Strong Enough

It was his own.

Derek was quiet the next morning—and sore. I had to smile when he groaned getting out of bed.

“You okay?” I asked.

“No. Muscles I didn’t even know I had are screaming.” He limped toward the bathroom.

“Need help?”

“No. If I don’t come out, I’m dead and you killed me.”

“But was it worth it?”

At the bathroom door, he looked over his shoulder, his expression serious. “F

uck yes, it was.”

My grin widened. “Good.”

He didn’t die, and we went down to breakfast, during which he was mostly silent and distracted. I didn’t push him to talk, because I understood there were things he had to work out in his head, and he wasn’t the kind of guy to trust his gut, like I was. It was going to take some time.

“Want to watch a movie or something?” he asked later that evening, opening a bottle of wine. He’d gone to the gym when we got back from the beach, and it seemed to have improved his mood. We’d ordered pizza, and he’d even let me pay for it with my new credit card.

“Sure. What’s your favorite?”

He frowned. “I don’t know if you’ll like it. It’s not that well-known.”

“I don’t mind. I like all movies. What is it?”

“It’s this Woody Allen movie called Sweet and Lowdown about this guitar player in the 1930s. He’s kind of a mess. Super cocky because he’s so good, but haunted by the one guy in the world that’s better than he is. Then he falls in love with this girl who doesn’t speak.” He laughed. “I’m not describing it very well. But there’s something about it I love. It’s a great story, and it was cast perfectly.”

“I love great stories,” I told him, getting plates from the cupboard. “And Woody Allen is a fantastic writer. Let’s watch it.”

We ate dinner and watched the movie, pausing it only to take our dishes to the kitchen and put away the extra food when we were done eating. Returning to the couch, Derek turned off all the lights, pulled the ottoman close, and stretched out his legs. I sat next to him, giving him more space than I wanted to.

“Hey.” He put an arm around me. “Come over here.”

I gladly moved closer and melted into the curve of his body. Hope began to bubble through my concern.

We finished the movie, and I absolutely loved it. For one thing, one of the characters couldn’t speak, so her thoughts and feelings were communicated entirely by expression and gesture and nuance. As someone who struggles occasionally with language, I appreciated the brilliance of her performance.

And it gave me even more insight into Derek too. The film ended with the main character admitting he’d made a mistake about something—a critical decision that had caused his life to take a certain path, and there was no going back. He was going to suffer the consequences of that mistake forever. But there was an upside—his playing grew more beautiful, more emotional, every bit as good as his rival’s.

I wondered if something about that spoke to Derek, the idea of coming to a crossroads and making a choice, and even if you chose the path that caused you to suffer, you could find beauty or nobility in it.

Don’t let your mind run away from you. Maybe he just likes the movie.

I was still pondering it as the credits rolled. He turned the television and stereo off, but didn’t move.

And then, “Don’t go.”

Silence. Then I spoke.

“What?” Although I’d heard him fine.

“Don’t go. Tomorrow. Don’t move out.” His tone was one of quiet desperation.

“Why?”