APRIL
Jackson cries himself to sleep, but I'm not as lucky. I lie there awake, watching his face and hunting for his demons.
He'd fallen asleep with me spooning him, but rolled over after a few minutes. He always sleeps better on his left side anyway, and I like it better this way. There's not much to study on the back of his head, but plenty on his face.
I inhale shakily and smooth my thumb over the creases on his forehead. As I move, they flatten out and his expression frees up, and to eliminate the last one between his eyebrows, I press my lips to it slowly. His skin is warm and familiar, so I linger with lasting intimacy.
I wish he were awake, but I'm glad he's not. He needs to rest.
While he's sleeping, I can look at him without being being made fun of for staring, which I like. My eyes follow the trail of freckles across the bridge of his nose, finding the darker ones and wishing I could kiss them without waking him. But I don't - I keep my distance - and touch only with my eyes.
It's hard to believe that something that looks so perfect on the outside can be so tortured on the inside.
As I exhale, I involuntarily let out a sad-sounding whimper. It's soft, but there. My heart hurts for him; I just want there to be something I can do. I feel helpless, drowning in my love for him while he's drowning in a sea of memories he can't forget. They've latched onto him so tightly, and my dutifulness isn't enough to rip them away.
He needs help. Serious help. I know that. But I hate the feeling of not being enough.
My life without him, if I never knew him, is not something I'd trade this for. I'd probably still be a surgeon, but most likely I'd be married to someone else and not living in Kalamazoo.
I stayed here for him. I only dated casually for him.
All this time, I've been subconsciously waiting for the only man I've ever truly loved.
But without him, what would I be? What kind of person would I have grown into from a friendless and lonely child? He was my other half growing up, the one who taught me that it was okay to stand up for myself, the one who did it when I couldn't.
I'd be half the woman I am today if I had never known him. I rest my hand on the side of his neck and silently tell him that he changed my life for the better. I'd never want to know an existence without him breathing next to me.
We were at the Homecoming game when we were 16. It was late October, a cool fall night, and I had no idea what was going on with the game, but Jackson was enjoying himself.
I was enjoying the snacks he bought me; M&Ms, cotton candy and a big tub of popcorn. I was all bundled up in his hoodie and we had a thick blanket wrapped around us that I was hogging.
"Our team sucks," he said, smiling over at me. "Hey. Give me some blue ones."
I popped a handful of M&Ms into my mouth. "You know, they all taste the time," I said, but dug through the bag anyway to find the color he wanted.
"Say it all you want, maybe it'll come true," he said, snickering as he dumped the blue ones into his mouth. "Yum."
"All I know about football is that the quarterback is the best position," I said.
"Oh, yeah?" he said. "Why's that?"
I shrugged. "It's the one you always hear them talk about in the movies and stuff."
He snorted and elbowed me. "Since when are you allowed to watch sports movies?"
I laughed. "Got me there."
He looked thoughtfully at the football field, where the two teams were huddled and talking amongst themselves. "My guess is that if Jesus played football, he'd definitely be the quarterback."
I laughed loudly. "Jackson!" I exclaimed. "You can't say stuff like that."
His eyes twinkled. "Why not? It's a compliment."
I turned to the side and ripped the plastic off the cotton candy before taking a big bite. "You just can't," I said.
"Gimme a bite," he said.
I extended the twirl of spun sugar at him.
"Are you crazy?" he said. "Pink side. It's like you don't even know me at all."
I rolled my eyes and flipped it around, and he took a big bite of the pink side. His eyes got squinty like they did when he was really happy, and I couldn't help but match his smile. "Love you," he said in a singsong voice.
"Yeah, yeah," I said, but my eyes told him that I loved him, too.
A while later, we got up from our seats on the bleachers to take a bathroom break. We split into our respective bathrooms and I was washing my hands when an intimidating presence came through the door and made herself known. Callie Torres, one of my worst bullies, second only to Alex Karev.
"Hey, Kepner," she said, looking at herself in the mirror. I always avoided my reflection, especially in the presence of other, prettier girls. It only hurt to compare myself. "Where's your boyfriend?"
My face got hot and I stared at the white porcelain of the sink. "He's not my boyfriend," I muttered.
"There's no shame in it," Callie said, fluffing her hair. "It's a good thing. He's sexy ever since puberty got to him. You're a lucky lady."
"He's not…" I said, voice trailing off.
"You two done the deed yet?" she asked, looking over. I didn't need to respond for her to know the answer - she knew before she posed the question. "Aw, no? Not yet?" She made a fake-pouty face. "Maybe not ever, right?" She turned completely towards me and chuckled. "Because Jackson can keep you around for the company, but when he wants to get his dick wet, he'll find a real woman. That's right, isn't it?"
My cheeks burned red. That thought had crossed my mind way too many times to count. I didn't know how she looked at me and dug it out without even trying.
"Poor little Kepner," she said. "Always the best friend, never the lover."
I clenched my fists. "It's not like that," I said.
She raised her eyebrows, surprised at my outburst. "It speaks," she said. "Speak, little doggie. Speak! What else do you have to say?"
"Jackson's my best friend," I said. "And you don't know anything about us. So leave me alone."
"Ooh…" she said, a sly smile still in her eyes. "I hit it right on the head, didn't I? You want him."
I shake my head, teeth gritted. I had no more words to defend myself - I'd used them all up.
"Get it through your head, little girl. He'll never want you." She scoffed. "A bag of bones with a mop on top. What self-respecting man would want that?"
My shoulders hunched in towards each other. I felt myself getting smaller and smaller in her presence. I didn't know what I could say to get her off my back, but I wanted it to be something. I didn't want to stand here and take the abuse any longer. I'd dealt with it for a long time, through elementary, middle and high school. It was about time that it stopped. My mom said that God would do something about it, make them tired of teasing me. Jackson said it needed to be more than that.
I didn't want him to save me. I wanted Callie to know that I could save myself.
I just wasn't sure how.
"Your best bet is probably to become a nun," she continued, having still been speaking while I was lost in my head. "Dreaming about Jackson day and night, just like you do now. Thinking how it would feel when he kissed you, touched you-"
"I said, leave me alone!" I shouted, and shoved her shoulders so I could storm past her and out of the bathroom. When I was standing outside, my chest was heaving with exertion and I saw Jackson standing nearby, waiting for me.
"Hey," he said. "Y'alright?"
I set my shoulders straight. "I just pushed Callie Torres, so she's probably gonna kill me."
We started walking faster, away from the bathrooms, away from the game and towards the parking lot where everyone was headed. The game was over and the dance would start soon. The dance I wasn't allowed to attend, but I hadn't told Jackson that yet.
"What did you do?" he asked, once we were away from the big crowd of people. "What happened in there?"
Telling him about what she said about the way I felt was just as embarrassing as it being true. There was no way I was letting him in on the details.
"She was making fun of me," I said. "The usual. And I was tired of standing there and taking it, so I pushed her and left."
His eyes widened. "Holy shit, Angel. I'm proud of you."
I beamed. I literally felt like I was being warmed from the inside out. He was proud of me.
I didn't make a big deal of it, though.
"It was about time," I mumbled, downplaying. "I just hope she doesn't come back worse."
We walked a little further, then our attention turned to the school where all the lights were on and people were filing inside to dance. "Hey," he said, wringing his hands. "Um… wanna go?"
Was he actually asking me to the dance? With him? Like that? Or was he just asking me to the dance like we would walk in the doors together and hang out like always? Was this a date thing, or just because we happened to always be together?
I told myself I was being stupid. Who else would he go to the dance with? I was his best friend. But that was it. Best friend. And anyway, I couldn't go. My mom told me to be home directly after the dance. And if I disobeyed her, I wouldn't see Jackson for a long time. I'd be grounded until Christmas.
"I can't," I said, dejectedly.
"What?" he said.
I looked at him with a disappointed expression. "My mom said no," I admitted.
"Aw, shit," he said, then looked back at the school.
I didn't want to keep him from doing what he wanted, though, so I said, "If you wanna go, you should. I can walk home. It's not that far."
Interrupting his reply, a group of guys passed by and a voice stuck out, saying, "Hey guys! See you in there!" It was George O'Malley, my lab partner in chemistry and Jackson's partner in gym.
We just waved.
"I'm not going without you," he said, turning back to me.
"Why not?" I asked, shoving my hands into my front hoodie pocket. "I don't care."
A knowing smile snuck onto his face as he stepped closer to me. "You do so care," he said.
"No," I said, voice getting higher. "I don't. If you wanna go to the dance, then you should. I think that would really make… what's her name, Maggie Pierce or whatever, happy."
He scoffed and raised his eyebrows. "Who do you think you're fooling right now?"
I shook my head nonchalantly. "I'm not, I'm just saying that you-"
"I'm not going anywhere without you," he said. "And I don't give a shit about Maggie Pierce."
"Well, she gives one about you…" I grumbled, under my breath.
"Good for her," he said. "Hope she has fun with that." I lifted my eyes from the asphalt to see that he was looking at me with amusement and interest. "But you and me, we're gonna dance."
"I told you," I said, eyes wide. "I can't. My mom will kill me when I get home if I'm late."
"You won't be late…" he said, and opened the driver's side door of his car to turn the radio on. The first notes of Justin Timberlake's 'Cry Me A River' blared, but Jackson stopped them as he found a mix CD in the center console and popped it in. Instead of 'Cry Me A River,' Train's 'Calling All Angels' came on instead. He looked at me, eyes still glinting, and shut the door. "Hey, would you look at that…" he said. "It's your song."
He took my hands and set them on his shoulders and I couldn't help my smile, even as I tried to calm it by biting my lower lip.
"There's that smile…" Jackson said, hands locked around my waist.
He mouthed the words to me after the chorus, then sang them once they got louder.
"I won't give up, if you don't give up…" he sang, and I rolled my eyes playfully. He couldn't sing worth his life, but my heart was hammering so hard.
It wasn't dancing. It wasn't anything like eighth grade, we barely swayed. But we stood there in the parking lot with my favorite song in the background and looked into each other's eyes and felt like the only people in the world for those four minutes and two seconds.
Once the song was over, he pulled me close for a tight hug. I buried my face in his neck and breathed, recognizing his faint cologne and boy smell.
"Let me take you home," he said, and I nodded against him.
The next morning, I was woken up by a knock on my bedroom door. It opened seconds later and my mother appeared, her face wearing an expression that I couldn't read.
"April, wake up. I have some sad news for you, honey," she said, sitting down on the edge of my bed.
My mind immediately went to Jackson, though I didn't know why. But it turned out that it wasn't him at all.
"Your classmate, George," she began, and the image of George romping through the parking lot with his friends last night flashed through my mind. "He died. He committed suicide and they found him this morning."
I gasped, my back hitting my headboard. I had just seen him hours ago. It couldn't be true. Someone I knew, dead. It didn't seem possible.
"How?" I asked.
Mom gave me a harsh look. "That's the Lord's business," she scolded, and I nodded demurely.
But when Jackson and I were sitting in a pew during George's service a few days later, everyone knew how it happened. He hanged himself after his parents caught him with another boy and threatened to ship him off to military school. He died before they could do it.
Jackson and I walked together after the service was over, dressed in black, faces turned down. We had nowhere to go, but the fresh air did us good. I needed stability, so Jackson offered his arm and I took it.
"I can't believe he's gone," I murmured once we stopped. We sat down on a bench in the cemetery, arms still linked.
"I know," he replied, equally as quiet.
"We just saw him," I said. "You know? It… I don't know. It's so scary how someone can be here, then gone. Just like that."
"He killed himself," Jackson said bluntly.
I recoiled a bit. "I know," I said. "Everyone knows."
He sighed, deep in thought. I could always tell when he was deep in thought. "It just seems like there had to be another way," he said. "He could've gone and lived with someone else in his family who accepted him."
"Maybe no one did," I said.
Jackson looked at me defiantly. "He had people who loved him," he said, eyebrows low. "He had to know that."
"We don't know what he knew," I said. "We have no idea what he was going through."
Neither of us budged. "He shouldn't have done it," he said.
I didn't feel the same way. Of course, he needed help. But on the surface, it was impossible to know what was going on. The blame Jackson was placing on him was a mistake. He was gone, that was wrong.
Everyone had their reasons.
Remembering that now, I find myself vehemently disagreeing with my past self. Suicide is the means to an end, the end-all-be-all. There's no going back. You leave people behind who didn't even know you were suffering.
Looking at Jackson, my throat clogs with tears. I won't let him slip away from me.
In the morning, I wake with a start. I'm lying on my back, which I normally don't do, and Jackson has one arm wrapped around my waist. He's on his stomach, face in the pillow, yet still keeping me close.
I touch his forearm to try and gently lift it off so I can get up and get ready, but he solidly keeps it where it is, which tells me he's awake. I run my hand over his skin and wonder if it's a good idea for me to go into work and leave him here alone today. After what happened last night, I'm not sure what he's capable of. Or if he's stable enough to be alone.
"Good morning," I say softly, turning on my side to face him.
He grunts in response.
"How long have you been awake?"
I see him shrug, then his face lifts from the pillow. His eyes are puffy from last night, and it makes my heart twist with pain. "Just a little bit," he says. "How did you sleep?"
I don't know how he can be asking me that so casually like our previous conversation never happened, like he never admitted to me, mere hours ago, that he'd rather be dead. I clear my throat and furrow my eyebrows, shaking my head slightly. "Not that good," I say.
"Oh," he says, and I roll onto my back again. Jackson scoots closer and rests his head in the crook of my shoulder, and I wrap both my arms around him and kiss his hairline. "I love you," he says, voice squished as his cheeks are slack pressed against me.
I smile sadly. "I love you, too," I say, lips moving against his scalp. There's a long silence before I say, "I think I'll stay home from work today."
I feel his forehead move curiously. "Why?" he asks. "You've taken a lot of days off." He moves and props himself up on his elbow. "April, you don't have to keep doing that for me."
"I-I'm not," I say, frantically searching for an excuse. "It's not because of that. I just… I have a lot of sick days to use up. And-"
"You're a surgeon," he says. "Shouldn't you be treating people instead of using your sick days willy-nilly?"
"This isn't willy-nilly," I say, tone darkening. "I want to stay-"
"You're worried about what I might do," he says, combatively. "That's why you wanna stay. You wanna monitor me, put me on suicide watch." He flips the covers off and stomps across the room. "I don't need a babysitter, April, goddamnit. I'm not gonna do anything. Just go to work."
I look at him, feeling wounded, as he slams the door of the bathroom. I sit there with the covers at my waist, staring at the spot he vacated. After the sadness and surprise comes red-hot anger, though. I guess I'm going to work.
I'm in the conference room, concentrated on paperwork, when Amelia comes in.
"You hungry?" she asks.
I look up from my work for the first time in hours, and the creak in my neck shows it. I squint at the clock and see that it's almost 2, and I've missed lunch.
"I brought you turkey," she says, holding out a sandwich in a plastic container.
"Sure," I say, and even I hear how tired my voice sounds. "Thanks."
"You okay?" she asks, sitting down and opening the lid to her salad.
I shrug and open my lid, too. I take a bite of the sandwich and barely taste it. My mind is elsewhere.
"What's wrong?" she prompts.
I set the sandwich back in its container and sigh, pushing my paperwork off to the side. "It's Jackson," I say, still chewing.
"Oh," she says, nodding. Her eyes dart this way and that as she decides what to say next. "Is he getting bad again?"
"He never got better," I admit. "He'd need to get better to get bad. He…" I shake my head. "He needs help that I can't give him. I have no idea what I'm doing."
I feel her eyes on me as I stare down at the wood grains in the table. "What about the therapist he's seeing?"
I shrug. "I know it's too early to expect results," I say. "But I don't know if we picked the right one. It just doesn't feel right." I look up towards the ceiling to fight tears. "I know that sounds stupid, but I can feel it in my gut. That it's not right."
"Your instincts are never stupid," Amelia says. "If you feel that way, then you're probably right."
We're quiet for a moment; I'm comforted by her words, but they do nothing to fix my situation. Part of me wants to tell her what he said, but the other part wants to keep that locked up inside for only Jackson and me to know. I don't want her to overreact or look at him differently. I don't want her to think he's a loose cannon. He's Jackson, my Jackson, I know he'd never do anything like that. But she doesn't know him like I do. She wouldn't understand.
"You know, Owen goes to these group therapy sessions," Amelia says. "They're held at the community center, over in Portage. It's like a recovery group, basically. Men and women who came back from war with PTSD and who need a safe place to talk about it. Owen really likes it. The leader of the group is this really cool lady; her name is Teddy Altman. I can give you her number, if you want."
I meet her eyes and see how hard she's trying. It might be a valid thought, group therapy. I never knew that it existed for Jackson's type of problem.
"Maybe it would help Jackson to have a familiar face there," she continues. "Owen goes once a week. I know they're not friends or anything, but… I don't know. They could be."
I nod, taking the business card that she digs out of her wallet. "I appreciate it," I say quietly.
"And spouses can come, too," she says. "Significant others, I mean. We're allowed to go with them." She smiles encouragingly. "Like a security blanket. I know that's something Jackson would like, having you there."
My lips twitch as they try and smile. "Yeah," I say. "I'll… I'll see what he thinks. Thanks, Amy."
"Anything I can do to help," she says. "I know how it is. You feel powerless."
I meet her eyes and mine well up with tears. "Yeah," I say, voice breaking.
"It's okay," she says. "You guys will get through it."
When I get home and open the front door that evening, I'm a little nervous.
"Jackson?" I call out, trying to be nonchalant. I know in my heart he didn't do anything rash today, but the paranoid part of me just wants to make sure.
"Living room," I hear, and let out half the breath I'd been holding.
I set my stuff down and make my way to him, seeing the TV on as he rests on the couch with his feet up.
"Hi," I say tentatively, standing behind him.
He turns around and looks at me over his shoulder. "Hey," he says, and mutes the sound.
I sit down on the ottoman across from him and he straightens up, putting his feet on the floor to face me. "How was your day?" I ask.
"Good," he answers dryly. "Yours?"
"Fine," I say, wringing my hands.
He sighs, bouncing his knee. There's a long pause before he speaks again. "It was on my mind all day," he says. "How I acted this morning. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lash out at you. You… you had a right to be worried because of what I said last night. So, I'm sorry."
I chew the inside of my lip and nod. "Thank you," I say.
"You're never the person I wanna hurt when I get like that," he says. "And I hate when it happens. I hate…" He grits his teeth. "I hate that I'm like this. I hate it so much."
I touch the edges of the business card in my hands. "I… I was talking to Amelia today," I say. "She suggested something new for you to try."
Jackson's eyebrows crinkle. "You told her about what happened last night?"
"No," I say, quickly. "I didn't give any details. But she's been my friend for years, Jackson. She can tell when something's wrong. And she knows what's going on at home; Owen went through the same thing."
He stands up. "It's not the same thing."
"Well, of course it's not. But you know what I mean. When something is wrong, she can usually assume what it is."
"I get that I'm a burden," he snaps, snapping his head to look away from me. "I know that me being here is stressful for you. But the fact that you and your friends talk about it at work doesn't make me feel that great."
"Jackson, no," I say, hearing the desperation in my voice. "That's not it at all. You're not a burden to me, you're… no. You're so far off. I love you, you know that. You're not a burden."
He sits down on the arm of the couch, looking unconvinced.
"And we don't sit around and talk about you," I say. "The only reason Amelia brought it up today is because she suggested this therapy that Owen goes to, and she thinks it might be able to help you, too."
He eyes me suspiciously. "I already go to therapy and it doesn't do shit," he says. "It only makes things worse."
"This is different," I say. "This is a group."
"No," he says, immediately. "No way. I'm not gonna sit in a circle and listen to other people vent about their first-world problems, and-"
"Not like that," I snap. "If you'd let me talk, I'd be able to tell you."
Responding to my tone, he shuts his mouth.
"They're all veterans, too," I say. "Victims of PTSD, just like you. People who understand you. I looked it up online; even the leader of the group is a war veteran. She was over in Iraq, too, for a while. You'd be among people who understand your old lifestyle and know how to listen to you." When I pause, he doesn't insert himself, which tells me he's absorbing this. "For the first few sessions, you don't even have to say anything. You can just listen. Amelia goes with Owen every week, that's another thing. I can go with you. You don't have to be alone in a small room with a stranger." I take in a deep breath. "This is more on your terms. You control what you do and don't share, and when you want to share it. When you feel comfortable. And if you want, Dr. Altman will hold one-on-one sessions with you if you don't feel comfortable sharing some things with the group."
He looks at me for a long time, hands braced on his knees. I match his eyes, wondering what he's thinking as he stares at me.
"It's not gonna be like some fucked-up double date, is it?" he asks. "Owen and Amelia, me and you, all at therapy together?"
I snort. "No, definitely not," I say.
He looks at the floor, hands now folded together, and nods slowly before looking back up. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I'll go."
Hope rises in my chest and plants itself there, exuding light like a halo. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he agrees.
Jackson's grip is tight on mine as we walk through the parking lot towards the welcoming building. "You good?" I ask him, squeezing his hand as I look up at his face.
He nods, giving me a slight smile, as we make it to the door. He'd warmed up to the idea of group therapy about a week and a half ago, and today is his first official session.
"Hey, guys," I hear once we go through the glass double doors. I look to the left and see Owen and Amelia sitting on a wooden bench, rising to meet us. "Glad you could make it." Amy gives me a big hug and holds tight. "Good to see you."
I don't mention the fact that we saw each other at work mere hours ago. I know what she means; it's good to see me here, specifically, with a nervous man at my side.
"Hey, Jackson," Owen says, sauntering up and sticking his hand out. Jackson shakes it and gives him a nod. "I promise, you're not gonna regret coming. Dr. Altman is the best around. All of us have really different experiences, but somehow she makes us feel like we're not alone. And you don't have to feel singled out - there are new people almost every session. The group number is pretty variable, with the same core people who always come. Including us."
"Hopefully that'll be us, too," I say, giving Owen a warm look.
Jackson rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, something he always does when he's anxious. "I wanted to say thank you," he says. "For telling April about this. And for welcoming me here."
Amelia waves him off. "Oh, don't mention it," she says. "We're friends. That's how I roll." She smiles at me. "Once you're in, you're in for good. But Jackson…" She touches his wrist gently and looks into his eyes. "If you don't like it, don't feel pressured to stay because of us. If it's not for you, don't worry about it."
I watch his face as he agrees with her, feeling proud of something he hasn't even done yet.
"Should we go in, then?" Owen says, ushering us all forward and into a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a green forest outside. I'm quiet as we find four chairs to sit in among the circle, and Jackson lets go of my hand as he gets comfortable.
I try not to make it obvious as I watch him, but I can't help it. He looks confident and sure of himself, like the Jackson I know. Here, he's an entirely different person than he was in the other counselor's office, quiet and shrunk into himself. I like this version of him much better.
Dr. Altman is a slight, blonde-haired woman, but when she walks into the room her presence is palpable and comforting, even to me who doesn't need the comfort. Her smile is bright and welcoming, along with her eyes.
"Evening, everyone," she says, sitting down and pulling out a legal pad of paper. "I hope everyone's days were good, or at least bearable." She smiles at herself. "I had one for the books, that's for sure. But we're all here now, and that's what matters. And we have new faces with us. Everyone, this is Jackson Avery and his wife, April."
My face flushes. Over the phone, I never called myself 'wife' in relation to Jackson; in fact, I can't remember what I said. She must have just assumed, and I wonder what Jackson thinks about that. When I look at him, I can't read his expression through the cordial smile he's giving everyone who's looking at us.
Per Dr. Altman's request, he gives a little information about himself. What wars he fought in, how long he was deployed, and when he returned. She asks for the bare minimum to begin with; she doesn't push or pry, she just listens intently, eyes never leaving Jackson as he speaks. The rest of the group is attentive, too - no one is distracted or impatient.
I hang on his every word, listening to him talk about his time overseas fondly in a way I've never noticed. For the majority if the time he spent over there, he felt like he was where he was supposed to be. I have my own thoughts about war and whether or not there's a necessity for it, but they don't come into play here. Right now, I'm witnessing an inner layer of Jackson come out and shine through his eyes, like I'm being allowed to see a little bit of what turned him into the person he is today. There's so much of his life that I missed, and I feel like I'm getting a large dose of it right now, in this setting. It has the propensity to be overwhelming, but it's not. Instead, I feel enveloped and enlightened by this information he's sharing. It's like getting to know him all over again.
Once he's done, people chime in with their own similarities they've found from his stories. They all must know he purposefully left out what brings him here to this room today, but no one says anything. They're all in the same boat. They know persuading someone to unleash their demons never works out the way in which you intended. Healing works best when given time. I should know that better than anyone; mental and physical healing aren't so much different when it comes right down to it.
After the session is over, Dr. Altman approaches Jackson as he stands talking to two other men and I let them be. I even go so far as to leave the room, not wanting to eavesdrop on the conversation, and wait outside the door for him to finish.
"I think it went well," I say to Amelia, who's lingering by the door as she waits for Owen. "He seems happy. Happier than I've seen him."
She glances in, seeing Jackson talk with Dr. Altman. "He's smiling," she says warmly. "I don't know if I've seen him smile before."
I look in, too, and feel my chest expand as I see the sparkle that reaches his eyes. He really is happy. I'd know that look on him anywhere.
"Thank you," I say, giving the words the weight they deserve. "I can't thank you enough. This is just the first session and he looks like this, I…" I sigh. "I don't know what I can say."
"You don't need to say anything," Amelia says.
Suddenly, I feel arms around my waist and I break out in a huge grin. Jackson tucks his face into the side of my neck from behind and rocks us both from foot to foot, and I press my body back against him.
"Hi," I say, feeling his lips on my skin. "You done in there?"
"Mmm-hmm," he says, squeezing me tighter.
I give Owen and Amelia a look and a little wave, and they bid us goodbye as they walk out the door. Jackson and I linger inside by the windows, wrapped up in each other.
"She called you my wife," he says, and now we're face-to-face. "Did you…?"
"I didn't," I say.
He smirks and kisses me, holding the back of my head firmly in one hand. "I kinda liked it," he murmurs against my lips.
"You did?" I ask, snaking my arms around his waist so we're flush against each other.
He nods. "You might as well be," he says. "We live together and you're pregnant with our beautiful little baby."
My cheeks are burning with emotion. All at once, I'm overcome with a wave of gratitude from the fact that everything I'm holding in my hands is mine to keep.
"We'll get there," I say, tipping my head back and letting my eyes roam his face. I trace the swell of his lower lip and he kisses the pad of my finger, and my heart does a somersault in my chest.
His happiness is contagious.
On the way home, we're driving on Westnedge Avenue with the radio playing loudly and I'm humming along, stealing glances at Jackson when I can. He's smiling, watching the buildings we're passing with his window halfway down.
"Hey, pull in here," he says, tipping his head to the right.
"What's in here?" I ask, turning the wheel anyway. It's a strip mall that I sometimes find myself at on Saturdays when I have nothing better to do
He points out the window to the store in the middle. Babies R Us.
"I was thinking… we should…" He looks at me, waiting for me to read his mind.
"You wanna look at baby stuff?" I ask, feeling giddiness spread through my body and reach my face, where I break out in a huge smile. "Really?"
He shrugs and mirrors my cheesy grin. "I'm happy," he says. "I'm excited for… for the first time in forever." He grips my hand and squeezes. "We're gonna do this. We might as well start somewhere."
I place my free hand over my belly and squeeze his hand right back with my other. "Okay, Daddy," I say, and he bites his lower lip and lets the corners of his mouth turn down in a heartfelt expression. "Let's go inside."
We're completely overwhelmed with baby stuff once we walk through the front doors; everywhere we look there's something else we'll need. A crib, changing table, wall decorations, paint, curtains, outfits, shoes, diapers, pacifiers, bibs, bottles… it's so much.
"Maybe we should start small," I say, keeping one arm wrapped around my stomach and using the other to rest on the small of Jackson's back. "And come back later with a list and a budget."
He nods, taking it all in, too. "I never knew one little human could need so much," he says, trailing his fingers along the bars of a display crib. "We're gonna need to take out a loan for this little munch."
I hug his side closer and jostle him, and we both laugh. "Let's pick the outfit that they'll come home in," I say, running his shirt between my fingers. "That can be like, our first official thing."
He nods, solidifying it, and we make our way to the clothes section.
"This stuff is so freakin' tiny," I hear him say from a few racks over as he holds up a plain white onesie.
"That's how little our baby is gonna be," I say, smoothing my thumb over my stomach. "Can you believe that?"
"Barely," he says, then holds up a long-sleeved pink onesie with white flowers decorating it. "What about this?"
"We need more gender neutral," I say, combing through pale blues and yellows. "Not that I consider myself a gender conformist, but I think we should shoot more for middle ground until we know for sure what we're having."
"True," he says, then comes to join me on the table I'm looking at where a variety of different choices are folded. We rifle through them together and make a pile of our favorites, and end up choosing a white one with the words 'tiny & treasured' written in classy cursive, paired with soft yellow pants.
"He or she will love it," Jackson says, kissing my temple as we walk back out to the car.
After dinner, we're on the couch with the TV on low - Jackson sitting up and me with my head on his thigh, the onesie resting on my chest. I run my hand over the soft fabric and close my eyes, unable to keep the gentle smile off my face. I can hardly believe that in about 7 or 8 short months, we'll be sitting in this exact same position, but with a little baby body filling this onesie.
I open my eyes and find Jackson already watching me. I giggle softly, keeping my fingers on the tiny piece of clothing until I reach up to touch his chin. "You're gonna be a daddy," I whisper.
He traces his thumb over my eyebrow and I can see a million thoughts swimming behind his eyes.
"What?" I ask, taking his hand and resting it against my cheek.
He wets his lips before he speaks. "I'm sorry," he says, the words holding weight.
"For what?" I ask, forehead crinkling.
"For… a lot of things," he says thoughtfully, stroking my skin. "For scaring you when I get lost in my head. For being stubborn sometimes, for…" He sighs, scanning the room as he thinks. "For everything I've ever done to hurt you."
"You don't need to apologize," I say, holding his wrist.
"I do, though," he says. "I never wanted to be the one to hurt you. And I know I have."
"But I know-"
He meets my eyes. "Just accept it, okay?" he says, smiling.
I return it. "Okay," I say.
We make it up to bed later and Jackson still hasn't lost that light quality about him. We haven't been intimate for almost two weeks, and tonight is a cause for celebration. I don't want to go to sleep without touching him, or without him touching me for that matter.
"Jackson…" I say, sauntering up behind him and sliding my hands around his waist to land on the tie of his sweatpants.
"What are you up to?" he asks, though I'm sure he knows without my answer.
I press my forehead between his shoulder blades. "I want to," I say. "Do you?"
He chuckles once. "You do realize who you're asking, right?"
I slip my hands on his stomach below his shirt and run them over his muscles, feeling them tense when I head further south.
"Can you do me a little favor?" I ask, feeling a bit nervous. I've had something on my mind that I've never been brave enough to ask any of the handful of men I've slept with - mostly because I didn't trust them like I trust him. "Can we do something… a little different?"
He meets my eyes in the mirror and I come around to stand at his side, then tug him out of the room by the wrist. He follows me, still confused, as I brace my hands on the footboard of our bed and lean forward just slightly.
"Like this," I say, then look over my shoulder. His eyes are hungry and dark, just like I hoped.
"God, you…" he murmurs, then he pushes my sweatpants down my legs so they pool around my feet. My underwear aren't sexy in the slightest, but he makes me feel like they are when he tugs them mercilessly slowly over the swell of my thighs until they hit the floor. "Mmm."
My shirt comes next. He pulls it off over my head and I'm bared completely naked before him, bent over and ready. But he takes his time with me. He leans forward, overlapping my body with his own, and presses slow, wet kisses to the middle of my back.
"So many freckles," he says, lips moving on my skin.
My fingers' grip on the wood tightens as his mouth moves lower, centering on the dimples at the small of my back. When he digs his teeth into the round of my ass, my eyes widen and I gasp, twitching as I feel his hand slip between my legs from behind.
He pats it as he stands up straight again, and rubs against me like a cat so I can feel his hard-on through his pants. "You know I love this," he says, squeezing it for effect.
I bite my lower lip and wonder if I should ask. I don't want him to think it's weird or that I'm going too far, even though it's something that I've always thought would turn me on. I just have never found the right person to do it, and now I have.
"You can hit harder," I mutter, not fully confident.
"Hmm?" he says, and I hear the soft sound of his pants joining mine on the floor.
I take in a deep breath and remind myself that he's my best friend. He's never judged me for anything prior to this, and hopefully he won't start now. Knowing him and what he just said, he'll probably like it, too.
"You can spank me," I say, and feel my face flush. It's out there. There's no taking it back now. If he thinks I'm a freak, so be it. But I've come to realize that in the bedroom, a good Christian woman is the last role I want to play.
"For real?" he asks, totally bewildered. He turns my shoulders to look at my face, and I see that his eyes hold real concern. "I don't wanna hurt you."
I shake my head and my hair falls around my face as I turn back around. "You won't hurt me," I say. "I-I want it. I've just never known how to ask. If it hurts, I'll tell you to stop. Just…" I sigh. "I want it."
He presses more kisses on my back, and I arch it with desire. I know that I'm wet and ready, but I want him to take his time and feel comfortable, too.
"If you don't want-"
Cutting me off, his palm meets my ass with a resounding slap, and I lurch even further forward from how good it feels.
"Like that?" he asks, voice sounding a little cautious.
I nod shakily, as best I can. Right now, there's so much electricity jolting to my core, and he hasn't even gone inside me yet. My eyelashes flutter and I take in a deep breath. "Yes," I say. "More."
"You…" he chuckles, never finishing his thought as he positions himself between my legs. As he enters me, I feel my inner muscles expand and contract around him, fluttering as I get used to his body inside mine.
His hand lands on me again, and I bite my lower lip as I moan. "Like that," I breathe, rocking forward with his movements. He yanks my hips closer so there's no space between our bodies, and keeps one hand wrapped around my waistline to keep me in place.
By the time I come, my ass is hot and stinging with a pain I didn't know could be so pleasant. I'm lying on my stomach on our bed, panting and sweating, but welcome Jackson greedily when he crawls on top of me.
"Do you think the baby saw that?" he asks, soft voice tumbling over the back of my neck.
I shake my head. "Too tiny," I breathe.
"Good," he says, rocking back to rest his weight on his heels. "Because then I wouldn't be able to keep going."
I smile to myself and close my eyes when I feel his hands on my ass, gentle and soothing in comparison to what we just did. He rubs the muscle in slow circles, squeezing the flesh in his hands before bending and kissing the dimples on my lower back again.
"Did you like it?" he asks.
"I didn't know it'd make me come like that," I say. "I didn't know I'd like it… that much."
He laughs. "I never expected you to be so willing in the bedroom," he says. "When we were younger… I never would've…" He doesn't finish his sentence before flipping me over and exposing the front of my sweaty, naked body.
"I know," I say, smiling lazily at him as he gets comfortable between my legs. "But would you have imagined that we'd be together? Like this?"
He shakes his head and his eyes crinkle with a smile of their own. "No," he says, kissing the insides of my kneecaps.
"But I love you," I say, running my fingers through his short curls. "I love you more than I ever thought I could."
"Mmm," he moans, kissing higher and spreading my thighs. "I love you so much."
He pushes himself up higher and rests his cheek on my belly, drawing nonsense shapes with the pad of his pointer finger. He doesn't need to explain himself, I know exactly what he's doing. I smile when he turns his head and presses deliberate kisses all over the skin of my stomach, taking his time in letting both me and the baby know how loved we are. And I do know. Love floods my entire body as I look at him and know he's improving, know that he's making his way back to me.
We both come again with my body pressed tight under his, every inch touching. His head is buried in my neck, mouth open on my pulse, sucking the skin between his teeth as his hips pump against my own. I hold him tight, any looser isn't an option, and kiss whatever open part of his body I can reach.
As our sweat mixes and we both come unwound while letting unintelligible words tumble out of our mouths, I've never felt more complete. More full. More loved. As I hold him close and feel the trust between us strengthen, I know we're going to be okay. I know that, for at least today, everything is where it's supposed to be.
Maybe it won't be like this next week, or even tomorrow. But it is for right now. And right now is all I can control, so I close my eyes and soak up every moment of it that I can.
