Returning - Benedict Cumberbatch

by une-papillon-de-nuit

When Holly Whitaker wakes up in Benedict Cumberbatch's London apartment, she believes she has been kidnapped. But she soon realizes that she is, in fact, married to the actor, and has lost five years of her memory. Will they be able to overcome this terrible challenge?

24. Chapter 24: Amsterdam

NOTE:

The title of this chapter is an homage to a Coldplay song… we will (regrettably) not be visiting Amsterdam.

---

Chapter 24: Amsterdam

BENEDICT

The days that follow my return are among the most painful I've ever experienced. Though most of the pain comes from seeing Holly suffering and trying to conceal it from me, much of it also springs from my own heart. Anger is in constant conflict with my drive to retain some semblance of order among my emotions. Anger at the tremendous hardship the love of my life has been put through; and not only anger, but also guilt. What Holly experienced in childhood was enough for a thousand lifetimes. But now the miscarriage has been shattered over her head and, unwittingly or otherwise, I had played the deciding role in causing it.

At least, these overwhelming emotions make a habit of confining themselves to moments in which I am alone. When I'm holding Holly when she needs to cry or simply to be comforted in silence, or when we distract ourselves with simple tasks like washing dishes and making food (of which she still eats too little), a sort of relaxation takes their place. Yet even in moments of calm, my heart is burdened by the knowledge that this relaxation is only emptiness masquerading as relaxation.

Sometimes I find Holly sitting tensely on the edge of the bed or the couch, her body forcing itself through breath after breath as she stares into space with a film of tears in her eyes. I can't help but wonder whether she's grappling with an anger of her own. But neither of us is prepared to talk about it, to ask the necessary questions.

Though we've barely stepped foot outside the apartment together (or, perhaps, because of this), the press is worse than it has ever been before. My publicity manager is truly exerting superhuman efforts to help us get through what he's called, on many occasions, "media Hell," (Holly has dubbed him "our Virgil" and neither of us finds this to be an exaggeration). But no matter how hard he works, something bad always leaks through. We do our best to avoid those parts of the internet where our relationship is exploited.

I am lucky enough to be on a break during which I have no obligations whatsoever but to prepare for my upcoming stretch of filming. Given, it is going to be quite strenuous, but I have learned to indulge in the calm before the storm. The Child in Time will film partly here and partly in Suffolk, and immediately afterward I will be in France, Glasgow and New York for Patrick Melrose.

I won't get back until the middle of October, which means Holly will already be long gone from London.

Though I regret it, I find myself seeking distraction from this fact. I reread my annotations from the series of novels and rehearse my lines with more diligence than usual.

But she sees nothing awry. One morning when she comes to join me at the kitchen table after finishing her shower, she places a soft hand on my wrist, seeming nervous to interrupt my reading, and smiles at me. "I admire you, Ben," she says, her voice soft. "You know I rarely think about your job, but you should still know I think it's really cool. And you work so hard at it."

"Not as hard as you, love," I say, before my eyes can start watering.

She smiles sadly, without challenge, and retracts her hand. I wince before she's even started to speak, knowing I've hit a nerve. "Yeah," she whispers. "To the girl who hasn't been able to write so much as one sentence in the past three weeks."

She's not necessarily exaggerating. The stress experienced by her body and her mind have made it all but impossible for her to exercise any sort of creative energy. I can't blame her for the extreme frustration she's started to feel as a result of her inability to be productive in what she most loves.

Her eyes have welled with tears and I maneuver my wrist to take her hand in mine. She looks at me, begging for some sort of reassurance, her face thin with guilt since we both know I can't really give it; at the end of the day, she's the only one who can give it to herself. But for now, I say it anyway. "It will come back."

She nods her head and smiles, though her eyes are still shining pools of tears, and then stands up to make tea. What hurts me the most is that she doesn't understand that I see the absolute Hell she's been put through in my absence. She seems to apologize to me every time she looks at me, even though I can find nothing that requires forgiveness in her. She doesn't see how strong she has already been.

We tread lightly around one another in the bedroom. There's no strain, our trust and attraction as deep as ever, but something seems tenuous every time our bodies touch. We'd both been frightened by the violence of the physicality we'd shared on the night of my return; me, by the bruises my hands had left on her hips and Holly by the ease with which her mind had lost control afterward. I had lost control and been too rough, and though she'd undoubtedly enjoyed it in the moment, it had been too much and we'd both sorely regretted it afterward. Her body had become more physically fragile over the two weeks I was gone, from receiving too little food, and she is easily hurt and easily tired. I hadn't understood this until too late, but now I am much more careful, although I can tell this comes at the price of some embarrassment on Holly's part. I can't risk hurting her again.

We decide, as we have a number of times before, to focus on alternatives to penetration. But whenever I pleasure her with my mouth she feels obligated to return the favor. From experience I know that, deep down, she dislikes doing this. She's breathtakingly skilled at it, but only because her father put her through tormenting sessions of oral rape throughout her childhood. Often, this knowledge makes it difficult for me to let go and be satisfied, which makes her question herself. Even when I do manage to finish, no matter how gentle I am with her (letting her lead and never once pulling her hair) the encounter always ends up sour, and she gets painfully quiet afterward. When I suggest that we try something else, I can see the regret embedded deeply in her eyes.

We let ourselves make love again after only a few days of halfheartedly holding off. It's midday and she is the one to hover over me, her torso parallel to mine, her breasts pressing gently against my chest. We stay locked together the whole time, Holly slowly moving her hips while I trace the curves of her body and kiss her open mouth. She takes me perfectly and with deep emotion. When she whispers my full name, I am the luckiest man in the world. The passion she inspires in my body makes me yearn to turn us over and show her everything, but now is not the time. Instead, I rest and ride the glorious sensation of her gentle will, of her body spending its strength around me, until I come, too, completely with her in the warmth of the bed through each and every moment.

Afterward I go into the bathroom to remove and check the condom (something I am far more thorough about now than I had been before) and when I come back out she's sheepishly wearing her favorite shirt of mine, happy and tired on the foot of the bed.

In the kitchen she pours me a glass of wine and leads me into the sitting room, where I sip slowly and then lay down on my back on the couch, watching Holly as she stands across the room before the bookshelf, searching for a passage of Shakespeare she'd thought of, the collected works giant in her arms. I admire her without shame, her legs beautiful in the light from the window, her spirit warm and showing through her face as her eyes skim the page for the desired words.

"You are so beautiful."

She turns her face from the book, one eyebrow raised. "Benedict, the wine."

"I don't tell you enough. It's perfectly true. You're the most precious, beautiful…"

But she's come across the room, and now mimes hitting me over the head with the weighty tome, grinning at me. She sets the book down on the coffee table and then climbs on top of me, straightening her legs and settling her small weight on my chest, turning her head to the side as if to listen to my heart. The position of our bodies warms me to the point at which it is shocking to hear what she says next.

"Sometimes I doubt that I fully satisfy you."

My hand moves to firmly hold her waist against me. "Holly, you are the best lover I have ever had."

"I can't help but doubt that," she says with a scoff.

"It's the truth."

She's quietly in thought for a few seconds. I anticipate the question before it comes, and have no qualms about answering it honestly, only surprised that it hadn't come sooner. Her voice is a bit meek and I can sense the heat that rises to her cheeks. "How many lovers have you had?"

"Twelve, counting you."

She pushes herself up by her arm and looks down at me with an expression of surprise, but not of judgment. "Christ!" she exclaims, and then "Oh…" blushing a bit as she notices the unintentional parallel.

"Does that bother you?"

She looks at me for a moment longer before lowering her head to my chest again, her foot nestling against the inside of my leg. "No…"

"It does."

"No. Not that you've… but that… you know. I'm sure I'm not as confident or… experienced as the others."

"That doesn't make you less capable of pleasing me… very deeply. And constantly. Even when we're not making love."

I can feel her smile against my chest. Her body shifts lightly against mine as she accepts the challenge of one of those sessions of banter we've always enjoyed embarking on but haven't been able to in too long. "Alright," she says, her voice taking on that familiar, untouchable tone. "Who's the second best, then?"

I only have to think for a moment, though it's honestly difficult to compare Holly to anyone else. "Lara Pulver."

"Who's that?"

"She played Irene Adler on Sherlock. I was only with her a few times during a lonely stretch, but I appreciated her very much."

Holly seems to consider this for a moment. "She's really attractive."

At this, something occurs to me which I've never thought to ask her before. She's been abundantly clear about never having a boyfriend in any capacity throughout high school, but I can't help wondering… "Holly, were you ever with another girl?"

"No. Someone I knew in tenth grade tried to make a move on me once, but I couldn't. Have you been with another man?"

"Yes, actually."

She angles her face at a slightly awkward angle so she can look at me, her eyes clear with interest. "Really? Many?"

"You know, I fooled around with a friend when I was a young boy, and…"

There's nothing I can't tell her, but I know this will be a little startling and so it doesn't release itself right away. Holly raises an eyebrow, her face held, now, in half-nervous anticipation.

"And?"

"...and Tom."

She draws her face back and smiles in surprise, her eyes wide. I can't help the slight depressurization that occurs in my chest at the naturalness of her reaction. "Tom?! When?"

"Quite a few years ago."

"Would you say you're Bisexual?"

This is something I've thought about on a number of occasions, and it feels strange but relieving to process it aloud, for the first time, with her. "I don't really know. I find some men attractive, but I don't think I act on it enough for it to count."

"Sure it counts, if you want it to. You don't have to be actively hooking up with people of the opposite sex to be straight."

"You have a point."

We're both quiet for a few moments as she presses her ear to my chest. But inevitably she comes back around to it, shaking her head in wonder and looking up at me again with a particular, unnameable shine in her eyes. "Tom?!" she whispers, her tone sarcastically scandalized.

I can't help but smirk. "Don't tell him I told you."

"I never would have guessed."

I press my finger to the tip of her nose, and then she lays back on my chest. It doesn't take long for her to doze off and for me to follow, without a trace of regret for the wine or the conversation.

---

The following morning she wakes up bleeding. Her flow is unusually heavy and I can't blame her for panicking as she hurries from the bed to the bathroom. When I get to the doorway she's leaning on the counter and looking between her legs, where she's bled through her underwear. Her whole body trembles, her breathing shallow and fast, and a pang of second-hand devastation rips through my side at the sight. She's whispering to herself and it doesn't take any effort for me to understand she thinks she's somehow miscarrying again.

I put both hands on her shoulders and put pressure on them to ground her. It's a wonder that my own voice doesn't quake. "Love, it has to be your period."

She looks up at me with unseeing eyes. "Yeah…" she breathes. "Yeah…" and shaking almost more violently she bends over the sink to collect cold water in her hands and lowers her face into it. I hold her shoulders more tightly as she tries to still herself, feeling her back shiver as she holds her breath. Only after a long pause does she surface and breathe again, alternately gasping and holding her breath until she manages to calm the rhythm of inhales and exhales. She presses her face into a towel.

Slowly, she looks up at me, pressing both her palms over her hip bones. "It's okay," she whispers, her jaw trembling. But then, only a moment later she continues, "It's really bad," seeming incapable of choosing which one to believe.

Finding it difficult to breathe normally, myself, I leave her to clean up in the bathroom and go to the kitchen, preparing tea and warming rice heat packs to help her through the cramps. When she emerges from the bathroom I take her hand and in the living room she sits on the carpet between my legs, clutching the rice packs to her lower abdomen while I rub her shoulders and we watch Singin' in the Rain to help distract her.

Around two in the afternoon she gets restless enough to be motivated to go on a jog. We go together, of course. She's a little nervous to go outside in public for fear of photographers, but the necessity of moving and reminding herself of her humanness urges us both to overcome the usual barrier of publicity anxieties in order to do what we need to do to feel better; to feel like people. After getting dressed, I kneel at her feet to tie her shoes, finally returning the emotionally-charged favor she'd given to me when I'd first arrived and fallen asleep after arriving back in London. Her fingers tighten gently in my hair and when I stand again she kisses me briefly, turning too late to conceal the single tear that rolls down her cheek.

At least physically, she already feels better by the time we finish our stretches and warm-ups, doing these in the apartment before walking to the park and starting out slowly on our usual loop.

The first two miles pass easily. We don't have to talk much, just enjoying the pleasant weather and the fact that nobody seems to notice us, given that most of the other people who are outside are returning from late lunch breaks. In fact, the only soul who identifies us is a young boy who has just arrived at the bottom of the playground slide when we pass. He sits there and looks across the mulch at me with wide eyes, and I wave a small wave, unable to keep from smiling tenderly. I keep the interaction subtle and private even from Holly, but I can hear the child running to his parents and saying something about Doctor Strange a few moments after we've gone by. Surely the boy won't be believed.

We're crossing a paved area around a fountain when Holly slows down and has to stop, her breath suddenly becoming short. She gives a cold gasping exhale, one arm reaching out as though to help her balance. "I feel faint…" she manages when I turn to her, taking hold of her wrist. And, indeed, she's become wobbly. My heart thuds in my chest; she looks as though she's a beat away from passing out.

I make her sit down on the edge of the fountain until her head reorients itself to gravity. We can't stay too long for fear of being noticed, so she stands up soon after sitting just long enough to catch her breath. Then we make our way back to the apartment at a slow walk, like an elderly couple. The whole time, Holly's face harbors an exhausted look which goes deeper than just an expression, etched into the very structure of her features. But she doesn't see that she is holding me up just as much as I am, her, my arm braced around her waist as she leans into my side with every other step.

The physical aspects of the world around me are difficult to fully grasp. I cling to the smallest of understandings: the weight of the handle of the front door, the sound of the keys on the countertop, the temperature of the water I pour into a glass, the fragility of Holly's hand when she accepts it. It's the latter observation which sticks longer than a few moments. The scare of lightheadedness by the fountain has undoubtedly been due, at least in part, to her not eating enough for a number of weeks. From the way she shakily lifts the glass to her lips, I can tell she knows this, too. To make it real, I know I must say something, and that I must be the one to say it, the truth, even though it hurts us both.

"Holly," I manage, once she's drained the glass of water. My voice has finally reached the breaking point of its control and though this makes it more difficult to control, there's an amount of relief in being able to hear that my voice sounds the way that I feel. "Holly, I'm sorry, but you have to… you have to start eating more. I'm not going to make you move too quickly, but… It's killing me to see you starve yourself."

Her gaze, filling with shame and tears, flickers around my face, touching painfully on both of my eyes. I can see her throat tightening.

"I'm not doing that, Ben."

"Inadvertently, you most certainly are."

The tears become too heavy to hold and she sighs pitchlessly as they start to fall, covering her face with her hands and whispering in isolation for a few moments before her words become decipherable: "I'm so sorry, Benedict. I'm so sorry."

My eyes can no longer detect anything beyond vague impressions of depth and light, buried beneath pools of tears. I can't do anything but hold her. I bring her little body close (warm, to me, though I know her own body must feel cold, to her), press her against my chest and cup her head in my hands.

"You've done nothing wrong. Nothing. Nothing…"

Hurt people that we are, we stand frozen for any number of minutes.

But then something starts to thaw. The kitchen, the apartment, London… all of it is subdued, dissolved. My whole heart swells out to encompass her, with some tremendous power I can't control or understand, but which moves itself just as I would move my own body, could I move it in such a way. It's as though I am on the other end of the long arms which sometimes seem to reach out for us from beyond death. Holly falls silent. She feels it, too. And it's because of her, because I'm holding her and because I love her more than I had ever imagined myself capable of loving anyone, that this vivid illusion doesn't seem impossible.

---

Later in the same week following my return, Holly's aunt graduates to the level in her rehabilitation program at which she is allowed access to a phone. Now she can text or call Holly at a specific time every day; which, albeit, is usually not an ideal time for us, being five hours ahead. Regardless of the inconvenience, Holly is always eager to attend to her messages, even though it requires us to stop whatever we happen to be doing at six in the evening. It gives her something to put her mind to, and seems to help her orient herself in the world beyond the apartment, beyond the painfully gradual recovery of the innermost parts of her body.

But this reconnection with her Aunt comes at the price of severe nightmares, which soon prove exhausting for both of us. Every night she has them, and every night when she wakes up she goes through the same series of motions: touches her inner thighs, looks at her hands, presses her hands to her middle, and then collapses into sobs. Unlike the nightmares she usually has (ones featuring her father) these inspire her to need my arms and I know from those motions and the fresh devastation with which she clings to me that she can't be dreaming of anything other than the miscarriage.

After three nights of this she expresses fears of falling asleep. And though I am with her the whole time, my body tight to hers when we go to sleep and even tighter when she inevitably wakes up in a panic, I know I can't possibly protect her from the more powerful forces at work in her mind. All I can do is reassure her, praying that this particular brand of torment will subside sooner rather than later.

The fifth night is the worst yet. According to the new usual, she usually wakes up on her own with a start that also wakes me. But this time I am woken by a series of smaller movements that she makes while still in her sleep. By the time I'm fully alert, her breathing is dangerously hard and her leg jolts with each whimper. I have to be the one to wake her up, settling my hands on her shoulders and saying her name loudly enough to force her back to reality.

There's no lengthy fade out of the blur of sleep. She comes awake all at once, her eyes wide and her body moving through it's still half-stiff. I try to hold onto her until the moment at which I realize she doesn't want me to. She almost falls off the bed in her escape, but then recovers her footing, covering her eyes with violently shaking hands before I've even had the chance to breathe.

I've learned my lesson from the last time I'd touched her when she'd clearly been trying to close herself off, in Winter of last year when, in the wake of strained and awkward sex, she'd fled into another room and I'd hugged her despite her protestations. She'd gone out on a walk and scared me half to death. It had all been my fault, of course, for not listening to her. So, now, with great difficulty but great dedication, I glue myself to the bed and sit on my hands, watching her while she crumples against the wall and sobs.

I am diminished and powerless, like a young boy in the presence of something he is too inexperienced to understand, which he both fears and admires. It's nothing short of torturous to see the love of my life this way. But even as my organs twist and ache, I realize that I am watching the true manifestation of human strength as Holly fights to regain control of herself despite the storm pressing in on her from within.

It takes her a long time, and though I want to say something to let her know I'm with her, something tells me to stay silent. Eventually, her eyes still dark with tears but her body still, she manages to sit up straight and lean against the wall, her knees pulled up tight to her chest. She can bear to look straight at me, now, but I know she still couldn't approach and touch me even if she wanted to. I let my hands ease out from under my thighs and, with them, squeeze my knees.

"That was different," I say quietly, once she's been breathing normally for a minute or so. And it surely had been different, both from the old usual and the new usual, likely a twisted hybrid of both.

Reactions still delayed, she nods her head. "It was," she whispers. "But I can't tell you."

From the trembling that crosses her face at this, my imagination sets off at a gallop, leading me through all sorts of terrible scenarios. Like her father digging something half-formed and bloody out of her with a coat hanger.

I find that I've sunken into a state of second-hand disassociation when the sound of her voice pulls me out of it. I could have been down there in the dimness for any number of minutes, but something tells me it hadn't been as long as it had felt.

"Benedict… does our age gap ever bother you?"

What?

I lean forward and pray my voice can carry with enough warmth to help ease her of whatever anxiety has catalyzed the question. "Where is this coming from? Have you been following the press?"

Her face is covered in shadow and I resist the urge to reach for the lamp.

Patience.

Her voice is quiet and self-conscious, not at all defensive. "I haven't been. I just thought of it a moment ago."

"It does not. It never has." I can't tell whether or not she believes me. But I need to know why this is on her mind. "What about you?"

She shakes her head and gives up a shaky exhale. "It's just that… You're so… so… stable. And I feel like a kid who can't control herself."

My heart thuds and I feel my face actually wince. The thought that she perceives her pain as some sort of gap in emotional maturity between us makes it difficult for me to breathe normally. Holly is the strongest person I have ever met, and I can't help but admire her maturity and persistence in every way. The thought that she could think she is inferior to me in such a department is not difficult to imagine, under these circumstances, but is hard to accept.

"Holly, being…" I realize that I've almost stood up, and her eyes have widened inadvertently as she looks up at me. I force myself to sit back down. "Having a hard time doesn't make you a child. Suffering doesn't discriminate based on age, and neither does the ability to be unbelievably strong; which you are, my love, every single day. It's my duty to love you and help you no matter what."

I can visibly see the effort she makes to keep from shaking her head in denial of what I'd said about her strength, but I choose to let her process instead of poking at that sensitive area. It seems that is going to be what takes the longest for her to believe. For now, she shudders, holds her breath, sighs, and focuses on what I'd said afterward, though she still seems on the verge of tears from the tightness of her voice.

"Is it a duty you hate?"

"No. It's painful, but I can't hate it. I love you too much."

I've told the truth and it's relieving but painful, like pressure leaving your ears. I feel the cool evidence of a single tear upon my cheek. It seems to motivate Holly to scrape herself up to the floor, and as she shuffles to me I can't help but question myself, wondering if I'd inadvertently manipulated her exactly because of what she's been saying about our age difference. Does she feel beholden to me? Does she feel like she can't control her own choices and emotions around me? I know how deeply my body had intimidated her at the beginning of our relationship, and how it still sometimes does. When I'm inside her, does she truly feel safe? Am I capable of protecting her without also playing into some twisted, patriarchal system that only serves to repress her? If I asked her these questions, would she be able to tell me the truth? Would my doubt scare her?

She stands with her knees pressing into the mattress, leaning forward between my legs to hug him. She's perhaps an inch taller than I am, despite the fact that I'm sitting down. The fact that she's smaller than me has always turned me on. I've never seen her as weak, but as a mighty young woman in spite of her size, perhaps even more mighty because of it. But does this aspect of my physical attraction to her corrupt that strength? When she expresses disbelief in the fact that she possesses strength, does that self-doubt spring from the way I might inadvertently treat her because she's smaller; because I find her irresistible? Do I actually find her smallness sexy because it makes her easier to control? Do I want to control her?

Her body shudders a little bit, as though from the cold. But I can't help fearing that she had felt my concerns through my skin. "I really, really can't go back to sleep tonight."

I stroke her back with both hands, my thumbs easily reaching around to just below her breasts. "Are you okay with laying down? You don't have to go to sleep. I'll stay awake with you."

She doesn't answer for a little while, and her body gives no hint as to the expression she might be wearing on her face. My hands slip under her shirt to massage her lower back, knowing that skin-to-skin contact can sometimes calm her down in the darkest hours of the night, and hoping that it might help her cramps. But, as I rarely ever do, I immediately start to analyze the action. I hadn't even thought about doing it, but it hadn't been exactly subconscious, either. I'd only thought about making her feel better. But what if comforting her only makes her feel suffocated? What if I am accidentally clouding her judgment? She is my everything, but what if I'm not right for her?

"Yeah, I'd like to lay down"

I lean back and maneuver myself into the bed, pulling up the covers so that she can climb under next to me. She does so, and molds herself to my own body, tucking her knees up to her elbows. I tuck my own knees up against her calves and spoon her with deep pressure. But I can tell, minutes later, by the rhythm of her breath, that she really isn't going to be falling asleep.

---

I don't realize that I, myself, hadn't been able to resist the heavy blanket of my own unconsciousness until I wake up an hour later. I register before even becoming fully awake that I am alone in the bed, and sense that Holly must have only left a minute ago at most. My body aching with tiredness, but at least not numb from it, I get out of the bed and acclimate to the still tension of the night before going through the open door of the bedroom.

She's sitting where I subconsciously anticipate her to be, her small frame stuck in a dim and dejected posture at the desk in the main room. She's wearing her giant sweater and a pair of shorts, her head leaning on one hand and the other limp on the desk, atop a piece of paper, with a discarded pen standing by. My entrance into the room seems lost on her, so I make myself mildly obvious as I go to her so that she won't be startled. When I place a hand on her shoulder I feel a little sinking, but no fright. I'm sure the point of her coming out here had been to leave me to sleep in peace, and that she must be disappointed. But she doesn't say anything about it, only lifting her limp hand from over the paper on the desk and placing it on top of my own, her head not shifting a millimetre.

The removal of her hand has revealed what she'd started writing on the paper: the poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost, a favorite of us both and one she's had memorized for many years. But she'd only managed to write the first line before giving up on the endeavor, unable even to write out someone else's poem. I can physically feel the dry pain in her heart, resulting from the refusal of the well of her writing to yield any of the sustenance she's relied on for years, and my hand reflexively turns over to clasp hers.

To ease us out of our silence I repeat the words aloud, quietly, and continue the poem, off the page. "Whose woods these are I think I know… his house is in the village, though."

After a moment of silence, Holly's hand squeezes mine, and she finally gathers the strength to move her head, turning her face to press her lips to my knuckles before looking up at me, her eyes shining with that light which appears out of nowhere in the middle of the night. Her breath whispers against my skin in evidence of her agreement to play along, and the ghost of a smile trips over her lips: "He will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow."

We stay there for a moment before I bend down, the better to pick her up. Her arms wrap loosely around the back of my neck as she lifts her knees so my arm can hook underneath. I bend my nose to hers. "My little horse must think it queer, to stop without a farmhouse near."

In this quiet moment, I know I've been overanalyzing her actions. She's grieving for something she never even had, and I'm feeling everything more acutely, in a panicked and insecure way that makes me second-guess even my most tender sympathetic instincts. Her face nears mine and she presses her nose lightly against mine, seeming to tell me I'm right through the fog of her own exhaustion. Her voice is quiet and from somewhere deep inside of her soul, and through it I can see the scene more vividly than I have ever imagined it, on my own. "Between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year."

Right now I have to trust her body, and her arms and her nose and her eyes are telling me that she wants to be held. I need to stop perceiving it as a risk to get out of my own head, to let go and trust that I know her deeply enough to give her what she needs. "He gives his harness bells a shake, to ask if there is some mistake…"

Making sure I have her tightly and safely, I pick her up slowly. I can tell instantly that her body weighs too little… in the warped world of the night and my sharpened sensitivity for her, her small form in my arms feels terminally ill. My whole body grows dangerously strengthless at this, and I have to stand there for a moment, pulling her close to my chest, before I can manage to breathe right again.

Her eyes watch mine and when the next two lines come from her lips, they're like a prayer, like a reassurance. "The only other sound's the sweep of easy wind and downy flake." I can feel the coolness of the snow and pull her body closer. I carry her to the sofa rather than back into the bedroom, trusting that a change of scene will help both our night-harried minds to be put to rights.

Once horizontal, I pull her close, one of my hands sneaking into the big pocket of her sweater to press through the thin lower layer against her abdomen, and we finish. "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep…"

Holly nestles against me, tucking both her arms up to her chest and rubbing her forehead back and forth against the cushions once before stilling. "And miles to go before I sleep," she says, exhaling with her whole body, her part finished.

"And miles to go before I sleep."

I can tell that she actually falls asleep, this time, shortly after silence has once again descended upon the apartment, not interrupted even by an occasional car that might have passed down the street below. I follow her soon, relieved that she's finally managed to relax. My own conscious mind feels unburdened after the simplicity of this cleansing emotional closeness, which had seeme restrained between us just earlier tonight, in the wake of her nightmare.

But it seems my subconscious has held onto its load. Even with a calm body and a warm and quiet room, with my beloved in my arms, I suffer a horrific dream of my own. As dreams go, I don't realize I'm inside of one until it's too late.

In the cold depths of my mind, I'm making love with Holly in a bed that I know is ours. Her face is soft and flushed, her limbs sensitive, and I am enveloped in complete bliss, my body deep inside of hers. I'm listening to her sighs when they suddenly become burdened, and turn into coughs. The sound grows more and more wretched, but I'm not stopping to let her breathe; I'm not in control. Burning green fear fills her eyes. Her hands reach up to push against my chest and her weak voice is begging me to stop, between frightfully violent coughs. The only possible reaction is for me to stop at once; to pull out and help her. But I can't. I can't even make myself speak, to tell her I'm trying. I feel an unnatural slickness around that wicked extension of my body, embedded hard and deep inside of her tightening body. Her nails sink deep into my shoulders and then she starts to scream. But neither my skin nor my ears feel any pain. The last thing I register before my consciousness is dragged backward out of the scene, is that the slickness inside of her can be nothing but blood.

When I wake up in a cold sweat, there's faint pink light on the other side of the window curtains. Second to this, my mind registers the fact that I've fallen down onto the floor from the edge of the couch. Shaking and freezing, my body turns over onto all fours and I press my forehead briefly to the hardwood floor, holding back the urge to vomit. Then, seized again by the reality of the dream, I sit up on my knees rather too fast and look onto the couch. Holly is still there, having slept right through what must have been quite the fit of movement on my part. Reaching forward to lean over her, my body still quaking and cold and hardly under control, I check her pulse. I had wanted nothing less than to disturb her, but the feeling of my fingertips against her skin is what makes her stir and wake up. Her elbow shifts toward the ceiling as she drags the back of her hand across her eyes, and then twists over to look at me. Her bleary eyes quickly clear when her gaze meets mine. From the expression that seizes her face, I can tell that I must look as haggard and terrified as I feel.

"Sorry," I choke out, but I can't seem to take my fingers away from her neck. This lack of control is reminiscent of what I'd experienced in the nightmare… but I'm back in reality now, and when my body is seized by an instinct to remove myself from her immediate vicinity, it is enough to force my body into movement.

I sit down on the floor again and move backward on the heels of my hands until my back encounters the unexpected coffee table and I collapse, leaning back against it and staring at her. She's completely human, no terrorized green light in her eyes, no blood, no screaming, no unnatural contortions, no horror. The immediate effect of the dream had been a fear of what was happening to her, and a slight fear of Holly, herself. But now that I'm awake, I see that it is I who had been the monster.

Holly turns over and sits on the edge of the sofa, her hands gripping the cushions. Her face is tense, not even partly asleep. "What is it? Ben, what happened?"

I can only shake my head.

She climbs down onto the floor next to me and wraps my body in a tight embrace. Despite the difference in our sizes she manages to envelop me completely. I can't fight it, but I do find myself stiffening, still unable to speak. The feeling of her pressure against me reminds me to breathe, but it doesn't help me to calm down. Her nearness makes me question my ability to keep her safe, and my body surrenders to an unconscious shudder when I remember the vividness of her jolts and screams from the dream. Startled by my movements she pulls her face back to look at me for a moment, long enough for me to see the deep concern and empathy in her eyes, before her face returns to my shoulder. She's shaking, too. One of her hands goes to the back of my head. The presence of someone else's skin there makes me realize how badly I'd been sweating, but she doesn't withdraw, only holding me more tightly. When she whispers, her breath warms my neck, yet has the ironic effect of making me shiver, and not in a sensual way.

"I love you, Benedict. It's okay. I'm right here."

My heart swells with painful love for her. But I know I have to escape, convinced that my being so close to her is a threat to her safety. I haven't even been able to wrap my arms around her in reciprocation for her embrace. Now, my hand tightens around her forearm… but the moment it does, I fling it away from myself and it comes in hard contact with the floor with a slapping sound.

"Holly," I manage, without breath. "I have to…"

She lets me go at once, probably connecting my plea to the feeling of claustrophobia that makes her averse to touch at times. I sense her kneeling back to let me push myself up to my feet with the help of the coffee table, but I can't bear to look at her before I leave the room, seeking support from every piece of furniture along the way.

I make it to the bathroom. My body is on fire but it shivers as though freezing. I try to monologue my way to some form of exterior humor or sanity but even that ever-present tool has slipped out of reach. Once inside the bathroom, I ease down onto the toilet seat and, having forgotten to close the door but seeing it's far too late to do anything about it, I find myself suddenly in tears.

Holly enters after a few moments, which she'd probably spent deliberating over whether to give me space or pursue me. I don't know which one would have been better… When she kneels down in front of me and lays her forehead on my knee, the physical touch is both pins-and-needles painful, and blissfully warm. I cover my face with my hands, an urge to put as much space between myself and my fragile beloved gnawing at my gut. I should be hiding my own torment from her. I should be strong for her, while she struggles through her own weaknesses. But at the same moment these thoughts enter my mind, I realize how patriarchal they had sounded. If anything, I'm a coward for trying to conceal the fact that I'm feeling just as weak as she. I uncover my face and let myself sob. The sound is thunderous; I haven't cried this way in a long time.

Holly takes and holds my hands tightly. They shake violently, but she still holds onto them. She's crying, too, but without any sound, the tears slipping down her cheeks and having no effect on the sincere composure of her face. I channel my energy into making myself at least stop shaking, knowing that if I can get my body under control, then my mind might follow. But I am still hardly in control, slipping in and out of my own mind.

"Come on," she says, very quietly, and lets go of my hands to stand up before leaning down to help me up, too. I allow myself to lean on her as we shuffle back to the bedroom. I'm tense about getting into the bed but she helps me to lay down with a graceful touch, covering me in blankets, and something about this seems safe and real despite it having been the setting of my horrific loss of control in the nightmare. She is the one to hold me, instead of the other way around. Our chests move with breath a small distance away from each other. She rests her head not on the pillow directly across from me, but on the sheets by my shoulder so that she can more easily tighten her arm around my waist. Her other hand grips mine, her fingers kneading the web of concentrated tension between my thumb and index finger. She looks into my eyes, making no sound. And it's not long until the source of my tears is not the anxiety from the dream but the raw emotion that tightens around my whole body, the devastating intimacy of looking into her eyes in this way. She continues to hold me tightly until I calm down enough to take control of myself again. But she can tell that I still need some help and heightens the sound of her breathing. I latch onto it, slowing my own to her pace and depth.

After another minute she squeezes me tightly and then softly removes herself from the bed, going to open the curtains. The light calms me further, sharpening the edges of the room. My body is weak and drained, but I still manage to sit up, the blankets bunching around my waist. Holly sits on the edge of the bed and looks into my eyes again, placing her hand over mine. I breathe in to say something but then release it; there's nothing I can say.

"What would help?" she says, her voice the perfect and only voice to soothe me, nothing accessorizing it. "Maybe a shower? A walk, or some breakfast?"

I can read in her tone and her eyes that my coming to pieces upon waking up had disturbed her. She lets it show, but is strong despite it. A cold trickle of embarrassment taps on my head as I again remember how I'd fled from her presence in the living room, and remember the thoughts I'd had in the bathroom, about having to hide my emotions from her. Yet here she is, being herself without restraint or embarrassment. She is the strongest person in the world. She puts me to shame.

I nod my head in agreement to any of her suggestions, wanting her to decide. I can see that she understands and she holds my hand more firmly. "Let's eat something, first."

In the kitchen I steadily manage to make my voice work again, and my aversion to her nearness narrows to nothing. We make breakfast together. She never once requests that I tell her the contents of the nightmare, and the question is not even present in her eyes. She simply accepts me and sits beside me rather than across the table when we eat, looking up at me and then leaning her head on my shoulder. Never before have I seen her this physical outside of the bedroom, and I have to admit it makes me feel calmer and comforted. Physical affection is doubtlessly one of the last on her list of love languages, but she seems to be experiencing a primal need to give of her own touch after seeing me in a panicked state. Each of her touches are firm and warm.

I can't help but let in a gaseous sensation of guilt after a number of minutes of this. When I return to the root of the nightmare, it had been my worst fear. But my reaction to it feels unearned to me. I've never felt good in disarray. But I'm sure Holly has never, either, even though she is forced to wear it more often than I am.

"A little bit better?" she says after a while, looking at my empty plate.

My voice is still watery, but steady and at its normal pitch. "Very much better." I try to hold back what comes next, but it is the truth and would follow naturally after any response I could make to her in this moment. "I'm sorry about…"

As I'd expected, her eyebrows furrow sternly before I can finish. "Ben, it happens to me every night. You only get to apologize once we're even."

I consider this for a moment, and decide it's fair enough. I can't help but smile at her, a tender, pained smile which she echoes with honesty.

We take half a minute to wash the few dishes we'd used, dry them, and put them away.

---

Later, towards noon, we're standing in front of the green window when she turns to lean against the wall, and pulls me towards her. Her hand slides up my arm to rest on my bicep. "Do you want to?"

Her body seems relaxed and turned on but I suddenly grow tense, realizing her intentions. "Are you sure?"

She lowers her gaze. "I feel like it might help us… just… feel like people again."

I know exactly what she means, and I want it badly, too. To be a person, not a nightmare-infested, anxiety-ridden, subhuman war zone of a body. My empathy for her has increased to the point of burning now that I've experienced a fraction of the horrors she survives each night. As much as I desire sexual release in her arms (the thought alone places me in danger of getting hard here and now), she must need it much more.

But though my body wants her, I'm still caught up in the nightmare. Of course, I would be able to stop if she asked me to, no matter the circumstances. But even in the light of day, the impression of a dangerous strength in my body, and a fragility in hers, persists. Again, I'm afraid to touch her.

"Holly, I want to… But… What if it… What if I hurt you."

With a clenching heart, I watch her face fall in stages.

"What's what the nightmare was about, wasn't it."

I nod my head up and down, feeling as though I might cry again. But a certain cool pressure in my upper chest keeps much emotion from rising. For a lonely moment she looks taken aback; maybe even a little bit wary. But then, closing the gap, she presses her whole body against mine tightly, and lets me shudder once against her before I wrap my arms around her, in turn.

I can tell that she has understood from my eyes and my words that had taken place in my mind under the dark veil of sleep. Yet she doesn't tremble away from me. Through her trust, she seems to beg my own.

"It's okay," she says, her voice steady. "You would never, ever do that, Benedict. I am safe with you."

There is not a hint of her trying to convince herself of the truth of these words when she speaks them. They are for me only. We pass a minute in quiet stillness, my body warm around hers and her own body holding its own in my arms. But I still can't ignore the dark, root-like feeling in the pit of my stomach, which only pretends, every few exhales, to recede.

---

HOLLY

I wake up easily on Saturday morning, clear-headed and without the lingering terror of a nightmare for the first time in days. The only explanation is that I've become so tired from not sleeping enough for so long that my brain finally kicked into survival mode and gave me a full night of sleep. Either that, or my feelings of protectiveness toward Ben in the wake of his own disturbing dream had been strong enough that my subconscious was forced to stop producing nightmares. This is believable. The distress I'd felt over scaring him, over deeply scaring him in such a way as had been evident in the contents of that terrible dream he'd confessed to me, had certainly been strong enough to force a shut-down and restart of my system. Regardless of the reason for the dreamless night, I'm grateful beyond measure for the simplicity I find in waking up; the simplicity of noticing the way the light falls over the bedsheets, and of noticing Benedict's still-sleeping face close to mine.

There's a bit of scruff on his face. He is perfect to me no matter what, but he has been keeping a clean shave lately… this must be accidental. Surely it slipped his mind for the past couple of days. Not only that but I notice, for the first time, that he's lost weight in his face, too. We'd talked about him losing a little bit for his upcoming role, since he's portraying a drug addict, but there's something in this that goes beyond the slight alterations he sometimes makes to his body for his job. I can see in the slight tension in his temples, even in sleep, that he's been depressed.

And why wouldn't he be, with everything I'm putting him through? I'm not doing any of it on purpose, of course, but that doesn't make the effects on him any better. A deep, troublesome feeling blooms darkly in my stomach. There is nothing more frightening or guilt-breeding to me than the fact that my struggling is tormenting him as deeply as it has been proven to be by the nightmare he'd had. Watching his sleeping face, I subconsciously wrap my arms around myself. As I often do, I wonder at my luck at having met him, at simply existing in the same world as him, complex and terrible as I am. But this time, there's something dark lurking beneath this wonder. I realize only now, that our innermost selves must be somehow bound together; now that it physically hurts my own body to see him in this kind of psychological pain because of me.

On the bedside table, my phone starts to vibrate with an incoming call. I quickly reach over to press the power button and silence it, so nothing disturbs Ben's sleep. Now that I've finally had a dreamless night, the very least I can do is try to secure the same for him.

Still, the aching in my body-part menstrual cramps and part anguished empathy-keeps me from staying in the bed much longer, and I end up easing myself onto the hardwood floor, overtaken by the idea that I might wake Ben up by simply existing next to him, with so many toxic thoughts running through my mind.

Silently, I make breakfast and bring it back on a wooden tray. As there's nothing that could cause a catastrophic spill, I set it down on the bed before climbing back under the covers. If I had been told, as a young teenager, that I would someday see any bed as a haven, I would have scoffed and run away to cry. But this morning, something about the quality of the light falling over the tousled white blankets makes the bed look and feel like a cloud; and Ben is my heaven and my castle.

I find myself looking down and smiling at the open palms of my hands. But looking at my fingers, narrowed somehow from the last time I deeply studied them, reminds me of my own thinness, my own failings. My gaze flickers to the space between my legs, and I have to close my eyes tightly, remembering that day… the adrenaline of seeing a Nolan movie in the theatre, of meeting Harry, and then the sudden shock of pain, the color red, and the unforgettable falling of Tom's face.

A part of Benedict had been deep inside of me, in the innermost, warmest place my body has to offer. But my mind hadn't been enough to maintain it. Instead of being nurtured, that seed had been expelled from me before I'd even known of its existence. But what am I thinking? I wouldn't have actually had the child… would I have?

I've fallen again into my usual negative spiral of not being good enough for him. Maybe I am good enough for him, but only in another life where bad things don't happen to me; where my life doesn't spill over into and pollute his with sadness and hard emotional grappling that he doesn't deserve. I try to see the appeal of being with someone like me, and I can't find it.

Ben stirs, probably from a combination of my small movements and the smell of breakfast, and I correct my face to a warm smile which I feel fully as he opens his eyes, and which couldn't be called false, but behind which I have to hide a substantial amount of pain. Once he's fully awake I lean down and plant a long, still kiss on his lips. His hand reaches up and gently holds the side of my face as he kisses me back.

---

Ben is in the shower a quarter of an hour later when I first look at my phone. The call that had set the bedside table vibrating, that I'd quickly hung up on without looking at the screen, had been from Tom. I see he's left a voicemail and I move into the hallway to listen to it, my heart instantly starting to pound. It's not a text, so it must be important. Besides, I only now realize how long it's been since I've had any contact with him-or since Ben has, for that matter-and equal parts guilt and anxiety take over my throat.

I brace myself before opening the voicemail, but once I have I listen to it twice. Tom's recorded voice is overly measured as he tells me he'll be at a certain park bench at a certain time, and for me to come if I wouldn't mind. There's something he needs to say to me in person. He'll understand if I don't show up. I don't have to respond to this.

I glance at the clock and see that it's almost reached the time he'd noted. If I don't get there in five minutes he might get nervous and leave-that's certainly what I would do. If I want to see him, I'll have to hurry. And, though something in me is scared of the thought, I do want to see Tom. Although, it's not so much wanting to see him as knowing I need to go to him. My whole body shakes at the thought of seeing him after how we'd parted. He'd kissed me on the floor in the kitchen and then we'd hidden from each other for the remainder of his stay in the apartment. He'd been gone without a goodbye as soon as Ben arrived, and there hasn't been a word from him since. I can only imagine the bravery it had taken for him to leave me a voicemail in the first place, and something about this stirs up a kind of empathetic desperation in my own heart. I have an unrefusable draw to meet him in the middle. I haven't been hiding from him deliberately, but I still don't want to feel this way towards him forever.

In my hurry I don't even change out of my sweatpants and tank top, not caring if this is what I'm wearing the first time someone catches a photograph of me since the miscarriage. I need to see my friend, and if I give even a little bit of thought to what I'm wearing or why I need to see him, I'll start to panic, which I can't do. I have to give calm, cool Holly a chance to rise to the occasion.

I go back into the bedroom and press the already-ajar bathroom door in a little further to stick my head through. "Hey, Ben? I need to go and meet Tom for a talk, at the park."

At the sound of my voice he tugs back the shower curtain a few inches, peering back at me with soaped-up hair and a dab of bubbles on his nose. "Okay," he says, his tone and his look not at all questioning me. It's been a while since we've been in a situation for either of us to be out and about without the other (while we're both in the same city, at least) but despite the new circumstances, this fundamental trust hasn't shifted a millimeter. "I love you," he says and presses two fingers to his lips, one of our many signals.

I return the movement and then pull my face back from the warm air of the bathroom, my smile staying with me down the hall before the task before me again looms up beyond the apartment door, and I shiver a little. I feel… non-grounded. Especially going out alone. But I watch myself going through the old motions, just taking my apartment key, phone and sunglasses, and trusting that I'll be able to handle myself. In the moment before I put my hand on the doorknob, I question my clothes once again… Shouldn't I at least put on a jacket? It will be warm outside, but I don't want to look like I'm trying to… or to make him feel… or to disregard… God, why does this have to be so complicated?

I shake my head back and forth once, hard enough to snap myself out of it. "Tom would never think that. Shut up and go," I say to myself, with ruthless inflection. At last, my own harsh language pushes me to seize the doorknob, twist it hard, and step out of the apartment.

---

I find him sitting on the planned park bench in shorts, a t-shirt and a basketball cap. When I first spot him, I'm still standing across the park; I still have a chance to back out without him noticing that I was ever here. My body is tense from the top of my head to my heels. I don't want to go through with it, and I genuinely almost turn around, thinking so hard about doing it that I almost think I do, but it's only the power of my imagination. My feet remain glued to the ground, my eyes remain glued to the back of Tom's head. Of course I don't turn around; that would be ridiculous. I check the time. I'd hurried here but still I'm more than ten minutes late. And, yet, he's waited for me. I can't possibly bail out now.

Taking a few deep breaths to make my body movable again, I gather myself, reminding myself of why I'm here. I'm here because I care about Tom, and he cares about me, for better or for worse. I'm here because we need to speak about what happened between us the day before Ben came back. I'm here because I'm trying to understand myself, and because I want him to be okay. I just want everything to be okay. With this mantra in mind, I cross the park without attracting notice and go to sit down next to him. I don't plant myself dramatically at the very end of the bench, but I do leave a good amount of space between us. I can only see his profile in my half-peripheral vision; we don't dare to look at each other, yet, though I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's noticed my silent arrival; his hands, clasped between his knees, have tightened to the point of being white-knuckled. Out of courtesy, I take off my sunglasses. I look at his hands. I remind myself to breathe.

Desperate to alleviate some of this tension, I force myself to lean back against the back of the bench. I need to assume a more relaxed posture. Maybe I'm actually bringing more tension of my own to the table than I think I am, and I need to take that first step. Maybe, if my body takes it first, my mind will follow. But just as I lean back, some twinge in the movement, and in my poor breathing, triggers a cramp; and I'm thrust right back into my bad posture again, hunching over a bit as I clutch my abdomen, my other hand tightening around the arm of the bench. I can sense Tom looking over at me, now, but my head is bowed so I thankfully don't have to look back yet, and the awareness is only vague through the more pressing, pulsing pain. I suck in a silent breath and hold it, squinting as I wait out the tense pain.

Eventually, it only remains in mild throbs, and then thins out into the usual underlying discomfort, allowing me to breathe again. I don't try to lean back, now, just sitting with my shoulders slightly hunched, which feels natural for my body and my feelings, and my sudden overwhelming awkwardness, even though all of these are the opposite of the things that I want to convey to Tom. At least they're honest. At least they're me.

But maybe I shouldn't be trying to be me right now.

I have no idea what to do.

I look over at Tom before I have the chance to think too hard about it. His face is not smiling, but not necessarily frowning, either. His sea glass eyes look back into mine, revealing far too much. I feel suspended, next to him. We're both trapped in a web of ropes, far away from the ground, and the way down is complex to the point of terror. This is going to be just as difficult as I'd feared, if not more. But at least I'm here, and not tapping my foot over a bunch of worse, ever-building scenarios, back in the apartment.

"Sorry about that," I whisper, so quietly that I doubt, the moment afterward, whether I'd spoken at all.

But apparently I had: Tom shakes his head slightly, once, back and forth. "It's okay," he says, his voice slightly different from how I remember it. There's some kind of strange hoarseness in it. He's an open book, just like me, and the feeling of knowing the kind of tension that must be growing in his chest at this very moment only makes my own pain double down. "It's okay. A girlfriend of mine" (I know Tom well enough to know that when he says "girlfriend" in that specific tone, which ex he's talking about) "had really bad ones, too."

I try to imagine the mighty Taylor Swift curled up on the couch from bad menstrual cramps.

"Only, she yielded to the logic of taking pain medication."

Tom gives me a look. He knows I hate taking pain medication, no matter what it's for. Even with headaches, I'll hold off until the last possible moment and only use pills in absolute emergencies, or in the case of Ben practically forcing me, which does happen sometimes. I know it's illogical but there's something about medication that I group with my fear of alcohol. I want to be as independent as possible, and something about drugs of any kind makes me feel insecure, and out of control. I can see the other side, though. It probably seems to Tom-and to Ben, when he's made similar arguments-that I would, on the contrary, be more in control if I just took something for the pain, and ended my own torment.

I shrug my shoulders. A flicker of something like ease crosses Tom's face, but it seems false in the moment after it first appears. He glances away, looking into the green depths of the trees in the park before us. "How are you and Ben?"

"We can't sleep," I say, only grateful that he'd started the conversation, and letting my mind tell the absolute truth. But something about the words just as quickly injects a heavy dose of cold awkwardness into my body. The statement had implied a deep kind of intimacy, and it echoes in my head just as I imagine it may be echoing in Tom's, causing a different kind of pain.

Here's the real problem. When Tom and I are both standing up, the top of my head fails to reach as high as his shoulder. And though it's a bit less intimidating to be sitting down with him, he's still larger and more powerful than me-and not just because of his physical body. Now that I know about the fact that Ben and Tom have been physical together, and after talking with Ben about his past partners, I have realized just how in over my head I am with sexuality. The nervousness I've felt before, because of my survivor's instincts, is completely different from what I feel now that I know, on some level, that I'm safe. And, ridiculously, it actually feels worse, now. Understanding just how inexperienced I am in the 'normal' world of having relationships and having sex and 'finding someone' makes it downright terrifying to be in the presence of someone who is experienced in these things, for better and for worse, and who isn't Ben… and who wants me, of all people.

Again, I think about how helpless I'd been when Tom had kissed me. I had totally frozen and sent myself away, and I hadn't really come back into my body until it had already been too late, and his own accidental intentions had run their course. I'd stood up and removed myself from the room in a daze, and had spent the rest of the day worrying about what on earth would have happened if he hadn't stopped there…

I can't stand that my nerves are making me think this way about Tom. I know he would never have done such a thing. But, then again, I had never imagined that it was in the cards for him to kiss me until it was already happening. Regardless of what he did and did not do, the very thought that he has probably imagined having sex with me makes me feel totally paralyzed. The prospect of a man like Tom wishing to have my body in that way is unbelievable and terrifying. I know this isn't necessarily a natural reaction. Women all over the globe would frown and hate me more than they already do if they could hear my thoughts, right now. But I'm not them. I'm Holly Whitaker, who has no idea how to deal with this sort of situation and who, worse, feels her face and chest getting hot.

I notice that my hands are clasped very tightly and my knees are locked together. I try to ease the tension in my body, but I can't help it, even when I hear my breathing and become sure that Tom must think I'm about to have a panic attack. It's just instinct.

He could be thinking about it right now.

Great. Now I'm the one who's thinking about it. But for all the rocking and groaning that swims in my mind, it's Benedict's presence that is there with me, not some imaginary version of Tom. Ben is irreplaceable to me, deep down, even to my imagination.

Yet that's not what worries me. It's the ease with which such ideas have risen in my mind; and I sweep them away as fast as I can, like Cinderella finishing the last of the cleaning before her stepmother can arrive and hold the dust against her.

Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe Tom is the one-hundred-percent perfect gentleman who has absolute control over his thoughts at all times and is infatuated with me in that ridiculous, miraculously chaste Disney-prince way.

But from the way he's looking into my eyes, I have to admit that's impossible.

I can understand why he might feel in such a way towards me. Whenever Ben has been gone, Tom has been with me, supporting and protecting and worrying about me. And before that, we had always spoken the same language. From the first time I'd met him, backstage at the National Theatre after Hamlet, we'd hit it off, and by the beginning of this summer we'd developed a way of being around one another, a way of talking that feels natural and fun and… friendly. And before that, even, I'd had enough trust in him to hand him the first finished draft of my manuscript to read, over Christmas break. I'd never thought about him in any way other than a very good, happens-to-be-quite-attractive friend. Maybe even a best friend.

To learn that he has not felt that way, too, feels dramatically ground-shifting.

But maybe I'm making too many inferences.

Just because he kissed me once in a moment of confusion doesn't mean he's necessarily in love with me. I need to slow my mind down, and separate the physical from the emotional. I need to find out what he's actually thinking. That's what I came out here for, after all.

Over the hump of formalities, which we both understand, now, are not going to have any real point or effect in this kind of a conversation, Tom looks at me more directly. Something inside of me twists in pain and a little bit of fear, but more with appreciation, as I watch him methodically remove some of that former, clouding passion from his gaze. I can at least think straight, now.

"I came to apologize for the kiss," he says, without preamble. The way it should be. But still the way that hurts.

"I've already forgiven you," I tell him. I don't understand it, but it's true. I could never hold Tom in contempt, even for something like this.

He takes a breath. There's something else. I'd known there was something else, yet part of me had hoped against hope that we might not have to talk about it yet. "I've…" he starts, his voice slow and deep and pained. "I've had feelings for you since December."

The way he says it sounds like he's making some terrible admission; like he's telling me he has terminal cancer. I suppose that's what said 'feelings' must feel like.

Instinct overpowering instinct, my hand reaches over and falls gently on his knee.

Of course, it withdraws a half-instant later, as though from a burning stove, as I realize how my touch must feel to him. My head flashing, I think of all the times I've thoughtlessly touched him since December, never knowing I'd been unwittingly torturing him. My eyes widen and water, and I can't look away from his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I breathe, my voice barely a whisper. The hand that had touched his knee has sprung back into my own lap and is now being held onto tight by my other hand.

I am not going to cry.

I am NOT going to cry.

Tom's eyes are already melting. I feel terrible and not quite so awkward as I did a few moments ago. But that doesn't mean I'm any closer to knowing how to handle a situation like this. I care with unspeakable depth for Tom, as a fellow human being, and I have never had any sort of experience with someone else, other than Ben, caring for me, back. There hadn't even been an awkward boy or two in middle or high school who I'd had to turn down. No-one had ever wanted to approach me, because no-one could understand me, and I'm pretty sure most of my classmates were afraid of me. Now, someone who does understand me, more than I'd ever thought I would be understood (but still not as much as Ben does), is sitting here with his heart on his sleeve… and I can't even really believe it, let alone scrape up enough self-confidence and logical thought to respond to him in a mature fashion.

Especially not when he's staring at me like I'm his planet and I'm moments from exploding: taking in each feature to try to memorize, but realizing that he's already done so, and that it's hopeless anyway. I realize, seeing this look in his eyes, feeling that feeling radiating out from his helpless body, that there is nothing I can do for him. And this hurts in a way I have never felt pain before. Perhaps because of the unfamiliarity, perhaps because of the specific source of the pain, this hurts beyond anything I've ever felt. Truly, beyond anything I've ever felt before. I can feel my system chemically shifting pathways as my cells recalibrate to the feeling.

Again, he's the first to speak after the long pause. His shoulders stay still under the weight of his words, and he doesn't seem to breathe enough for his sentences. Some other resource is sustaining them.

"I feel wrong about it all. I've never… felt this way before. I'm afraid of it and that's why I've been staying away. I took advantage of you. And that was nothing like me. But that doesn't excuse it, and… I don't think that I deserve your forgiveness. I think… if you're wary of me, then perhaps that's for the best."

He looks down, maybe at the space between us on the bench, which I'd placed there when I'd first sat down; maybe at my abdomen, and through it, to my tarnished womb.

I start talking without thinking, not because I'm in a hurry, but because I can't think, and I also can't stay silent. "I haven't told Ben. And I'm not going to. So, you don't have to hide yourself away. I can't let myself keep you from him." The thought of tampering with a relationship as steady and strong as theirs looms up at me out of the red fog like an ill-willed gate keeper. "I do…"

But I can't say what I was about to say. I can't tell him that I love him. That would only layer more salt in his wounds. I do let myself think about it to myself, though, and it feels like the right word… the only word. It's a love entirely different from the kind I associate with Ben, and Ben only. But that doesn't make it any less meaningful. I slow down and think hard about how to relay my feelings to him. Finally, what comes out is something rather unexpected, but something just as true as what I would have said if I hadn't caught myself in time: "I care deeply about you and you are… my best friend."

I realize as I say it that it is true. I have never really had a best friend. Alex is someone I like to hang out with, someone who had been there for me to have fun with and forget my old life alongside when I'd arrived in New York with enough baggage for ten people and no-one my age that I'd ever been able to loosen up with. But I still hadn't been able to tell her the truth about my past until it had been practically shoved out of me by circumstance. With Tom, on the other hand, there had been little pain in it when Ben had let slip about my father, and I'd had to approach him as someone new, someone with imperfections he hadn't known about. And he had accepted me. I can have fun with Tom. I can talk easily with him about serious things and stupid things alike. I can read and argue academically with him…

Or, at least, I could. Before the miscarriage came and… changed me.

I remember how I'd asked him to hold me when I'd woken up afterward in the hospital bed. He'd climbed in and spooned me tightly until I'd fallen asleep. I remember how he'd yelled at me when he'd burst into the apartment to find me with a razor blade in my arm. He'd hugged me afterward, when I'd cried and realized that I didn't want to die. I remember how I had hated him for his goodness; for suddenly being the opposite of me.

And even then, he had wanted me. He'd had 'feelings' for me. He'd been dying for me.

I want to keep talking. I want to find some verbal way to tell him how I feel about him. But every snippet of possible conversation that enters my mind at lightning speed falls short. There's no way that I avoid saying everything wrong and butchering it. There's no way that I can avoid saying something that hurts him. If I want to leave him how he is, without inflicting any further wounds, then the only way to do that is to shut up and not say anything at all. But that isn't an option, either.

Starved for just one single normal breath, I make myself speak. "I feel like I'm saying the wrong things."

At this, something in him seems to snap. He leans forward with a sharp breath and looks at me with a level of imploring in his eyes that I have never seen before. I am suddenly paralyzed against the bench. The world fades to a blur around me and I can only wait for him. "Please, Holly," he's saying. "I came here to… I'm begging you to… just… be honest with me."

Be honest.

He's going to ask me if I love him, too. And I wouldn't know what to say.

"Have I hurt you?"

Breath returns to my body like a tidal wave and, briefly, he swims out of focus in my vision. "Hurt me?" I breathe. "What? No. Tom, you've never… You have never."

There's another roadblock, there. There are more roadblocks around our relationship than I've ever realized. I'm sure he's spent the past months running into them again and again, all alone, while I was oblivious, with blinders on, in the passengers' seat.

The look he's giving me is enough to make anyone want to cry. I'm a deer in the headlights, held in that look. All the air leaves my body.

He's really, really in love with me.

Oh, my God. I've broken his heart.

But I didn't mean to. I didn't even know I was holding it in my hand. If I had known, what would I have done differently? Where would I be? I've been so focused on not tripping and falling and breaking myself in front of Benedict that I must have unwittingly forced Tom's most fragile, invisible emotions to take the brunt of the collision for me, any number of times. And yet he's limped all the way here, today, to meet me halfway and ask if he has hurt me.

He hasn't. "But I've hurt you, Tom."

He winces and a tear falls out of his right eye. He swipes it away before it makes it halfway down his cheek. A tsunami current of raw, powerful nausea rips through my stomach and my mouth, leaving me powerless and dehydrated. His voice is choked. "I'm very sorry. Holly. I need… I need to leave."

Tom seems to almost stand up, but he stops himself. He grips the seat of the bench, keeping himself here for a moment longer. He needs my permission.

"Okay," I whisper, my voice hoarse. I have realized that my own tears are streaming down my face, but I'm too afraid to let go of the bench to wipe them away.

"I shouldn't have stayed away so long," he says, looking down at the ground now, and not at me. His words are coming quickly now, like rehearsed lines which he can't bear to infuse with emotion. "It wasn't your fault. Ben and I will be fine. I've been doing my best to…"

I can tell he's exerting every ounce of energy in his body to keep from bursting into tears. I know what he's been trying his best to do. It's what I'd tried when I'd first realized I was falling in love, falling off a mountain for Benedict. I can only hope, for all our sakes, that whatever tactics Tom uses succeed. But for now, my mind can barely touch down upon that particular anxiety. Fear wells in my chest. He and Ben will be fine… Thank God. But what about Tom and I?

But there's no time for this question. I have to let him go. I have to trust him.

Now.

"Go, Tom," I hear myself say. "It's alright."

He stands up within the same moment that I speak the last word. His height, his strength, almost make me recoil again. I force myself to stay still, even though that means holding my breath. His voice, normally so free, like a cool stream, is strangled. "Allow me to walk you home."

For him to walk me home would be for him to drown himself.

"I'm fine," I hear myself say. "I'll see you… sometime, Tom."

He looks at me for one moment longer and then he turns around. He walks away, taking the bitter gift I've given him.

I watch him walk down the pathway that splits the park in half. He's hurrying. My feeling of sickness rises up again and I hold tight to the bench, leaning forward a little and focusing on practicing the deliberate breathing that I seem to have been working on forever, without getting much better at it. I'll be in deep trouble if I vomit here in the middle of the park; if someone approaches me to help me and sees who I am. But after a few deep breaths my logical mind manages to eke through the clouds of my deep emotions. This nausea runs deeper than the physical.

I didn't know how to react to him. I'd been horribly immature and had totally mishandled his emotional state. And he had been frighteningly emotional. Really, this meeting didn't solve anything. This has been the first step: getting things into the air between them. But then he'd fled, and now that air is a lot more thin, stretched over a greater distance. I manage to straighten my body again, but Tom is nowhere in sight down the path. He must have taken a turn, a shortcut to the road. There's no telling what the second step will be, or when we will take it… if we will take it. I just hope that things might be able to return to some semblance of what they were before.

But there is no such thing as 'our normal' anymore. I am different now. Things have changed, and so have his feelings for me.

Never before today have I realized how much of an anchor Tom is for me. I'd taken him for granted and now, suddenly, I'm floating. Not in a high sort of way, but in a balloon sort of way. Totally alone, left up to the whim of the winds of fate.

Needless to say, I don't have a very good history with the winds of fate.

I need to get back to Benedict, the only person who can help me navigate them. But I can't move. I can barely hold my physical parts together. I am paralyzed on this bench.

---

After a minute or two of breathing in and out, slowly, my senses return to me. First, I hear the sound of children playing nearby. I look up from the spot on the ground I'd adopted as a focus point and realize, for the first time, that the bench is just across the path from a playground. I see small, strong, brightly-dressed children on the monkey bars and slides. A pair run in an orbital path around the rest, playing tag. Summer is nearing its end, but the school year hasn't made its approach imminent, yet. These are happy, carefree, summertime children. The kind of children I could never be grouped with.

I search the playground for outcasts, but instead I find a mother reading a Harry Potter book to a little girl that sits next to her on the park bench, chewing on her forefinger and leaning her head against her mother's shoulder, kicking one heel against the leg of the bench and looking at the words on the page, as attentive as a five- or six-year-old can be; fully happy.

I can't stop myself. As I watch them, I imagine Benedict reading aloud to our child. He would be doing all of the voices. It would be the sort of thing he would never tire of doing.

Something never named starts to ache, deep inside of me. I gasp and press a hand to my lower abdomen. This isn't a cramp. I've read enough about post-miscarriage symptoms to know that phantom pains are not uncommon. I wouldn't call them phantom pains, though. They are more like phantom joys. Which are, of course, also painful. In a different way. In a worse way.

In another life, this is what it feels like when my baby kicks for the first time.

All at once, I need Ben more than I need air. My heart starts beating frantically in my chest. I need him to grip me tightly against him, to give me the strength of his body. To say something or to say nothing, but to be there; to understand the pain I'm in more than all the medical websites combined. I envision some other version of myself getting up from the bench and running back across the park and through the streets to get to him. Running up the stairs and through the door and calling his name without having to actually use my voice. Crashing into him.

But the real me doesn't even stand up.

I watch the mother and daughter bent over the book. I think about Ben, about the terrible guilt I'd felt when I'd really looked at him for the first time in a while, before he had woken up and been able to arrange his features into his desired, guarded expression. I imagine how his morning has progressed since I left the apartment. I imagine him getting out of the shower and dressing for the day. I imagine him making tea, which I hadn't included in our breakfast, and making enough for me to have some when I get back. Then he would sit down with his script or his book, probably not consciously thinking about me or waiting for me to get back. Yet.

Something about 'yet,' about this sudden window of time, seems everlasting all at once. The children cause it; the screams of youth. And the sight of the mother and daughter. And the sudden emptiness of my body, which has lost its phantom joy, which has lost all feeling.

I am standing up and walking down the path. I don't have to think. I already know what I am going to do, and there's no decision involved. I have my debit card in my phone case.

I need to get on a train.

---

NOTE:

Aaah! Cliff hanger! This chapter was originally going to be twice the current length, but I really needed to cut it off somewhere so that you guys wouldn't have to read (literally) 30,000 words in one go. I am about halfway through with the next chapter, so the wait should not be too long!

As always, please please please let me know your thoughts!

On_Errand_Bad

17 August 2021