Keeping space between us, I lean against the counter. I’m a big guy. My voice can boom if I lose it, and I don’t want to lose it with her. The last thing I’d want to do is to scare her. I lower my voice, trying my best to keep it even. “I’m not mad at you. I just need . . .” I rub my forehead, hoping to get clarity before speaking, but nothing in my past has prepared me for this. “It’s taking everything inside me not to go into that room right now.”
Looking at the floor between us, she closes her eyes, but when she looks up, the fear’s subsiding, curiosity growing in her expression. “What would you do if you could go into his room?”
I glance at the door where she’s standing, estimating the steps to the baby’s room from here. “Hold him again. If I would have known . . .” A pain in my chest grows, resentment sneaking in and feeding the ache. I look away, not wanting to carry that burden, not wanting to assume I know the full story before she tells me. “I wouldn’t have put him back in the crib. I would have held him all night if I could.”
Her crying voids my pain. If I can’t process my feelings, I can only imagine what she’s going through. This isn’t just about me. It’s about all three of us in different ways.
Closing the space between us, I should probably ask before I take her into my arms, before closing my eyes and dipping my head against hers, before reassuring her that everything will be alright when I don’t know if it will be. But I don’t. I just do it. I do it because she’s in pain, and although it’s unlike mine, it’s not less intense.
She’s diminished in my arms as if the truth being put into the universe has stolen a part of her existence as well. When her arms come around me, her cries soften, though. It’s a small positive at the base camp of the tumultuous mountain we’re being forced to climb. I don’t know the emotions that will be shed along the way, but I’ll take the risk if we can get to the top with less weight dragging us down.
I whisper, “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Lost.” Her arms squeeze me even tighter. “What happens next?”
Reaching around me, I take hold of her hands and bring them between us. I rub the softness of her skin, needing the connection as much as I assume she does. “We’ll get through this. Nothing will happen to him.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just know that Maxwell is safe, and I intend to make sure he stays that way. “Don’t be afraid.”