“If…” her face contorts “…she would have died, I don’t think I would have been able to …” She trails off, leaving me to fill in the blank.
“You wish I were dead? You think I should have killed myself?” My patience runs out, and I say it for her.
Tatum flinches at my candid interpretation of what I’m certain she’s been insinuating since the day Austin died. When she doesn’t answer, I fill in that blank too, even though I can’t say it aloud.
It hurts too fucking much.
All these years, I’ve convinced myself that she’s angry because as much as she wants to hate me, she can’t. I’ve let my delusional conscience misguide me into believing that she loves me, but it just hurts too much.
But … she doesn’t.
I try to even my shaky breath as I search for oxygen in this stuffy little bathroom. My eyes burn with the brutal truth. And everything rains down on my heart, finding the already weak spots and chipping away at them. “Everything I did or didn’t do in the wake of his death…” my voice is so tight I feel like my words might break apart before they make their way past my chest “…was for Lucy.”
And you … but I can’t say that anymore.
“I’m sorry if my existence in the world feels selfish to you.”
She rolls in her bottom lip, but not before I see it quivering, and not before she sniffles. “Emmett …”
“She lived, Tatum. Lucy is alive. So don’t go slitting your fucking wrists. She will forgive you. She’s in your corner too.” I exit the bathroom before she can respond.
If anything short of perfection is unacceptable, then why did we have children? Why did we get married? Why are we even here? Tatum didn’t love Austin more. She loved him like a mother. And she doesn’t miss him more; she just doesn’t know how to miss all of him. Her memories of him are stuck in a precise hole of time—the moment he died. If someone asks her about our son, she’ll tell them that he died.
When someone asks me about Austin, I tell them about all the things that made him the most special little boy in the world. Then … as if it’s an asterisk at the end of a beautiful story, I tell them he died. I tell them I miss him dearly and that I don’t regret a second of my life with him. I tell them he’s my greatest memory, and for those nearly four years, the world was unquestionably a better place.
As I lower into the chair, pulled right next to Lucy’s bed, she blinks open her eyes, fighting the groggy effects of her medications. Taking her hand, I kiss the inside of her wrist then press the back side of it to my face. She smiles as if to say, “Yes, Dad. I feel that. I feel you.”
I smile back at her. “I love you, Luce.”
“Love you,” she whispers as Tatum emerges from the bathroom.
She’s wiped off her face, and the poor lighting hides her red, swollen eyes. “Hey, sweetie. Do you need anything?” Depositing a kiss on Lucy’s forehead, Tatum works to find a smile that’s not too riddled with guilt.
“I’m good. Just … tired.”
“Then rest,” Tatum says.
“What time is it?”
I chuckle at Lucy’s question. “Why? Do you have a date?”
“Ashton … does he know?”
“No. But I’ll contact him tomorrow.” Tatum sits on the edge of the bed and caresses Lucy’s arm.
Her heavy eyelids fight to stay open as she mumbles something that sounds like “okay.”
After Lucy’s out and Tatum settles into the chair on the opposite side of the bed, she whispers, “What if she never walks again?”
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Tatum insists I go home to shower first. Maybe I stink the most. By the time I get toweled off and dressed, my parents are in my living room.
“Morning.” Dad smiles as I make my way to the kitchen.
“We brought donuts.” Mom nods to the box on the kitchen table.
“How did you know I was here?” I take a glazed donut and shove half of it into my mouth.
“We showed up at the hospital minutes after you left. Talked with Tatum for a bit. Then we decided to grab some breakfast and come here. It’s a little more private than the hospital waiting room.” Mom pours me a glass of orange juice that they must have picked up as well.
“Do we need privacy?” I raise a brow before taking a swig of juice.
“Sometimes it’s easier to assess your emotional state when you’re not putting on an act for other people.”
I eye my mom while collapsing into the chair at the end of the kitchen table. “Well, assess away.”
Mom’s attention flits between me and my dad as if he’s really going to weigh in on the matter. I’m certain the men in our family are not equipped with the necessary tools to make emotional assessments. He’s really here for her emotional support.