He laughed. “Someday I’ll buy you real paintings, not posters.” He brushed my hair back, kissed my cheek. “And I brought your favorite cookies—those meringue things.”

I laughed, and it felt good. “Silly,” I said. “It’s madeleines I like, not meringues.”

“Can’t blame a guy for at least trying, right?”

“I love you,” I said, and rolled over to place my head on his lap. “I’ll have the soup in a few. I just need to sleep.”

He placed my head back on the pillow. I moaned, “Don’t go.”

“I’m not,” he said.

Moments later, he returned with a glass of ice water and two Advil. I took the pills and drank the coldest water, a blessed cold. I sank back onto the pillows and he crawled in bed next to me, placed my head on his shoulder.

When I awoke, my fever had broken and I had settled into the crook of Rusty’s shoulder. He was asleep, and I stared at him for the longest time, taking inventory of my body and its healing while looking at his face and wondering how I was lucky enough to have this man love me.

Just me. And me alone.

Twenty-two

Twenty-two

The aroma of my home was familiar and native: mine. It was as if I’d been gone for thirty seconds. Nothing had changed, yet I knew that everything had been irretrievably altered. I stood in my bathroom, dropped my clothes to the floor, and walked to the shower, turning on the water and holding my palm under the flow until it was hot. I closed my eyes and allowed the water to beat on my back, my thighs. Then I went to my sanctuary—my attic studio—where instead of painting I searched for words, any words, to tell Rusty that I didn’t know how to love him. It was just gone. All of it seemed gone.

His footsteps came up the back stairs and I turned to watch him walk into my studio.

He smiled. “You’re really home, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you want to talk?”

I leaned against the old desk and folded my arms across my chest. “I do. I do want to talk.”

He walked toward me and then took my right hand, lifted it to his lips. “Did you ever open the gift I bought you?”

I nodded.

“And?”

“It’s beautiful, Rusty. It’s amazing.”

“Where is it?”

“Downstairs. In our bedroom.”

His face crumpled in the same minute that my heart did the same. This was my husband. He continued. “This is just … not a home without you. Please tell me you’re here to stay. Please.” Tears filled his eyes and he sat on a threadbare chair, his head slumped into his palms.

“Oh, Rusty. I don’t think …”