Pulling one leg up on the sofa, I rest my head on my knee.
“Tell me about the ball in the box,” Kam urges me. Tilting my head to the side to lay my cheek on my knee, my silence is met with his plea. “Don’t hate me, Ella. I love you. And I am just worried.”
I take a shuddering breath in and then let the lone tears fall where they may.
“I think we could post both. Maybe?”he says.
“Both?”
“We could post about the ball, and we could post the photo. Just … let me do it, all right? I’ll post for you. I’ll monitor it.”
“I really want you to, Kam,” I admit to him and my voice is hoarse. “I haven’t wanted to, but it feels so important.”
“Then we’ll tell them. We will. Maybe write it in your journal and other things you want to post. I’ll give you a phone, no social on it, but you can take pictures of it, you can text me. You can record whatever you want to share. I just don’t want you in the line of fire.
“You know how people can be.” Kam’s voice is gentle, but his statement is a wrecking ball. I know exactly how people can be.
“This is good,” he tells me, his hand on my thigh, giving me a squeeze although anxiousnesscolors his words.
“What else?” I ask him, brushing under my eyes and counting the last twenty minutes as a win. I will write for them. And he will share it. It’s amazing how much relief I feel, yet there just as much exhaustion present.
“We have new hair,” Kam says, then holds up a finger after taking a deep breath, “some social media,” and another finger is lifted. “What do you think about a shindig?” he asks, tilting his head.
“A shindig?”
He nods. “A shindig.” With my smile, he smiles broadly back. “I knew you’d like that one.”