Page 86 of Love What's Left
I nod.
He plays with my hair, and we lay in the quiet, holding on to each other. Eventually, his breaths slow. He’s warm and steady beneath my palm, and, true or not, I’d swear this is the greatest safety I’ve ever known.
Why is that so terrifying?
Craving a man, let alone allowing one to affect my emotions, is the last thing I’ve ever wanted. Most of my college memories returned the day I made pizza. Once I remembered Clarissa and Bronwyn, that time filled back in as if it was never gone.
I dated serious, studious, and what my roommates considered “boring” guys then. There were never tears when we broke up from either of us.
I would spend a weekend a little bummed that it hadn’t worked out, then, ultimately, I consoled myself with the fact I could start starfishing face down in my own bed every night and that I could hang with my friends on my already limited downtime. These were guys I never fought with but also didn’t invest in.
Gabriel is different. A cold sweat breaks out all over my body when I think about the way he makes me feel.What if he dies? What if he starts drinking again? What if he gets tired of me or cheats or leaves?How do people fall in love without losing their minds? Do they not think about those things?
I’m married to my worst nightmare, a man with the ability to break my heart.
Maybe other people don’t worry about everything that could go wrong because they weren’t raised by Allen Walsh. They haven’t experienced the reality of when the worst of what could happen does. But Gabriel is a different person than Dad was.
My remembered anxiety about his past makes sense to me now, but I can view it from a distance. Eight years is a long time. People are allowed to grow and change. My dad didn’t, but Gabriel did.
“Some trespasses are unforgivable.”
The words sink in, hitting me on a delay. That doesn’t sound like I had a random problem because he happened to be a drunk. It sounds personal.
I couldn’t trust him any farther than I could throw him.
I ease away and sit up. My college memories end before graduation. I remember being excited about commencement being nearly there, the culmination of years of hustling. It was a big deal to me. The biggest. But my memories cut off before that day.
Bronwyn technically graduated the previous semester, but she’d added a few more classes specific to running the youth center she wanted to open, just to be better prepared. She’d remained in the house in Blackwater to finish them. I had no family to attend my ceremony, but when I told Bronwyn I was going to skip the ceremony, she’d screeched in horror.
According to Bronwyn, I’d earned that moment.
She was right. I had, but “what’s the point in sitting through the ceremony when there’s nobody there to care one way or the other, anyway?”
That’s when she grabbed me by the shoulders, looked up at me with that “Mom Look” she always got when she was about to impart some deep truth, and said, “I care, Sydney. I’ll be there. I’m going to cheer so loud for you, you’ll need earplugs. You get me a ticket.”
I didn’t expect it. I hadn’t asked. She volunteered. And I requested my first ever “family” ticket for a college event.
No one had ever attended anything like this just for me. In high school, if a staff member came to some event, there were always at least three of us involved, and their primary job was to wrangle up the foster kids and drive them home.
Knowing Bronwyn, she’d hold up a sign when I crossed the stage and scream her head off. When I found her afterward, she’d jump all over me with all her short-person jackrabbit energy.
It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But the closer it got, the bigger it felt. It was okay to let someone make a fuss over me this one day—not because of what I’d done for the team or for someone else—but because someone cared aboutme.It was okay to feel like I mattered all on my own, at least to Bronwyn.
I could have asked a couple younger teammates to come, and they would have. But having to ask changed everything. Bronwyn wanted to be there, not out of pity or duty, but with excitement.
She made signs and kept them in her room. One was huge and meant to drape over our porch railing. The other was small and covered in hot pink and black sequins. The signs were silly, and I loved them.
Why can I remember the week leading up to graduation but not that day? Was it because I met Gabriel that weekend? Did he crash at our place? Did I hook up with him, and only realize he had a drinking problem afterward?
No. That doesn’t make sense. When he got the tattoos on his arms, we definitely hadn’t had sex, yet.
I ease to the edge of the bed and open my bedside drawer. My phone sits charging inside. Unplugging it, I carry it to the chair in the corner and curl up, ready to scroll. It’s a long shot. Looking at photos probably won’t help. I doubt graduation had anything to do with Gabriel.
Still.
Still.
It would have been eight years ago.
