Unmistakable
Disclaimer: Just borrowing.
She asks me for myself this time around, and it scares me a bit.
Not because I have too little to give; I have too much. Fifteen years is a long time to harbour a love that still doesn't realize it isn't returned, that threatens to burst forth, unruly, on the first receptive object it finds.
Alex received it. Sam too, to an extent, though in the end she didn't want it. I loved Sam, yet I certainly don't blame her. I think on some level she understood that it wasn't her love to receive, which is why it ultimately, inevitably, and, I realize now, thankfully, all came back to children. My children. It amazes me how women pick up on these things.
Sam knew she was too special to settle for returning recycled love. She was right.
It's different with Abby, always has been. This love I never knew what to do with; it's new to me, and she picked up on that, too. It seemed to work out relatively well the first time we were together because back then I think she wasn't so sure she wanted to receive it. Now, though, bit by bit she's starting to claim it.
She's clearly not "OK," but I anticipate her "yes" and am ready with further probing. She surprises me, though, by cutting me off.
"No." I'm caught off guard. "Coburn's office is calling with the amnio results today."
"Oh."
To tell the truth, I'm not worried about the amnio results. I've got a good feeling about this. I am worried for her, though, because of the fear I see written all over her face, and I know nothing I say will make a difference until she gets that call. I'm getting used to her sharing this vulnerability with me, even though I know that a second later the fear will give way to a more contained and self-conscious version of itself.
But this time it does so only after a second of unmistakable pleading.
I'm startled, ecstatic, sobered by this flash of dialogue between us because for the first time she's asking me for what she knows is hers and for what she knows just as well that I will give to her.
Suddenly I'm thinking about how she lets me cook her breakfast this time around. About how she no longer makes apologies for showing up at my door unannounced nor pretends not to notice how I look at her outside the bedroom. I hope I don't seem too eager to respond because the truth is I can't tear my eyes from her, and I think I might have to gather her up right then and there and kiss her – until a trauma rolls in and interrupts me.
I can tell she's still nervous about those results, but I'm not scared anymore, just unmistakably in love, still, and this time I know what to do with it.
I know too that this time it will work out because she's asking me to make it. And if there's one thing I think I've learned how to do, it's love Abby Lockhart.
You see, I've had a lot of practice.