Page 60 of Love Wells Kept

“I’d love to.”

The damp, cool outside air prickles against my bare arms, and as we settle onto the wooden swing I skate my hands up the goosebump-covered skin.

“I didn’t realize how cold it is,” Jackson says with a whole-body shiver. “Should we go back in? Are you too cold?”

“I’ll be okay. It’s refreshing.” I tuck my knees up to my chest, reveling in the pitter-patter of rain hitting the metal porch roof. His breath. Mine. “So…”

“So…I fucking hate the lead-up to every therapy session. I’d rather do damn near anything else. But I think this is helping, Kate. I honestly do. A big part of why I’ve been struggling is because I’m beating myself up over everything. Not being a good father, or husband, or that I’m a burden…and today we talked a lot about how those are thoughts, not facts.”

I hug my knees tighter. “Those are definitely not facts.”

“She gave me some tips to remind myself of that.” His fingers scrape on his neatly trimmed beard. “We also talked a bit about what happens if my memory never comes back.”

I swallow the emotion amassing in the back of my throat, but refrain from saying anything about holding on to hope. The brain’s intricate and fickle, and I know that means there’s a chance some degree of memory loss could last months, or years, or the rest of his life. I can’t blame him for wanting to prepare for the worst, even if I refuse to believe things won’t get better.

“And did she have any suggestions?” I stare out through sheets of rain at the dark clouds hung low over the tree line.

“She suggested small steps. Finding ways to…I guess, uh, get to know you—and everyone—again without pressure to feel a certain way about it. If you think of something that maybe I can do, let me know.”

His hand rests on his shaky knee, and I’m inexplicably pulled to touch him. The rain around us heightens all my senses, until everything is him. I hesitate, secretly loving the magnetic pull between me and him. And when I finally stretch my fingertips across the space between us, he opens his palm to me, and our fingers interlock naturally.

I turn to face him, giving our fingers a squeeze. “The only thing I want you to do is exactly what you’re doing now. Being here. Trying.”

And he has been trying. In the last week, there’s been a marked change in his attitude. Of course, there are still some days when it takes hours before he can leave bed because of excruciating migraines and nausea, but he’s making the most of the days he’s in less pain.

“I want to do more. Family movie nights and taking you on a date and…whatever it is the kids like to do.”

“Careful what you offer them. Odessa’s going to take full advantage. But honestly, they’ve been impatiently waiting for you to be healthy enough to do story time before bed. They’d love having you do that.” It might be asking too much of him, but even if story time now looks nothing like story time then, it’s better than nothing. “Beryl and I have nothing on you, apparently.”

He’s quiet for a second before, “What if I’m awful at it now?”

“Then it’s a good thing they love story time because it’s you, not because of the quality of your stories.” I lean into him. Everything’s cool and sticky from humidity, and Jackson tucks me into the space under his arm. The sound of falling rain and the warmth of his body are lulling me into a euphoric state, and the heaviness of our reality is noticeably absent.

“And what about taking you on a date? Any suggestions for that?”

I scoff and my fingers playfully rap against his forearm. “Jackson Wells. You don’t ask a woman on a date then expect her to plan it.”

“I want to make sure it’s something you’ll like.” I feel his chin press to the top of my head, and an unsteady exhale blows through my hair.

“Our early ‘dates’ were the two of us drinking tea in the kitchen at two o’clock in the morning, and that was enough for me to fall in love with you, so you’ll be hard-pressed to find something I won’t like.”

“Well, in that case,” he says, voice slow and a little more sure than before, “maybe I’ll make you tea and we’ll sit at the kitchen table again. Two in the morning, if you’re up for it.”

I blow a laugh through my nose. “I’m always up for that—literally—unless I take the sleeping pills Blair gave me.”

“It’s a little weirdly reassuring to know it’s not just me and my fucked-up brain who can’t sleep.”

I hate when he talks about himself as if he’s beyond repair, as if even glass shattered into a million pieces can’t be pieced together to make exquisite art.

“Kintsugi,” I say hesitantly, trying to remember the word from an elective art course I took in university years ago. “It’s Japanese art. They repair broken pottery using gold, embracing the breakage and imperfections, and it’s even more beautiful of a piece after.”

“So you’re gonna put me back together with gold?”

“No. You are.” Warmth travels through the tight hold of our hands, through the thin gold band of my wedding ring pinched between our interlaced fingers, and flows through my veins.

His brain. Our story. Both felt a little bit irreparable in the beginning. But I swear I can feel the gold filling in our cracks and smoothing out the rough edges. One day we’ll look back and realize how much more beautiful everything became after the fracture.

“I didn’t know you’re an artist,” Jackson says.