***
I’m sitting in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows and sheets. My bedside table is covered in tablets from when I knocked over and shakily grabbed the container of pain pills in order to numb myself. Whether I meant that mentally or physically I have no clue, but I feel more settled.
I’ve just laid here waiting for the calm to settle back in. I didn’t hear it until the dusk starting to dawn on us, but now I’ve heard voices outside my door for a few minutes. They’re muffled, but I heard enough of them to know that Enzo and Zane are discussing my recovery. I can feel the backlash of the arguing already because I don’t need anyone worrying more about it.
I watch the door open and Zane wanders in, going to the dresser and moving some things around. I give him a few more seconds to explain what he’s up to, but he doesn’t even take into account I’m here.
“What are you two planning?” I ask as he turns to me, something encased in hand. “Doors aren’t soundproof, y’know?”
“Oh well, we were just commenting about how you defied the hospital rules and came home, so we now have to keep you rested until the funeral.” He watches me, approaching my bed and rolling the object around in his hand. “You were complaining about your toenails the other day,” he comments as he slowly approaches the bed. “So, I thought I would pamper you a little.” He holds up a bottle of red polish and I break into a small smile as his face radiates with his. “What do you say, sweetheart? You relax and let me look after you?”
“Won’t that dampen your masculinity?” I ask, mocking him gently.
“Nah,” he tells me, dropping onto the end of the bed. “I always thought that when we start to make a future, we’ll reach the point with kids where you wouldn’t see your feet for a few months and you’d need my expertise. I can call this practice.” He shrugs, lying down by my feet. He shakes the bottle and looks at me. “I’m a bit of a sap when I want to be.”
I say absolutely nothing as he says that and proceeds to start painting my nails. He’s thought of children with me. What’s left of my heart threatens to break once more and my fragility sends tears racing into my eyes, burning them. I’m yet to broach this subject with him for fear of his rejection, but who am I making the moment of truth worse for here? He or myself?
“Amelia?” he questions, breaking into the web of thoughts cast so thickly around me. “What’s wrong?”
I gulp back against the lump, forcing the tears to rid themselves. “It’s nothing,” I whisper to start. “I love that you’ve thought that far ahead, but I haven’t and I can’t. I panic at the type of mother I’ll be after the last couple of years of my life. I can’t love anyone else until I love myself. I can love you like I breathe, but loving myself is a job I’ve not yet managed.”
Stopping himself from painting my nails, his gaze settles lightly on mine and he gives me a reassuring grin before speaking. “You know, I will never force you to do anything you’re not ready for, right? I mean, I understand that whenever you cut free will mean you have to deal with demons that follow you. I will be by your side every step of the way and when you’re ready for it, we’ll take that step forward together.” He stops, speaking before going back to painting my nails. “I know more than you think I do.”
He doesn’t know the entire truth. I gulp, smiling at him. He’s already dealing with so much in this life and even though he’s made it quite clear that my issues are also his, this is something I wonder if it will be the final straw.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I watch him paint over my toe.
“For what?” he asks, not looking up quickly.
“For being you,” I remark quietly. “For still being here. So much has happened that a lot of men would’ve run from, but you’re still here.”
He smirks. “I’m not like a lot of men, Amelia.”
“Granted,” I comment with ease. “I thought a lot of bad things about your actions and motives before, but they only make me love you more and more. So much has happened that could’ve killed me in so many ways, but because of you I’m still here.”
“I just needed you to give a little hope to prospect of another world, and I’m sorry you guys see it this way.” He shakes his head in disappointment. Our grief is his and that is more than abundantly clear. “I wish there was something more I could do.”
“Come here,” I request, using my left index finger to lure him closer.
I don’t respond to his moment of delicateness, just wish he was closer. I would go to him, but my stomach is far too tender to move across the bed and fawn over him. I want to quit the worrisome nature in me and give in to everything we’ve worked toward. He screws the cap on the bottle and does as I request.