Page 45 of Your Sharpest Edge
Alex’s eyes softened as he stepped aside to let us in, his presence a temporary Band-Aid to my bruised soul.
Inside his apartment, the familiarity of his space, the warmth and safety it represented, made me feel a tiny bit lighter. Just as I was starting to feel better, the baby stirred in the carrier and fussed. I started to lactate, and all of it sent me into a crushing moment where my knees gave out. I braced the countertop as I fell down, listening to the wails of my newborn.
“Give him to me,” Alex said, dropping down and unclipping me from the carrier. “I don’t know how to hold him, but I’m going to pretend he’s like a hockey stick I’m holding out to get taped up.”
I laughed through the snot pouring from my nose. “Hold his head, like a football.” I coached him.
“Wrong sport, malyshka. I have no idea how to hold a football, but I’ll try.”
Malyshka . . . there was that name again . . .
He grabbed the baby from me, and Damien looked so small in Alex’s arms. I looked down, and I was leaking through my shirt.
“I look horrible,” I said as I glanced at Alex, who looked as devastatingly beautiful as he always does. He was wearing jeans and a button-down...
“Wait.” I let the carrier fall to the floor. “Were you going out?”
“Yeah, I was planning on it?—”
“Oh my God.” I threw my hands in defeat. “I’m so sorry. You don’t need me here, crying at your door. This is fucking absurd.”
“No. I told you I would always be there for you,” he whispered, which only made it worse.
“No,” I cried. “That’s not it. I’ve been horrible to you. You helped me when I needed you the most, and I never even thanked you. It’s been two months, and I haven’t even come over to say hi. I was trying to recover, and then my mom came. Honestly, when I got back, I had no idea what time or day itwas for the first week, even though he was in the NICU for a month...”
Alex walked over to me, gently repositioning Damien in his arms until he was nestled comfortably in the crook of his elbow. He grabbed my waist and pulled me into his chest, holding me tightly.
“I was horrible to you when you told me you were pregnant,” he murmured into my hair. “I was a shitty person and ran away because I was scared of what this might look like. I thought maybe you’d fall completely in love with him and somehow forget about me?—”
“I’d never forget you.” My heart sank deep into my chest as the words came out of my mouth.
Somewhere down the line, maybe when he stayed with me while I freaked out in the hospital about Damien coming too soon, I may have developed feelings for him.
Feelings that terrified me.
He was always there, a steady presence when everything else seemed to be falling apart. The way he always opened the door for me, the quiet reassurance, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. It was comforting, intoxicating even, and I found myself drawn to him in ways I couldn’t explain, or rather, ways I refused to acknowledge.
Every lingering glance felt like a betrayal to the vows I had taken. I was married, bound to someone else by promises and love that once felt unbreakable. But here I was, teetering on the edge of an emotional abyss, feeling things for another man I never should have allowed myself to feel.
Guilt gnawed at me. Yet, the magnetic pull he had on me was undeniable. He was my rock, my confidant, the one who understood my fears and dreams without judgment. In my most vulnerable moments, he was there, his presence a balm to my wounded spirit.
The conflict inside me was relentless. I was so upset with him for the way he ignored me while I was pregnant, but I couldn’t be because he had every right to live his life the way he deserved. He should be going out with his friends, not staying at home with me. Yet he filled a void I hadn’t realized existed, and the more time I spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the growing affection.
That was it—I broke down. I sobbed deeply, loudly, and uncontrollably in his arms, the floodgates of my pent-up emotions finally giving way. As I fell apart in his arms, Alex’s comforting scent of rich bourbon and lemon enveloped me. It was the first time in so long that I was safe, even though I was surrounded by my husband and mother daily. This was what home felt like.
But in his embrace, guilt flooded my mind. How could I have failed to stop by or even thank him for his unwavering support? I longed for him—for the sense of belonging he provided. Yet, it was overwhelming. He would never be mine, and that realization brought a deep sadness that pierced through the fleeting comfort of his arms.
Slowly, I pulled away from him, disentangling myself from his embrace. My breasts, which were leaking, brushed against his chest, and we both looked down, his face suddenly anxious.
“I don’t know how to help you with that.” He coughed awkwardly.
I managed a weak smile through my tears. “It’s okay. Only Damien can help with this problem.” I tried to make it sound lighthearted, but a pang of sadness hit me. Alex was my rock, my safe haven, but he was never mine to keep.
“You can go out,” I whispered as I reached for the baby, who had started to fuss and look around for milk. “I’m sorry I stopped by.”
He stopped me. “Can you stop doing that? Please. I told you I would be here. I opened the door.” He gestured over to the couch. “Where do you want to nurse him?”
“Anywhere. The couch is fine.”
