Page 78 of On Dry Land

“Spencer?” He’d snatched his hand away, and even though I couldn’t see his face in the dark, I could feel a sense of embarrassment emanating from him.

“Sorry. I was just…just checking,” he’d mumbled. I’d lain there with that for a moment, unsure of how to categorize the feeling that elicited in me. Joy, perhaps. Or maybe merely contentment. Either way, I liked being on the receiving end of the worry that he’d wake up and find I wasn’t there.

“Come here,” I’d finally said back.

I’m not a fan of cuddling. It never feels natural, and most of the time, it’s too damn hot. Sleep is meant to be an individual undertaking, with plenty of space between bodies. Of course, the multiple mornings I woke up with an arm across Spencer’s stomach and my nose pressed against his shoulder prove my subconscious isn’t nearly as averse as my awake mind.

It felt good, though, when Spencer rolled into me last night and I could rest my chin on the top of his head. I liked being able to feel his breathing as well as hear it, and I really liked it when he said my name in his sleep. It was probably just the late hour and the excitement of the past few days catching up with him, but it had felt like I was directly responsible for finally coaxing him asleep—my fingers slipping through his hair, my body keeping him warm and protected.

I feel as though I can’t move, lest I wake him. He’s a light sleeper, prone to jolting awake at the slightest movement or sound and bringing me back to consciousness with him. He would definitely wake up if I moved now, with his face smushed so hard into my chest I can feel his breath through my shirt and his arm a dead weight across my side. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, ignoring the ache in my hip that’s begging for me to straighten my leg and the pins and needles letting me know my arm is still asleep, even if I’m not.

It’s Demon, the little recalcitrant, who wakes him up. Yowling at the foot of the bed, she makes enough noise to raise the dead and Spencer, who jolts and inhales a sharp breath. He stiffens for just a second before relaxing and staying right where he is. I straighten my leg.

“Someone’s hungry,” Spencer says, voice thick with sleep, eyes squinted, and hair spiked up like a milk chocolate sea urchin.

“A byproduct of me starving her, I suppose.”

He snorts. Sighing, and far more regretful than I’d ever admit, I slide out of the pocket of warmth Spencer and I created. Demon trots up to me, little tail pointed at the ceiling, and files one more complaint.

“Yes, I hear you,” I tell her. “We all hear you.”

Another soft laugh comes from the bed as I dish a bit of food out for her. I stroke her from the crown of her head, down her back, and up her tail, smiling when she arches up into my hand. I do it twice more before I leave her to her breakfast.

“Coffee?” I ask Spencer, approaching the machine and keeping my eyes averted from the bed. Pretending might have worked last night, but it won’t keep through the morning. I hate the necessity of having to discuss anything at all. But since I also hate myself more days than not, I suppose maybe it’s time to try something new.

“Sure, thank you. Did you sleep okay?”

“Mm,” I reply noncommittally. I did not sleep at all, and it was entirely his fault. Not a bad trade to have him back, all things considered. “And yourself?”

“I slept good,” he replies, which makes my lips twitch into a small smile. He did not sleep good, unless the comparison he’s basing it off is me.

I make his coffee first. He’s sitting up in bed when I finally turn around and look at him. It was a wise decision to give myself a moment to prepare, but even so, I’m not quite ready enough for the sight of him, rumpled and bruised and wearing my clothes. I think I really must love him, because right now, I’d die for him if he asked it of me.

“The creamer is high fat, high protein,” I tell him softly, waiting as he wraps his hands around the mug to borrow some of its warmth.

“Thanks. Smells good. Are you going to sit?”

There is a faint note of nervousness to the question that calms my own. I’m so rarely uncomfortable that I can sometimes forget how difficult it can make things. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one feeling the strain right now.

“Yes,” I tell him and retreat back to the espresso machine to buy myself a few more precious minutes of time.

When I’m back in bed beside him, both of us sitting propped up on pillows, neither of us breaks the silence. I take a sip of coffee, Spencer raising his mug at the same time, and both of us slurp softly. He laughs.

“I don’t think I’m going to be good at this,” I warn him. “I fear my nature is private and secretive, not open and sharing.”

“What happened the day you went for a drive and I left? Actually, what was going on that entire week, because there was something…off.”

“Anniversary,” I admit, drumming my fingers on the bedspread to try and tempt Demon into joining us. Instead, she sits down and puts a leg into the air, licking at it. “Wedding and divorce.”

“Oh.” He breathes the word out on the saddest exhale I’ve ever heard. “I can see how that would be upsetting.”

I sigh. It’s the wedding I find more upsetting than the divorce, the waste of time and the years spent living with a liar. It’s the way I learned not to trust myself at the same time I realized I couldn’t trust anyone else, and it’s the fact that so much of our marriage was revealed to be a problem, but I was the biggest one. Most years, the anniversary doesn’t bother me all that much. I stay to myself, put my head down, and work. The days pass, as they always do, and another year gets added to the distance between now and then.

It was the addition of Spencer that threw me off this time around. And not only that, but the fear of making the same mistake again; the distress around never being able to quite understand my own feelings, and the anxiety around the ramifications of that. Love isn’t simple, for me. It’s hard to recognize and understand and sometimes feels impossible to share.

“It’s not, really,” I tell Spencer. “I don’t sit around wishing things were different or that I were still married. I’ve moved on from that. Sometimes, though, I find it hard to move on from myself, if you will.”

“I understand that just fine,” Spencer mutters. I glance at him and the scarred hand resting on the mattress between us. Yes, I imagine he does.