Page 101 of Only and Forever

Playlist: “Cherry Wine—Live,” Hozier

I can’t sleep. I’ve never been a very deep or long sleeper, my brain often waking me up at night, bursting with ideas, my body humming with the need to do something about them. The past two weeks, though, have been unprecedentedly rough.

I’ve barely slept at all, even with how exhausting the days have been—the bookstore busier than I’d ever let myself hope it would be; coaching kids’ soccer practice on Wednesday evenings after the shop closes and games before the store opens on Saturday mornings; waking up early to bake and prepping for the next day late at night; all of it with Tallulah by my side, in the store, on the field, on the couch, typing steadily on her laptop.

It doesn’t matter how exhausted I am, because my brain can’t stop fixating on what’s coming, what I’ve been dreading—the end of our agreement, being roommates, coworkers, sharing life and home.

And Tallulah isn’t ready to talk about it.

The past two weeks, I’ve woken up halfway through the night, staring at the ceiling, trying to remind myself what I promised her, what we agreed to, when we both said we wanted to try, together, to see where this would go—no shoulds, no timetable.

But, I’m learning the hard way, sometimes things sound good in theory, while in practice, they suck.

Insomnia having struck again, I sit in the main living area’s two a.m. darkness, knitting baby Bergman-MacCormack number three’s blanket, swaying in my rocker, headphones on for a reread of one of my favorite historical romances, one side half-off so I can hear the dogs down the hall in my room, if they start barking at something in the middle of the night, which they occasionally do. I don’t want them to wake Tallulah, who has been wearing herself out, working at the store all day with me, writing all evening, waking up early with me in the morning, sharing coffee and plans for the day. Forourday.

“Chapter twenty-two,” Mary Jane Wells reads.

I swear under my breath, tapping the rewind arrow on the app. I’ve zoned out. I missed the whole last chapter. That’s been happening a lot lately. This is how bad I have it. I can’t even focus on a romance novel.

I’m a mess.

Just as the chapter begins again, Juliet trots into the room, Romeo following her. She whines and jogs down the hall toward Tallulah’s room.

I frown, setting down my knitting needles and blanket in progress, tugging off my headphones. That’s when I hear what must have drawn Juliet, a faint, high-pitched beep coming from Tallulah’s room.

My heart races. I know what that beep means. I’ve seen Tallulah’s phone go off, the app on her phone, which she explained is connected to her continuous glucose monitor, beeping to alert her that she’s too low or too high. She’s told me if I hear that beeping in the night and it doesn’t stop, that I can come bang on her door and make sure she’s awake before she gets too high or too low.

The beeping stops, which is a small relief. I realize I’m holding my breath, so I force it out, force myself to take a deep, slow breath in, then breathe out. I count seconds, listening closely, trying notto worry. She only said to make sure she’s awake when the beeping keeps going, but what if it malfunctioned? What if she’s still not okay?

I’m emptying my lap of my knitting materials, tugging off my headphones from where I set them curved around my neck, when I hear the muffled sound of crying—Tallulah crying. I bolt out of my rocking chair, rush down the hall, past the dogs. I knock hard on Tallulah’s door. “Lula? You okay?”

Her voice answers right away, but it’s faint and hoarse. “Y-yes.”

I press my forehead to the door, exhaling heavily. I’m relieved that she answered, that she’s well enough to tell me she’s okay. But I’m also struggling so hard, anxiety pulsing through me. It doesn’t feel like enough, to stand here with a door between us, with only that shaky reassurance to hold on to.

“Lula,” I say loud enough so she can hear me through the door. “Can I...” I swallow roughly, then take a deep, slow breath. “Can I come in?”

There’s a beat of silence, then another hoarse, unsteady “Yes.”

I open her door instantly, speeding into the room. She lies curled up on her side in bed, blue hair fanned out across her pillow, tears streaking down her cheeks as she clutches a juice box and sucks steadily on the straw. My heart plummets to the soles of my feet.

“Lula.” I rush toward her.

She sniffles as I kneel beside her. I want to touch her so badly, do something, help somehow, but I’m unsure what would feel good, what might make things worse.

“I’m okay,” she mutters. The bubbly sound of the last of her juice disappearing through the straw echoes in the room.

I stare at her, my hand moving across the sheet toward hers, which rests limply on the bed. “Can I...” I search her eyes. “Can I do anything? Can I help?”

Her pinkie brushes my fingertip, then hooks around mine. Wearily, she tips the juice box my way. I take it from her, then set it on her nightstand.

Tallulah gropes for her phone on the mattress, then opens it, peers at the app, and sighs. “Fruit snacks?” she asks quietly. “In my nightstand drawer?”

Relieved to have something to do, some small way to help, I turn to open the drawer and pull out a pack of fruit snacks.

“One more,” she says quietly, then adds, “Please.”

I pull out another fruit snack bag, then set both of them on her bed. I tear one open and hold it out for her. She reaches inside, cups the bag’s entire contents inside her hand, then drops them into her mouth. Her eyes shut as she chews, and a heavy sigh leaves her. She seems so... weary. So tired.

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