She stumbles into him, tripping along the calloused edges of her life, grabbing hold of him as an anchor. He's the only reality she feels certain of anymore; she's failed at everything she worked for. Lawyer. Mother. Sister. Friend.
She's not a lawyer anymore. She quit her job.
She hides the confession in a rolling of her hips, sucking in the breath he offers when she presses fervent kisses to his lips. She wants to hide in the blanket of him.
He wraps his arms around her but pulls away, lifts her chin to meet the downturned creases of his eyes. "Julia," he whispers, tucking hair behind her ears, swiping tears from her reddened cheeks. "Kristina has breast cancer," he offers as carefully as he can.
"I quit the firm," she volunteers in return, shaking her head when he opens his mouth to press the details from her. She doesn't want to talk; she doesn't want to face this yet.
"Victor hit a homerun today."
That pulls a sob from the center of her chest - another thing she missed. Another way she's failed.
She didn't see it.
Or Sydney's recital, or first steps, or impish grins and sibling fights and the first day Victor walked into school all on his own. She's failed them as a mother.
She's failed Joel as a wife.
She burrows into his chest, clutching at his shirt, gasping for air the way she did when the toast was burning and the kids were yelling and she didn't know what the hell she was doing. She still doesn't know what she's doing. Everything is falling apart and she's falling fastest.
"I couldn't anymore," she sobs into his neck, "I can't do it all."
"I know," he soothes, stroking at her hair, pulling her closer against him as they lower to the floor. She curls into his lap, letting him rock them slowly.
"I'm sorry," she pleads, "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," he swears, "We'll figure it out."
And for that promise, she holds him tighter, lifts her lips right up to his and kisses him all wet and salty like. Like, swimming in the ocean and barely surfacing for air. But she isn't choking, there's no sputter to this breathing. This breathing is coming home.
He lets her explore his mouth, spattering kisses on her temple when she finally pulls free. She settles her ear against his heartbeat, closing her eyes so it can lift her away. "I just needed to do something right for once," she tells him gently, "I'm so tired of being wrong."
"Hey," he chastises, his fingers rubbing gentle circles in her back, "You're not wrong. You're never wrong. Never."
She laughs despite herself, enlightened by his blind optimism, craving the truth of his words. She'll believe anything he says. Always.
"Let's go to bed," he suggests, already hoisting them to their feet.
#
In the darkness of their bedroom, she moves against him, trailing fingers along the tensing muscles of his abdomen. He opens his mouth to protest, but she silences him with a kiss.
"Please," she begs, "I need to - I need to feel something."
This isn't like her and they both know it, but he complies when she trails her hands to the waistband of his briefs. And he runs his fingers through her hair when she rubs him to the hilt. And he doesn't say a word when her breasts fall heavily on his chest. He lets her guide him into herself and watches as she moves gracefully above him, riding them slowly to some unnatural release.
But he closes his eyes as she orgasms, too afraid to watch her crying out when all she seems to be capable of anymore is banging against the walls of herself, trying to find some semblance of her identity. He can't bear to see a second of false happiness, if when the sun comes up in the morning she's going to be hollow and uncertain again. He can't be hopeful until the smile on her face is a reality.
She doesn't say a word when she doesn't feel him cum.
They tumble back into the sheets, hiding the scent of sweat in Egyptian cotton, her ragged breaths like a hard reminder of how different everything suddenly is.
They have a son. They have a daughter. They have a house, and a marriage, and a family.
She doesn't have a job. Maybe he's losing a piece of his wife.
"We'll make it," she whispers across the precipice, "We can do this."
He nods, finding her eyes again, smiling tightly at the faint glimmer of hope he sees within them. "We will," he agrees, "We can do this."
She stumbles back against him, tripping on the calloused edges of herself, grabbing hold of him as an anchor. She sets her head against his chest, wraps her arm around his waist, holds steadfast to every bit of strength he exudes. "We can do this," she whispers.