Page 40 of We Drank the Dawn

While Yasmine crooned a generic-sounding song about heartbreak, I drowned in them.

I moved from past to present and back a dozen times, reliving all the tiny moments that made up me—things I hadn’t thought of in years.

But Sarah’s hand on my leg pulled me back. She whispered, “Did you like that song?”

I shrugged and said, “It was good,” even though I hadn’t listened to a single word of it.

She squeezed my thigh. On instinct, I pulled away because her touch felt like a heavy coat over my shoulders when the walls were already too close—too tight.

When she removed it, a deep breath expanded my chest. Of all the times I had communicated I needed some space from her constantly touching me, it fell on deaf ears. My wife absolutely had to touch people. It was as essential to her wellbeing as oxygen. She would wither away without it.

Ironic that the two things we both needed were on opposite ends of the pole.

Per the usual.

A pang of guilt—as familiar to me as darkness now—stabbed deep in my gut as a memory of her walking into our high school played in my mind. She had on my basketball hoodie, the hood flipped up and strings pulled tight, because it was raining outside. Wisps of her hair stuck out of the opening around her neck and her blue eyes defied the morning’s gray gloom. With her hands raised all the way over her head, she marched down the hall toward me and melted into my arms. I held her and swayed as she hummed against my neck. That was the morning after she told me her parents never hugged her. And I promised to hug her every day.

But I’d broken my promise.

When ice rattled in the bottom of my sweet tea, it was Bea’s turn with the stage.

“Hey, everyone.” Bea’s voice poured through the amp situated somewhere on the right side of the room. I could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s been a while since I sang live for an audience. But, my oh my, you guys are a great crowd.” She sounded nervous, a little awkward. But she’d get back in the swing of it though. “My name is Bea, but my father calls me Beatles because when I was five I was obsessed with the song Yellow Submarine.” That elicited a chuckle from the group, and she gave a soft laugh too, the tension in her voice spinning away as she did. “I’ve tried covering that one a couple of times, but let’s just say…Ringo does it better.” She immediately launched into the broken chords of Here Comes the Sun, her introductory words melting into her explanation on why this one was her true favorite.

Settling in to listen to Bea, Sarah scootched closer, pointedly snuggling against my shoulder. Having been attached to this woman for so long, I knew her body language. Her humming energy and insistent pressure screamed like a needy child.

Hold me. Hold me.

If things were different, I would pull my wife into my lap, wrap my arms around her hips, and let her obstruct my view of the stage the entire time. I’d press kisses to the back of her neck and get drunk on the smell of her hair. She would chide me with a whisper, but her lips would smirk, telling the truth—she loved it and there’d be hell to pay if I stopped.

Man, I ached for that.

Feeling guilty for ignoring her signals, my arm lifted to wrap around the back of her chair. It would mean so much to her if I held her for just a minute. Sarah stiffened, sensing my movement. But before my arm could move more than an inch or two, I stopped, easing it back down.

Because pulling her close felt like a lie.

And I wouldn’t lie to her. Nothing would stop us from breaking. I’d known for a while, and, whether or not she was ready to admit it, she knew it too. This entire trip to Meadowbrook proved what I already knew. Sarah and I didn’t have common ground anymore.

Our wants. Our dreams. Our hobbies. Our passions.

Those things made up our foundation. And the accident crumbled us—from the ground up. After all this time, we were still looking at a pile of rubble with no idea what to do next. If, by sheer miracle, we were able to tack something together, it wouldn’t look anything like what we started with.

And no one in their right mind would want that.

Especially not Sarah.

She reached over and grabbed my hand, pulling it onto her lap.

Instantly, I couldn’t breathe.

It was too much for me. The music blaring from the amps, her weight leaning against me, the smells wafting from the kitchen, the scrape of forks against ceramic plates, the low chatter of conversation from tables that weren’t really listening, and now our hot hands palm-to-palm.

And the darkness covering it all.

So much darkness.

Every sensation landed like a pinprick against my brain.

My hand started to sweat as Sarah gripped it like a life preserver, as if her refusal to let go would somehow take us to shore. Feeling nauseous, I wriggled free, swiping both palms down the thighs of my shorts. Before I knew where I was headed, my knees lifted me from my seat, and I grabbed my cane propped against the chair.