“I need it!”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m miserable! You called me out for being a coward. Pot, kettle, Cecelia. Stop backing away from this.”
“You’re unforgivably selfish! Is that what you want to hear? And maybe I don’t want to forgive you for the years I spent crying for you, dreaming about you, or for the hell I endured eight months ago, begging you to see what was so fucking clear to the both of us. You sent me away to ease your own guilt, pain, and fears, never taking into consideration how much I suffered alone—or if you did—it wasn’t enough to keep you from hurting me again. If you’re unforgivable, it’s for that. And what you’re doing right now is equally as selfish.”
“I know that, Cecelia, but there are no magic words. There are no gestures grand enough or deeds good enough to make up for what I’ve done to him, to you, to Sean. I couldn’t figure out how to work my way around it then to get back to you, and I can’t figure it out now. So, maybe I need you to keep punishing me,” he chokes out. “Maybe it’s the only way I’ll be able to live with myself. I’ll endure it every day for the rest of my fucking life just to be with you. I’ll do anything,” he chokes again, “and we can joke about this situation, but this is truly hell for me. I love you, Cecelia, but it fucking hurts.” His eyes droop, and he lets out a defeated sigh. Scrambling for the words he just confessed doesn’t make a difference. I inevitably come up empty as he lowers his eyes and studies the back of my hand, stroking his thumb along my skin before pressing his lips to it. “Will you lock the door three times if I go to sleep?”
“Yes.”
Relief sags his shoulders as he sinks back against the cabinet and releases the pages, which scatter to the floor. “Thank you.” He begins to fade out, his head lolling, as he slides further down the door.
“Tobias,” I nudge him, and his eyes open briefly before they lose focus. “Oh no you don’t. Good God, you crazy French bastard, at least help me get you to bed.”
After much effort, between comatose steps, a few scary dry heaves, and some unintelligible French, I manage to get him face down on my bed before I set off to start repairing my kitchen.
On my way back from the bedroom, I spot the new chessboard in the living room sitting next to the fireplace. Dozens of roses in different shades are arranged in vases and mason jars throughout. His intentions for our night clear. He wants us back. And the stinging truth in my throat tells me the feeling is mutual, but after so many years apart—in a way, a lifetime—I still can’t summon myself to open completely after the way he let me leave so easily the last time we parted. Hovering over the board, I inspect the new pieces, the set almost identical to my father’s. Setting the king back down, heart heavy, I make my way into the kitchen.
I’m halfway done cleaning when Beau whines to be set free. It’s when I open the back door that my breath catches, and my heart bottoms out. Strung high above my garden are lights intricately woven across the yard and secured by wooden posts. And they aren’t just any lights. They brighten and dim, an unmistakable twinkle in pale yellowish-green.
Fireflies.
His attempt to recreate our sacred place.
Somewhere between his racing thoughts, the last of his gin, too many glasses of Louis Latour, and his read of The Thorn Birds, his plans for date night went south. A book I’d entertained far too long that I thought resembled my life and our relationship. But he’s right, it’s not our story, and for the first time since he showed back up, I open my needy heart to the possibility that we may be able to write a better one.
The sight of the twinkling lights underneath a star-filled sky fills me with hope. Though we’ve just scratched the surface of our issues, the truth is, we were cut short, our unwritten pages ripped from us before we even had a chance to live them out.
Despite our losses, he still believes in it, in us, in magic, because I begged him to.