Page 95 of What We Broke

The most beautiful thing about our relationship is that we healed together.

Just like Jesse and I did, Raine and I went to therapy together. It was strange at first, because the power dynamic in our relationship wasn’t the same. I was her father, I was the one who needed to be held accountable. I was the one who needed to prove his love for her while giving myself the grace to understand that I could be a present and attentive father and still be a man who was in mourning.

With Dr. Sosa’s help, Raine was given a safe space to explore how much Lola’s conception and stillbirth affected her as a sibling as well as a daughter. She was also encouraged to tell me how much I hurt her. I didn’t want to leave any stone unturned. I didn’t want to risk resentment. I wanted my daughter to know that no matter what she said or thought or felt about me, I wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t going to love her any less.

Raine was too much like Jesse, and he and I both wanted to make sure she knew she never needed to sacrifice her feelings, happy or sad, to save someone else’s.

It was these things we’d learned together that allowed me to be completely comfortable with her going to college away from home in a way that Jesse wasn’t.

His worries stemmed from not being one call away if she needed us. It didn’t matter that Zara was in the same city, his control had no boundaries and wasn’t driven by rhyme or reason.

Turning my cell off airplane mode, a message from Raine in our group chat pops up.

Waiting for you at baggage claim.

“She’s here,” I tell Jesse.

He grunts as the people in front of us start moving, and I don’t even bother stifling my chuckle. The man goes from thirty-five to sixty-five whenever we fly to visit Raine. His impatience to see her makes him incorrigible.

It takes another ten minutes to make it to baggage claim, where Raine, her hair tinged gold from the sun, her skin completely tanned, looks so happy and content. Next to her is a smitten Zara and her girlfriend Clem, and Raine is holding a big sign that says “Marry Me.”

Because there is only one person responsible for this fuck-off sign, I stop and turn, biting my bottom lip to try and hide my smile and look at the smiling fool that is my husband. “I don’t know how many times I have to remind you we’re already married.”

He releases his hold on his hand luggage and tugs me closer to him, our arms wrapping around one another in the middle of the busy airport. “It doesn’t hurt if you tell me again.”

It blows my mind how far Jesse and I have come. How close I was to losing it all. There are still days, or even weeks, where the struggle to put one foot in front of the other is so real and reminding myself of the support system I have at my disposal is imperative. Because this life with this man is all I’ll ever want.

If the great loss that he and I have survived has taught us anything, it’s that we’re not invincible. Neither is our marriage and neither is our love. Bad things absolutely happen to good people, but so do good things. And the former should never be given the power to eliminate the latter.

Fight for the good. Earn your right to deserve the good. Nurture and love the good. And let it matter less what we broke, than the fact that we found our way back to each other.

I bury my head in the crook of his neck and say the words he loves to hear. “I, Leo Ricci-Hunt”—I feel his pulse quicken against my lips—“take you, Jesse Ricci-Hunt, to be my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death do us part.”

Jesse sends the words into the air. Like a prayer. Like a promise. “I, Jesse Ricci-Hunt, take you, Leonardo Ricci-Hunt, to be my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death do us part.”

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