"Just some nausea, that's all."
She does look a little pale. "Can I get you anything?" I ask.
Chemo is a necessary beast. It borders on killing everything good inside of the patient while killing everything bad.
She pushes away from the table. "I think I'll just go lie down."
"Faith, hang on." I stand up, coming around the table to stand in front of her. I lift my hand, hovering it in the air in front of her forehead. "May I?"
She nods, and I place the back side of my hand against her forehead. She's warm, but not hot. Not a real fever, at least not one that's concerning. Chemotherapy side effects are to be expected. Even though my rational doctor brain knows all this, I still feel a trickle of concern.
"All good," I tell her. It's not a lie. I'm managing her stress level, and I don't have a thermometer. What I know is that she's not burning up.
She steps around me, but stops when she gets a few feet away. As she turns back around, she looks at Autumn. "Thank you for dinner, hon. I never thought I'd actually like kale."
Autumn musters a smile, but I can see the worry in her creased forehead. Faith leaves the room and I begin gathering dishes from the table.
"Why don't you go hang out for a bit and I'll take care of the dishes." Autumn takes them from me.
I start to protest, but she stops me with a swift shake of her head. "You're clearly exhausted, Owen. And I know you're worried about my mom." She glances in the direction of Faith's bedroom. "I am, too. I'd feel better if you stayed for a while. Just to make sure she doesn't suddenly get a high fever or something."
Tension I didn't know I'd been holding melts away. I like the idea of staying here for a bit and monitoring Faith.
"Okay," I agree, leaving the kitchen and going to the living room. I find a baseball game on the TV and sit back in Faith's recliner. I'll give it an hour and then I'll check on her.
Chapter 11
Autumn
After what happened last night with Owen, and then what happened in the back yard with him earlier, I need a little space. That's why, when I finish cleaning up the kitchen from dinner, I don't immediately go to find him in the living room. He's watching baseball. I can hear the booming voices of the announcers.
I pour myself a glass of white wine from the bottles I bought last week and take it outside. My mom has set up a covered sitting area near the back of the yard. It's not big, just large enough for a love seat and little round coffee table. Potted geraniums flank the love seat, giving it a nice spring feel. Instead of a wall, the backside is a trellis. A vining flower, I'm not sure what kind, grows unrestrained, winding its way through the diamond-shaped holes. The flowers are a brilliant royal purple and they lighten my mood the tiniest bit.
Glass in hand, I settle into the center of the love seat, tucking my legs underneath me and laying one arm across the back. My mom's house sits at the top of the gently sloping street, and from this spot I can see past her wood fence and out into acres of pinyon pines and juniper trees. Other homes are tucked in among the trees, but from here it looks like nothing but green. The sky is a dark orange and soon the stars will decorate the sky. If I turn off all the lights inside the house, the sky will twinkle spectacularly. Sedona is a certified dark sky community. Light pollution is taken very seriously here, and it shows. It's part of what makes Sedona so special.
My heart twists as I realize how much I've missed this place.
When I left here at eighteen, I didn't walk. I ran. I'd had a problem, something bigger than me. A problem I created.
But I guess it wasn't just me who created the problem. Owen had a hand in it. A pretty big one.
When I left Sedona, I wasn’t sure where we stood. He showed up in Santa Clara. After my first day of classes, I dragged myself back to my dorm room to find Owen sitting outside my door. Beside him was a guy with dark hair that flopped over his forehead. This person was a stranger to me, and then Owen stood up and turned into a stranger before my eyes.
I blow out a breath and take a drink.
I can't even begin to make sense of what happened to us back then. Or what happened last night. What was I thinking? Did the dark shadows that hid us from detection dim my brain also?
Or was it Owen who took away my common sense?
Whatever it was, what happened was probably a bad idea. A bad idea that felt so, so good. Not just how Owen made me feel, bringing me a release I'd desperately needed, but having him at all. Being touched by him. Being back in the arms of the man who was my everything. First kiss, first love, first heartbreak, he was all of it.
I sit quietly, finishing my wine and looking out at the darkened sky. The baseball game must be good. Owen hasn't come to find me, something I hate to admit I was hoping for when I came out here. An uncomfortable feeling unfurls inside me. I don't like that I wanted him to notice my absence, to search for me.
Getting up from the love seat, I walk inside, depositing my wine glass on the counter beside the sink and stepping into the living room. Owen, sitting back in my mom's chair, is fast asleep. The TV casts a whitish-yellow glow on his face as I walk closer. His lower lip has pulled away from his upper lip, and a heavy, rhythmic breath slips in and out. A wavy lock of his hair tumbles down over his forehead and I’m entranced by how handsome he is.
Should I let him sleep? I'd hate to wake him. He was exhausted when he arrived and he looks adorable. His broad shoulders take up so much of the chair. He has it reclined; his feet hang off the end. Looking at him now, it's nearly impossible to remember the way his face twisted in an angry mask that day in front of my dorm room.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, so quietly it's almost soundless.
Will he ever know how sorry I am? How deeply I grieved my choice? How much I still do?
I grab a blanket and cover him before clicking off the TV and walking to my room, tears running down my cheeks, my arms wrapped around a womb that once held our baby.
He’s gone when I wake up.
The blanket I laid over him last night is folded, hanging neatly over the arm of the recliner. A note lies on top of the gray knitted wool.
A,
Thank you for letting me sleep. I needed it.
Coffee at ten.
O
"I see you got your note," my mom says, coming up behind me.
I turn to look at her. She's wearing pajamas, the ones I sent her for Mother's Day two years ago. Pale pink, trimmed in ivory lace. They swim on her.
She brings a cup of coffee to her lips and blows across the top, eyebrows lifted, waiting for me to respond.
"Yeah," I say, tucking the note into my palm. "How do you feel?"
"Fine." She inclines her head at my curled palm. "Did he sleep here?"
I knew there was no way she was going to let it go.
I nod. "He fell asleep watching TV and I didn't have the heart to wake him. He was exhausted, and he looked so peaceful."
Mom turns, walking back to the kitchen, and I do too.
She pours coffee into a mug for me and hands it over. "Thanks." I take it, adding a little oat milk from the fridge.
"You know," she says as soon as I lift the cup to my mouth, "last week you wouldn't have let Owen stay and watch TV, let alone allow him to sleep here."