Page 30 of Angel
“Good,” I answer. “Why?”
“Carrie said she seemed off yesterday.”
“She’s allowed to have off days.”
Tank studies me over the rim of his beer.
“Yeah. Just… don’t mistake quiet for fine.”
Because I’ve done that before, which makes me think about the bathroom door. The too-fast smile and the way she’s been pressing a hand to her stomach again when she thinks I’m not looking—hope creeps back in when you’re not paying attention. That’s the danger. Hope’s a tricky bastard. It don’t knock. It just settles in your chest and starts rearranging things.
That night, I find her on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket, just staring out at the dark like it’s got answers written in it. The air’s thick and warm. Crickets humming somewhere in the distance. I sit beside her without saying anything. She leans into me, head on my shoulder.
“I’m scared to say this,” she whispers.
“Then say it anyway.”
She swallows. “Part of me feels better. Stronger. And part of me is terrified; that means I’m going to get hurt again.”
I kiss her temple. “That doesn't mean you’re doin’ it wrong.”
“It feels like hope is a trap.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “It is.”
She looks up at me. “Then why do it?”
I think about everything we’ve been through.
Every mile.
Every loss.
Every moment I thought I was gonna lose her for good.
About the empty hospital room.
The cold bed.
The silence between us that almost swallowed everything.
“Because livin’ without it is worse,” I say finally.
She studies my face like she’s measuring the truth in it. Then nods slowly. I don’t say what I’m thinking. That I’ve noticed the way she’s been counting days in her head again, how she pauses in the bathroom. I catch her pressing her palm flat against her stomach when she thinks I’m distracted. I don’t say that I’ve started counting too. Against my will.
That I know exactly how long it’s been since her last cycle, and I feel the ground shifting under us again. Because this time I don’t want panic to lead. I want steadiness. I want us.
But deep down, I know something’s building.
Healing ain’t a straight line.
Grief doesn't vanish just because you talk about it.
And hope, real hope, comes with teeth.
For now, though, she’s warm against my side.
Her breathing is slow, and her hand is tangled in my shirt like she’s anchoring herself. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this, love isn’t the absence of pain. It’s choosing to stand there when the ground starts to shake again. And I’ll stand.Every damn time.
