Page 43 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
I thought about that woman, dancing barefoot on the beach, laughing with strangers who'd become friends for a night. She felt both like me and like someone I was still trying to become.
I turned off the light and lay in the dark, listening to him moving around downstairs, and wondered if wanting to fix something was enough when you weren't sure it could be fixed.
Chapter 19: Expensive Revelations
~Caden~
Sitting sat at the kitchen table long after she'd gone upstairs, I found myself staring at the two forks we'd shared and the empty plate between us. The house felt different with her in it—unexplainable, really—not whole, but less hollow than it had been while she was gone.
I pictured her sleeping in the guest room. My fingers itched to touch her—to play with her hair. My lips burned to kiss her face. My arms longed to just hold her. And my heart ached to repair hers.
I scrubbed until the fork squeaked against porcelain, until the soap bubbles thinned to nothing. Maybe if I kept scrubbing, I could scrape away more than pasta sauce. I wanted Felicity to wake in the morning knowing I spent time taking care of this—hoping she would see that I will do this exercise with everything messy and disastrous in our life.
The counters gleamed, the sink was dry, every dish stacked like soldiers in a row. Still, the room felt hollow, like it was waiting for something I couldn’t scrub back into place.
I walked to the window and looked out at her garden—really looked at it this time. In the moonlight, I could make out the different areas, including the bench where she would probably sit in the morning tomorrow since the weather was going to be nice.
How many times had I walked past this window without seeing what she'd built? How many mornings had I missed her sitting out there, reading, thinking—just being?
I pressed my hand against the cool glass. The conversation kept replaying in my head—her voice breaking when she explained having to fly to another state to remember who she was. The way she'd looked at me when I listed the plants in her garden, shocked that I'd noticed anything at all.
Then why didn't any of that matter when it came to remembering my birthday?
Because I'm an idiot. I'd said it, and I'd meant it, but it felt too simple. Too easy. I wasn't just an idiot—I was a man who'd gotten so lost in his own priorities that he'd forgotten the most important thing in his life was sitting right next to him, slowly disappearing.
My phone buzzed.
Cash:How'd it go?
I stared at the screen, sighing as I tried to figure out how to answer. How did it go? She came home. She talked. She didn't leave. But she also didn't forgive me, and she shouldn't have.
Me:We talked, but she's still sleeping in the guest room.
Cash:Fuck. I'm sorry man.
Me:No, it's good. I mean, not good… but fair, you know?
Cash:You doing okay?
Me: We're going to try therapy.
Cash:That's something, yeah?
Me:Yeah. Maybe.
I set the phone down and walked through the house, turning off lights, checking the front door. Going through nighttime routine helped settle me—even though nothing about this was normal. At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and listened. No sound from upstairs. She was probably passed out—exhausted from traveling and from everything we'd just been through.
I wanted to go to her. Not to try anything, not to push. Just to check—does she have enough blankets? Was the room too cold? Did she notice I had swapped out one of her pillows so I could still feel her with me?She probably did—she notices everything.
But I couldn't. I knew she wouldn't want me to come knocking tonight—for any reason. So, I walked by the room, grazing my fingers on the door lightly as I passed.
In our bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. Her jewelry box on the dresser. Her books on the nightstand. Pictures of us from various points over these last years—all scattered around like evidence of a life I'd somehow lost track of.
There was one from our second anniversary. We'd gone to that little inn in Vermont, spent the whole weekend hiking and talking and making love like we were still discovering each other. In the picture her laugh froze mid-burst—her throat arched, hair tangled by the Vermont wind.
When had I stopped looking at her like that—seeing her for this absolutely amazing woman?
The truth was, I did remember. I remembered who I used to be—the man who woke her up early to watch sunrises, who surprised her with concert tickets, who wanted to experience everything for the first time with her. That man was still in me—he'd just gotten buried under deadlines and deals and the relentless paceof trying to prove I was successful enough, important enough, worthy enough.
