Ryan never lied to me before.
He sighs and looks at me kindly. He reaches over, places a finger under my chin, then lifts it and kisses me.
“I think maybe it’s time I come back home, huh?”
I stare at him, not knowing what to say. He sees it, then exhales.
“Listen, I know what happened was bad. That’s why I left that day. I didn’t trust myself around you or the kids. But I’m better now.”
I look toward the broken glass on the carpet. I still have the picture frame he broke the last time in the top drawer of the dresser by the front door, the one with the palm trees. It’s the picture of him and me together from before we had children and went to Italy on our honeymoon. On the day he tried to strangle me, he threw it on the floor, then stomped on it, breaking the glass. Frightened, I put it in the drawer where it has been ever since. I haven’t wanted to take it out. I don’t want to be reminded of that day.
“You don’t trust me,” he says. His eyes are on me, scrutinizing me. He shakes his head a little like I am some child who has misbehaved. “Do you?”
I don’t know what to say to him. I want him to come home, yes. But do I dare to have him here? Do I believe he’s truly better? He just lied to me. Things change when people start to lie.
“I want to,” I say, stifling my tears. “I want to believe you’re okay…but I don’t.”
He nods and moves closer to me. He pulls me into a kiss. A tear escapes my eye, and he wipes it away with his thumb.
“Then I’ll just have to prove myself to you, won’t I?”
Chapter 10
I wake up, and the bed is empty. Ryan is gone. I exhale and feel his pillow, remembering how we had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, just like when we were younger and had just met—back when everything was easy and exciting. He had whispered in my ear how much he had missed me and that he needed me more than ever and for me please to be patient with him. He was coming around. He just needed me to wait for him.
And I had enjoyed every second of it. It was all I had wanted since he got back—to feel his closeness, his breath on my skin, his heart beating close to mine.
We made love three times during the night. It was like he was insatiable…like he couldn’t get enough of me. Every time I thought we were about to doze off, he had wanted more. And I didn’t stop him; I didn’t want to. I enjoyed him wanting me this badly, feeling his deep desire for me, and the more we were together, the gentler he became. It was like we found each other this night, slowly got to know one another once again. We found the pace. Or re-found it. It was quite intense.
But now, he is gone. His side of the bed is empty, and I am filled once again with grief. I hate not knowing where he is, not knowing if he’ll stay or be going. I hate that he won’t tell me what drives him to go. It is, after all, Saturday, and we could have spent the day together.
I had hoped we would.
With a deep sigh, I sit up, then check my phone. No messages. I stare at the screen, wondering if it’s something I said or did. Maybe it’s what I didn’t say or do? Am I not comforting enough? Am I not understanding enough?
Am I not enough?
That’s when I hear the voices—laughing voices, and happily yelling voices. They’re coming from the kitchen downstairs. I get dressed, fast, then rush down. By the breakfast counter, I spot Damian. He’s eating something, and it isn’t Cheerios. He sees me, and his face lights up.
“Mom! Dad made pancakes!”
I walk closer and see Ryan behind the stove. He is wearing his old jeans and a white T-shirt while flipping the pancakes and placing them in a stack next to him.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he says, grinning. “But Damian couldn’t wait.”
Isabella has heard the ruckus and comes into the kitchen, then sees Ryan. “Dad?” she says, her voice raised. “What are you doing here?”
Ryan reaches out his arms. You can see his muscles flex underneath the T-shirt. He has been working out a lot and looks very fit. “Isn’t it obvious? Making pancakes, of course. Come, dig in before your brother eats all of them.”
Isabella sits down, and Ryan serves her a plate, then pours syrup on top of her pancakes and drizzles them with chocolate. Just the way she loves it. He then winks at me, grabs a cup and pours coffee in it, then hands it to me, leans over, and kisses me.
“Thank you,” I whisper and hold it between my hands. I feel like I am blushing like a schoolgirl—like when we first met.
“No, thank you,” he whispers back. “For last night.”
I chuckle and sip my coffee while he prepares a plate for me and serves it on the counter. I stare at him, thinking, if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a dream. Has he really returned to being himself? The way he’s goofing around with the kids, the pancakes—it’s almost like he’s back to his old self.
I should be happy. I should be thrilled. This is what I have waited for…what I have dreamt about.
Then how come I feel more terrified than ever? How come the hairs in my neck rise every time I see his smile?
We eat breakfast together, just like in the good old days before Ryan’s last deployment. The kids get into a fight about something silly, and Ryan and I exchange looks—just like we used to. It all feels so familiar and pleasant…if only there hadn’t been that stupid lie last night.
I can tell the kids are excited to have their dad here, especially Damian, who gets almost ecstatic. I hear Ryan promise to play ball with him later in the yard before the boy runs to his room to take care of the bunnies. He’s in charge of making sure they’re fed and have water while I clean out the cage. Our dog, Rosie, lays at Ryan’s feet and refuses to leave him. She has always been very fond of Ryan and might be the one enjoying his return the most.
When he’s done eating, Ryan leans back in his chair and stretches. “It feels good to be home.”
I sip my coffee. I don’t know how he does it, but Ryan’s coffee always tastes better than any other coffee out there. I close my eyes and sigh, taking in the moment, trying to push that feeling of dread away. I don’t want to feel this way. I want to be happy. I deserve to be happy.
As I open my eyes, I accidentally glance out the window across the street at Sandra’s house. Immediately, she’s on my mind again, and I remember the messages they sent one another. I can’t stop thinking about them, even though I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. I risk ruining this moment.
Yet, I can’t help it. I have to know.
I sip my coffee, looking at Ryan over the rim of the cup. He is staring at me, head slightly titled, his tongue playing with the inside of his cheek. He saw me looking at Sandra’s house. I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking about. It feels like it.
“It’s kind of odd, don’t you think?” I say.
He squeezes his eyes almost shut. “What is?”
“That there weren’t any signs beforehand. I mean, I saw her almost every day, and I couldn’t feel that she was even depressed.”
Ryan frowns, places his right elbow on the table, and cups his mouth. “I guess you can’t always tell when people are depressed. A lot of times, they put on a show and pretend to be happy. The suicide comes when they can’t pretend anymore.”