The average human completes an inhale-exhale circuit about five million times per year. You have always considered yourself average. But in the time you have known her, you think your number is significantly lower.
You hold your breath every time she speaks. Especially when she blurts out things she doesn't mean. Things that, somewhere deep inside of you, you want her to mean. You can't let yourself believe them.
.
The first time she tells you that she thinks she loves you, it's during an argument. You're screaming at her to tell you the truth, and then she gives it to you, just like that.
Here's the fucking truth, Alex: You can't see past your God complex far enough to notice that I should have run away from you by now and I haven't! The truth is that for some reason, I feel safe around you. And God, you know about Sam already, I don't even have to say it, so tell me, what more do you need? For me to say I'm falling in love with you, is that true enough? Tell me, Sheriff Romero, what more do you want from me?
She realizes what she's saying as soon as it tumbles out, so when she stops talking and her face falls, you can see the end. She should have run by now but she hasn't. Now, she's going to run. You want to be prepared.
After she leaves your house and you're four glasses into your bottle of whiskey, you allow one single thought into your mind: I'm falling in love with you, is that true enough? Tell me, Norma Bates, what more do you want from me?
You don't sleep that night, or for many more to come.
.
The second time she tells you that she thinks she loves you, she's drunk and you're the one lugging her home. She has not run from you yet. You have already accepted your end of the bargain: you will do anything for her.
You take her to your house because she locked her keys in the car and you don't want to have to wake up Norman to let you inside. Even though she won't tell you certainly, the look on her face when you brought up the truth about Sam let you know it was just that: the truth.
So now you really don't want to face Norman. Not when you are carrying his mother home and you know his secret and he's already possessive of her and he can probably smell your fear. Come to think of it, you don't ever want to face Norman when it comes to her, but that's beside the point.
Your house it is, then.
Alex, she pleads as you take off her shoes and tuck her into your bed. Alex, stay. I'm scared.
Alright, so she's a sad drunk. At least it's better than your cheesy drunkenness, and she's not trying to tell you that you're beautiful, either, so that's good.
You assure her that everything will be alright. You will keep her safe, you swear it. A part of you thinks at this point, you'd swear anything (and probably mean it, too) just to keep her out of danger.
You can't, Alex, you can't keep me from it, it's too big and I feel it like a weight in my chest. You still think she's talking about Norman, about that secret, but words just keep spilling out. I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified.
You finish tucking her in with a shaky grip and sit in a chair by the bed holding her hand until she falls asleep. You retreat to your living room couch, stare at the ceiling for the better part of the night. And when you do sleep, you dream of her, tonight and for nights upon nights to come.
.
You read once that one fourth of the bones in your body are in your feet. Maybe, you think, if you broke them, if you took a hammer and crushed your feet into the ground, you would then literally be three-fourths of a man.
Maybe then you would have a solid explanation for the emptiness you feel in your chest. You would no longer be less than your former self because of words you cannot say. Like how cancer patients have a visible reason to wither away. Maybe you would have a reason to be only a fraction of what you should.
.
The third time she tells you that she thinks she loves you, she's in your bed again. And it's really not even a thought anymore, but even though you can accept every other truth about her, you still can't accept the truth about this.
You had just gotten home when showed up on your doorstep like a wet puppy, sobbing so uncontrollably she couldn't even tell you what was wrong. You never know how to handle these things, her coming to you for comfort when no one else has before, so you just stepped outside and gathered her in your arms, collapsing to the floor of your porch in a way so you broke her inevitable fall.
Norman ran away and she didn't know where to look. Didn't know what to do. You don't know how she got to your house, you never saw a car parked, but when she arrived, you weren't really looking at anything other than her.
She lies between the sheets you haven't had the heart to chance since the last time she was here. She fills up your house like a contagion, the air suddenly contaminated with the smell of her perfume. You do not mind. You welcome the virus. You have been sick for a while now anyway, you know.
Don't sleep on the couch, Alex, she says, and you panic. Please, I'm not drunk this time. I won't even touch you if you want.
She has stopped crying but she is still vulnerable. She is still seeking comfort in whatever way she can. You will not fool yourself into thinking, sober and contented, this is what she would want. Norma… you start, but she just shakes her head, she keeps shaking her head.
No, no, Alex, no… She pauses to think. You lock your hands behind your neck. You're afraid of love and that is what I represent for you, because can we just face it now? I am so goddamned in love with you and you can't face that… or won't face it, or whatever. God, you're so thick sometimes.
You climb into the bed with her to shut her up. Maybe you're not out of the woods, maybe she stills thinks of running, but on the other hand, maybe she's right and you just can't accept love. It isn't like you've ever had a chance to learn.
You toe off your shoes and pull her to your chest with so much force that she gasps a little with your arms encircle her. She starts crying again. You roll your eyes because this was never supposed to be your job, she was supposed to run—you were never supposed to have to comfort a beautiful woman lying in your bed. Then again, you think, you killed a man for her tonight. You committed a felony for her tonight, one in a stack of many.
You are not her therapist boyfriend. You cannot give her the words she needs to explain away her pain. You can, however, stroke up and down her back as she shakes, press your lips to her hairline, tell her that you will keep her safe. You have proved tonight that you can keep her safe.
She doesn't know it yet, but you stepped in front of the guillotine for her tonight. You stepped in front of the gun for her. Even though you still won't accept your feelings for what they really are, even though you won't call them by name, you realize you would die for her, again and again and again. You do not regret this, and you will not, for many nights to come.
.
Giraffes sleep on average about two hours each day. You imagine how this would feel, to survive on such little unconsciousness. Before coming to terms with your devotion to her, you would have envied this, because the images that plagued your sleep always left you cold and desolate.
You avoided sleep as much as possible. When you were awake, you could keep busy so you did not see her face around every corner. So every window curtain was not the same pattern of her skirt. Sunshine rays were not her blonde curls. Your warm gun was not her hand, sweaty and pulsing and grasping at your own.
Now, you have started sleeping more. You have started sleeping better. (You sleep the best when she is beside you, and you never dream of her. You do not need to anymore.)
.
The first time you tell her that you think you love her, it's only after you accept that being around her is jumping head-first into a swimming pool filled with ice. You realize then that you welcome the chill. Sure, your fingers could fall off, your lungs could collapse, you could die from hypothermia, but she'd be right beside you, the whole way.
You're curled around her in your bed when it slips out, one flannel pajama pant-clad leg slipped between her two bare legs, because Norman ran off again and she sent Dylan looking. You know how tired she is. Dylan knows. And both of you can take up the slack for her because she is your common love, even if you won't say it out loud.
You mold yourself to her back and hook your arms around her torso, expanding and condensing with rhythmic breaths. She sighs into you, and you can feel her holding back a sob, she is so close. You place your lips at the corner of her neck and right ear. You stay awake past when you think she is asleep, but even then, you bite back words. A few escape.
God help me, you've got to go and make me love you, don't you, Norma Bates? Goddamn you, you beautiful mess.
If her breathing pattern changed, if she took a sharp inhale when your arms tightened, just slightly, around her, you didn't notice. You will not notice for many nights exactly like this one to come.
.
When you finally do notice, she has fallen asleep on your couch and you are sitting on the floor beside her, one hand on her hair.
She has made a habit of coming over after the boys are asleep. She knocks on your door around midnight, and you watch bad TV with her and drink wine until one or both of you cannot stay up any longer. The first time she came over without invitation or personal crisis, you tried to give her the bed as per usual. Ever since the first time she slept in your bed sober, she always makes you stay.
She whimpers a little in her sleep. You press your nose to her cheek, kiss her forehead. Breathe in the smell of her perfume even though it lingers around in the must of your house now all the time. A constant reminder that she has not run. She will not run. There are no woods around you anymore.
You whisper to her sleeping form: I'm terrified, too.
The movement of her neck draws you back, then she opens her eyes to lock them with yours. For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then she smiles, and to your surprise, so do you.