“Yes,” I breathe out.
We both stare into each other’s eyes, and for a split second the world disappears, and all there is is him and me. But just as I’m starting to enjoy this unexpected moment of truce, I feel something isn’t right.
“No… No. No!” I shout, pushing my chair back and running to the ensuite in my bedroom.
I slip off my pants and sit on the toilet, grabbing toilet paper to wipe myself with. When I bring it back up and see droplets of blood on it, hot tears begin to blur my vision. It’s only when I catch movement in my peripheral, that I see Tiernan is standing at my bathroom’s door, watching me.
“You got your red, husband. Happy?”
He frowns.
I let my tears fall as I slump onto the bathroom tile floor, uncaring that I’m letting him see me like this.
Logical thought tells me that not getting pregnant the first month that I’m actively trying to is to be expected. That sometimes it can even take years for a woman to conceive and that I should just brush this off and not take it as my own personal failure. But even as I try to gain some perspective that this is normal, and that I should expect such disappointment in the future, my heart still weeps for the love that is just outside my grasp.
I’m so consumed with my suffering that I don’t even pay attention to Tiernan’s actions until he’s kneeled down right beside me, brushing away the strands of my hair that are glued to my cheeks from my tears.
“Shh, acushla. Shh,” he whispers, placing gentle kisses to my wet cheeks and eyelids.
My shoulders tremble with each sob that comes out, unable to control the wave of sadness gutting me. I don’t even complain when Tiernan begins to undress me, peeling off my shirt, pants, and the stained panties that mock me for my failings. He then picks me off the floor and walks me over to the bathtub. Sometime during my grief, he must have managed to fill the tub with warm water. He gently lays me in it, and once I’m fully submerged, he kneels down beside me, folding his sleeves just above his elbow. He then picks up a bottle of liquid soap, fills his palms with it, and begins to wash my trembling form.
Misery has made me too exhausted to fight him off, and a part of me actually yearns for his soft caress, as if it could solve all my problems. I blink my tears away, biting my bottom lip to control the sobs that refuse to stop, as he ever so gently lavishes my every limb and soft curve with the floral-smelling soap.
We don’t say anything as Tiernan thoroughly lavishes my body with white suds and then rinses me off. With the same care and attention, he washes my breasts and in between my legs without uttering a salacious or mean word. None of this is sexual, which not only surprises me, but also has my heart shattering that my husband is even capable of such selfless care. Once he’s satisfied that my body is clean, he then begins to wash my hair with the same devoted attention.
My tears subside with the feel of his strong fingers washing each strand. He then rinses the shampoo out of my hair, shielding my eyes with his hand as he goes about it. Every action has my heart beating a song I never thought it could. A song that only Tiernan could ever coax from me. I let him pull me out of the water and wrap me in a towel to dry me off. He then picks me up and sits me on the sink, making my throat dry in anticipation of what he’ll do or say next. I’m afraid to utter a word, thinking that my voice will somehow break this spell he’s under.
As unlikely as it seems for a man like him, Tiernan is being kind.
More than that.
He’s taking care of me. Loving me—in his own way.
And after all the bruises and cuts that he’s inflicted on my heart, I soak in his kindness like a flower soaks up the sun to prevent it from withering away in the shadows.
Tiernan then picks up my hairbrush and begins to disentangle my wet hair. I can’t remember a time anyone has ever done this for me, or even anyone who made such an effort to ensure I’m well taken care of. Once my hair is properly brushed to his standards, he goes back into my room and brings in my pajamas. When I understand that his intention is to dress me in them, I gently grab his wrist and shake my head.
“I can take it from here,” I whisper.
His disappointed frown is immediate, but he relents and walks out of the bathroom to give me some privacy. I can’t help my own displeasure resurfacing when he leaves the room, ending the rare moment of tenderness, but it had to be done. The next thing I’ll have to do, I’d rather do in private without his intense eyes on me. Once he’s closed the door behind him, I carefully jump off the sink’s counter and put in a tampon before I get dressed. I blow dry my hair just enough for it not to be wet when I go to bed. I’m too exhausted for anything other than sleeping my grief away.
It’s only when I open the door to my bedroom and see Tiernan sitting at the edge of the bed that I realize he never strayed far, even when I told him to go.
“You stayed.”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
I shake my head and walk towards the bed. I slide under its covers, watching my husband slowly take off his clothes until he’s left only in boxers. My gaze never trails down his beautiful body, no matter how much it craves to see him in all his glory. I keep my eyes on his face at all times and don’t move an inch when he climbs in next to me. It’s only when he wraps his arm around me so I can lie cradled against his warmth that I let out a sob at how perfect he’s being.
“Sleep, acushla. Sleep.”
I nestle my head on his chest and close my eyes, loving the feel of his hand stroking my back ever so lightly. And it’s with the sound of Tiernan’s heartbeat that I’m lullabied to sleep, to dream of a world where the only version that existed of my husband was this one.