She nods, claiming the blanket from me and folding it over the side of the couch. She turns and pauses. “Sometimes when I think about you—” she cuts herself off, “well when I think about how hard it must have been for you to have lost them so suddenly like you did, I think I might not have realized the true extent of just how much you were going through. It had only been two years, and maybe, maybe I stupidly thought that was enough time to grieve—”
“You were perfect,” I say vehemently, sliding my hands in my pockets. “So fucking perfect, Whitney. You did absolutely nothing wrong.”
“I pushed you to go out and do things you weren’t—”
“I needed those pushes,” I assure her, fighting the inclination to get closer.
“We fought about it.”
“I know, but I assure you I did. I just didn’t know it at the time.”
She nods once, and I decide to drop another truth bomb.
“In fact, I can say with certainty that you were exactly what I needed at a time when I had no idea what I needed looked like. I know that now. I hope you didn’t think that was the reason—”
“I did.”
Guilt surfaces, and I swallow. “I’m sorry for that.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s all good. We’re good. Night.”
“Goodnight.”
Fingers itching at my sides, I resist the dire urge to stop her, to lay it all out, but her tone indicates that door is no longer open—at least for tonight—so I let her walk away, up the stairs and out of sight.
Hearing faint grunts and easily identifying the culprit, I open the attic door to the second floor to catch Peyton, clad in a onesie, struggling to climb over the reinforced barricade. Moving to intercept, he slips over and lands in a terrifying thud on the other side of the gate with a giggle before popping up in one piece. Letting out a whoosh of relieved breath and bristling with indecision to grab him for his own safety, he eases my worry slightly when he grips the heavily carpeted stair railing and slowly begins his descent, taking one step at a time. “Lieeeee,” Peyton beckons his new love interest as he reaches the bottom step. I stay a good bit behind before following him down.
“I’ve been waiting for you, little guy,” I hear Eli respond from somewhere in the living room. Unable to resist, I peek around the corner and see Eli is dressed from head to boot, looking catalog perfect in light-washed jeans, a solid white thermal, and a pinstriped beanie. I can’t help the zing in my chest when I spot the sippy cup waiting in his hand. Giggling, Peyton sprints toward Eli’s open arms as he bends and scoops him into his hold.
“Two squeezes,” Eli murmurs to his temple before walking Peyton over to the massive windows as the early morning sun fills the room. “Look, buddy, it snowed again. Grammy is going to be so happy.”
“So happy,” Peyton concurs in a rare adult voice, his arm wrapped around Eli’s neck, his milk tucked into the crook of his arm as they both stare out at the blanket of fresh snow covering the grounds.
“Want to go outside for a little bit? Make a snowman?”
“Mep. Pease, pease.”
“All right. Drink your milk. I’ll grab your boots and jacket.” Eli gathers the coat and baby boots from the ottoman and bundles Peyton up between sips of milk before the two head out onto the porch through the den. Back upstairs, from my attic room, I watch them between the blinds witnessing up close a living dream I had far too many moons ago. It’s the daydreams that got me in trouble. Some he brought to life, some he obliterated.
Though he wasn’t verbal with his feelings, it was through acts of perceptive kindness that he showed me he cared. He knew the way I took my coffee, studied me when I was nervous about a class, covered me with a blanket when I drifted off on his couch, dried my body with tender caresses when we got out of the shower, rubbed my feet after a long run as we watched TV. Simple things that showed he was paying attention to my needs, all the while denying my want for a true connection with him.
He made love to me, often, and in that time, I had no doubt that feelings existed, even if he never spoke the words. As far as boyfriends went, he was both the best and worst of them. But it was the fact that ninety-five percent of the time he made me happy that I settled for less than I deserved.
I justified the shitty five percent by telling myself that it was a typical relationship—but it wasn’t. That ninety-five percent was blissful, while that five percent hurt like hell. The reason or cause for it lingered for years. It haunted me. I never could pinpoint what set him off, even after I had distance and needed perspective.