Page 92 of Lost in Love

His touch eases, lifts, but he doesn’t take a step back. He’s hesitant. Suspended in a moment neither of us is prepared for. Noah frowns, frustration taking over with the curve of his scowl. I can tell he’s struggling to express himself this way. Noah drops his head forward, like he’s giving up.

“We don’t have to do this now,” I finish.

His eyes lift to meet mine. “It’s not like that, Kelly. I’m just… I don’t even know where to start or what to say.”

“Okay.”

“I read it, but there’s parts I couldn’t even stomach to read.”

My heart jumps, my eyes swollen and with sadness we both know.Ugh, this feeling is just awful.

The regret thickens his voice, his eyes glossy and bloodshot. “Even the parts where you blamed me.”

Blamed him? I’m not expecting him to say that and the way it makes me feel, it happens in an instant, the pain hitting my chest, the numbness. “You would assume that, wouldn’t you?” My heart crumbles with every word, the hard beat increasing with every breath. It hurts to even draw in a breath, as if there’s something sharp stabbing me in the heart. I attempt to pull away.

When I do pull back, his eyes, they’re an angry storm cloud ready to destroy. “What else am I supposed to think?” The way his voice trails off has my heart in my throat again, and my skin prickling. “Everything you were feeling was justified, but you never once stopped to think it wasn’t anything you did. I was dealing with it too, in my own way. How is that wrong?”

I finally take in a breath, the sound sharp and sudden, as if I had been drowning and finally came up for air. When he speaks, when his hurt is out there, it becomes reality. One I’m not prepared to hear and the way it hits my chest like a brick, I don’t know how to react. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to think, but I need to go check on the kids.”

And I run away.

Twenty-Eight

Forever

(What does it mean?)

The skyaround us rumbles and growls, turning soup-colored, and I know the steady sprinkle is about to turn to a wall of rain. I just hope it’s not a tornado. Not only am I exhausted, physically and mentally, there’s no way I want to be stuck in a storm shelter with Noah waiting out a tornado warning. Been there. Done that. He hates confined spaces and makes everyone miserable because of it.

The air is thick and sweltering, like being stuck in a dryer with wet towels on the heat cycle. In turn, I’m sweating like you wouldn’t believe. When I ran away from the lake, I intended on going back to the house to check on the kids, but I didn’t. For some reason, I found myself running toward the barn. It’s that fight-or-flight instinct. I’m taking one out of Noah’s book and running away, as if I’m fleeing from an axe murderer, looking back every few steps to see if he catches up.

Being naturally athletic, Noah keeps up. The problem is I’m barefoot so Noah catches up with me fairly quickly. “I wasn’t fucking done talking to you, Kelly. Get back here so we can talk about this.”

Talk about it? It’s one of those moments where I want to physically hurt him, and that’s only happened a few times in our marriage. Almost every time it’s been while giving birth and in an extreme amount of physical pain. “No!” I scream back at him, thinking maybe he’ll give up.

Nope. Not a chance. Noah is an emotional hoarder. Some people hold onto their belongings, but Noah, he holds onto his feelings until he explodes. In his mind, the conversation is far from over, and he continues to chase after me. “Just fucking talk to me,” he shouts over the rolling thunder in the distance.

“Why should I? Because it’s convenient for you?” I continue to walk despite my lack of visibility between the tears and rain. In the distance, to the right, I can see the barn. The wind picks up, rain slapping against my cheeks.

“Because there are some things I need to say to you.” Like it’s that easy now that he wants to have this conversation. He’s right behind me now, our heavy steps silenced by a flash through the sky and a loud crack of thunder.

The sound stops me, and I glance back at him, throwing my hands in the air. Racing through thoughts, trying to wrap my mind around my own hurt, I ask, “Why? Wanna make me feel like shit some more?”

“Goddamn it.” He breathes deeply through his frustration. “I didn’t mean it like that. Let’s just talk about this.”

“I’ve tried.So many times.” I turn to completely face him, my hand on my hip. “You don’t get to avoid this conversation for a year, and then have it when you feel like it. It doesn’t work that way, Noah.” The more I yell at him, the less I feel like I’m making any sense. My stomach lurches, twisting into more anger and resentment.

“It does when you throw a journal at my head.”

“It didn’t hit your head.”

Smirking, he taps the mark on his temple where, in fact, it did literally hit him in the head. I hadn’t realized I threw it that hard, but then again, I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time.

Huffing out a groan, I turn back around and keep walking, hoping he will leave me alone. Of course, he doesn’t, never when I want him to, and I’m pissed to no end and ready to throat punch him. We’re getting to more uneven ground when I slip in the wet grass. He tries to help me, catch my fall, but I only shake off his touch and start running toward the barn. “God forbid I put you in a position where you haven’t carefully thought out your reply,” I yell back at him, sinking the knife in a little more.

He catches me when I reach the barn, soaked and breathing so heavy I can barely get the words out. Trapping me against the doors of the barn, he makes me look at him, streaks of lightning bolting across the dark sky behind him.

He searches my face for something he fears he won’t find, and I’m terrified he will. He refuses to let me go, his hands framing my face. “It’s not like that,” he says in defense, looking like he’s sick to his stomach. “None of this is easy to say, or hear, or read. But you can’t hand me a journal of hurt I caused and not give me a chance to defend myself. I went through it too. I was right there. I lost a daughter too.” His touch moves, his fingertips brushing over the swell of my breasts. “I know you feel this. I’m right here, and we owe it to ourselves andherto talk.”

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