Page 297 of Redeeming 6

It took me a while to recognize this morning’s song as LIVE’s “Lightning Crashes” and even longer to register the importance of that song for us. I turned my head to look straight ahead, feeling too much in the moment, too exposed and guilty.

This hurt.

It fucking burned and scorched me.

I knew what she was trying to accomplish by playing me this song, but I couldn’t get back there. Still, unable to stop myself, I allowed her to hold my hand under the desk. I allowed myself to absorb the feeling of her skin on mine, of her light temporarily chasing the dark away.

It wasn’t right, I was only hurting her further, but I needed this small scrap of affection. I needed her for just a little bit longer. Frozen to the spot, I allowed her to do whatever she wanted to me. God knows she owned me.

She entwined her fingers with mine and squeezed, and while I didn’t squeeze back, I couldn’t stop my thumb from tracing over her small knuckles.

I knew my actions were hurting her in a way that could send her away permanently, but I couldn’t stop myself anymore.

I couldn’t pull myself back out of the hole I’d fallen into.

Worse, a huge part of me didn’t want to.

91

He’s Waiting for Me

AOIFE

The father of my unborn child was a heroin addict. That was a painful admission. It hurt so bad I could hardly breathe.

For years, I had hung on every word that came from his mouth, too in love to see the warning signs and red flags dancing in front of my eyes. Unknowingly wearing my trust around my neck like a noose until it strangled me.

Even now, as I watched him crawl through my bedroom window and stumble toward my bed in the darkness, I couldn’t find it in my heart to send him away.

Because I was in love with him.

The boy he used to be.

The man he had become.

All of his versions.

I loved them all.

The mattress dipped and then he was there, shivering and trembling beside me. “Molloy.”

Clenching my eyes shut, I willed myself to hold on, to remember the boy still inside the ghost in my bed. “Joe.”

“I’m so c-cold.”

“Come here,” I whispered, moving on instinct as I rolled onto my side to face him and draped an arm over his chest.

“So f-fucking c-cold,” he slurred, teeth chattering violently as he clutched my forearm with both hands. “So f-fucking s-sorry.”

I knew he was.

He said it daily.

Showed it, too.

Problem was, afterward he continued to repeat the cycle.

He continued to drown his pain in the worst possible way.

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