Page 105 of The Weight Of Falling
“That’s a good idea. Get it out in the open,” she says. “I should go. Grandma’s still demanding ocean sounds, and Google’s now playing theJawstheme. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up, and the quiet settles heavy around me.
Joel. At an AA meeting.
Tess seeing him walk into the building isn’t proof. We could be jumping to conclusions, but it would explain a lot.
It’s scary to imagine what he’s been through. To know he’s still fighting it and probably will be for the rest of his life.
I have no idea what it’s like to live on the edge of a dark place, to fight the urge to step over it every day.
My anxiety flares, but I remind myself it’s Joel, who, despite all his shadows, has only ever shown me gentleness and restraint. The wildest I’ve seen him was in the storeroom. He was barely holding on to his self-control, but he didn’t hurt me. And yes, the hint of roughness was exciting.
Does his past scare me a little?Yes.
Could I be with someone carrying a past like his?Also yes. Because he isn’t pretending it away. He’s facing it. Most importantly, he’s trying. And that matters.
His addiction isn’t his whole story. It’s part of his story. We all have parts we’re not proud of. I want to accept every version of him.
I sit at the kitchen table and stare at nothing in particular. A heavy feeling settles in my chest.
Joel has his shadows. And maybe, in my own quieter way, so do I.
Mine might not look like escaping into a bottle. But mine take the shape of saying yes when I want to say no. Shrinking myself to make other people comfortable. Keeping the peace even when it comes at the cost of my own.
I’ve spent so long trying to be the easy one. The soft one. The one who smooths things over, keeps everyone happy, never asks for too much.
Somewhere along the way, I started confusing kindness with self-erasure.
Maybe that’s why I understood Joel’s restraint even before I had words for it. Because I know what it’s like to carry the weight of expectations you never agreed to but still feel responsible for. I know what it’s like to keep parts of yourself locked away, just in case they’re too much for someone else to handle.
His shadows are louder. Mine are quieter. But they both come from the same place—fear, control, the desperate hope that if we manage ourselves well enough, no one will leave.
And yet, he didn’t leave when I was a mess. When I cried, when I panicked and blurted out that we were fake engaged, when I broke into his studio...he stayed.
A car pulls into the driveway. I push back my chair and cross to the living room window.
Joel.
43
I open the door, tension winding in my chest.
Joel stands stiffly on my porch, hands in the pocket of his jacket. “Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low.
“Oh, so now you want to talk?” The words come out sharper than I intend. I hear the pettiness behind them, but I’m still hurt by the way he treated me in front of his foster parents. Knowing what he’s battling softens some edges, but it doesn’t erase the humiliation.
His dark eyes plead for me to hear him out. “Kenzie, please.”
“Please, what? Please sit there and listen while you dish out more half-truths? While you decide how much I’m allowed to know?”
He flinches. “I want to apologize,” he says. “You surprised me, and I...” He pushes out a hard sigh. “I didn’t handle it well.”
“No, you didn’t.” My arms hug my waist. “You hurt me. It felt like you were ashamed of me.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not that. It’s never that.”
