She's back. And yet she's not—not really. And that's the problem of the moment.
Greg sits in his corner of the couch and watches Gardener as she adds a log to the fire she started earlier, and he has to admit it cheers up the room considerably. She crouches on the hearth as she puts the screen in place, and the line of her thigh, the curve of her calf, her slender foot, all look so familiar he has to force himself to put his attention on something else. To no avail however; she resumes her seat on the couch next to him, not touching but close. She wears a soft oversized scarlet sweater, a pair of black leggings, thick warm socks (a pair of his own he's loaned her)—different from her usual attire, but it suits her. She looks younger, more vulnerable.
"Would you like a beer?" Her clear, gentle voice sounds pleasant in the quiet room. He nods and watches her rise up and head into the kitchen. While she's away he turns on the tv and puts it on pro wrestling, cranks the volume up a bit. When she returns she has two beers and a plate with cheese, crackers and apple slices. She puts the food on the seat between them—a convenient excuse to move farther away, no doubt—and settles in.
"Never knew you were a wrestling fan." He takes a big swallow of pale ale. For once he doesn't really want it, but it's something to do other than push everything to the floor and pull her into his arms.
"I've never really watched it before." She selects a cracker, puts some cheese on it. "But you like it."
"That's an educated guess." He's intrigued by this statement. Gardener glances at him and offers a slight smile.
"You sometimes watched it in the evenings at my place, you know." She nibbles the cracker.
"Eat the whole thing," he snaps, "you're too skinny," and regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips; he winces at what she'll say. Instead she sets down the cracker and reaches out to take his hand. Her fingers are warm and gentle. Her thumb traces a circle on his pulse, a gesture so familiar he trembles.
"Thank you." She doesn't let go, not right away. Instead they watch coordinated mayhem on the screen.
"Bet you're not gonna finish that," he dares to say after a time. Gardener picks up the cracker and puts the whole thing in her mouth. Greg gives her an appraising stare. "Smartass."
"Sometimes." She takes a sip of beer. With her face in profile it's easier to see how much weight she's lost, the little hollow in her cheek. These signs distress him more than anything else because he knows what's caused them. The situation prompts him to do what he always does—makes things worse.
"So this is how it's gonna be from now on. You over there, me over here." He looks away as he speaks, unable to summon the courage to watch her reaction.
"Greg . . ." She sighs softly. "This will take time. We can't just go back to the way things were before the accident—"
"Before I kicked you out. Be honest."
"Very well then, before you kicked me out." Her voice is neutral, quiet. "We're doing well, all things considered."
He can't help but smile just a little at that pronouncement. "If that's true I'd hate to see what things would be like otherwise."
Gardener doesn't answer him for a few moments. "Yes." The bleak tone stops him cold. "But I'm here, and I'm talking to you. That's . . . that's all I can do right now."
"You're still planning to leave."
"No . . ." Her tone is thoughtful, considering. "No, I don't think so. The situation's changed now."
He can't help but poke at that pronouncement. "You think so."
"Yes."
"You'll have a lot of unpacking to do."
Gardener all but shrugs. "I started with some spring cleaning first. So at least my closets and attic are cleared out."
Greg can't stop a grunt of mild amusement. "Huh. Very efficient of you."
"Let's just say it's an unintended side benefit." She looks almost smug as she eats some cheese. He's swamped by a wave of amused tenderness so strong it takes his breath. When he can speak, he says
"I miss you."
She turns her face from his, so he can only see her expression in profile—but just before she does so, he sees the longing and pain his words cause. "I miss you too," she says after a moment. Her voice is soft, but there's no mistaking the deep emotion in the simple words.
And that's where they leave it.
She ends up on the couch despite his attempts to persuade her otherwise, settled under a blanket with one of the extra pillows. In the flickering light of the banked fire she looks tired and vulnerable. "Good night," she whispers, but he can't answer her. His night won't be good, he knows that much.
But for once he's wrong. After he makes it to bed he sleeps hard, something he hasn't done in months. When he wakes it's morning; a few stray beams of sunlight filter through the east window. Slowly he comes to, breathes in the fragrance of fresh coffee and toast as his belly rumbles.
It takes longer now to get out of bed and on his feet, mainly because he's gone from 'feet' to 'foot'. Still, he's better at it now than in the beginning. He even manages a quick shower and a rummage for clean clothes, which means he can trundle into the kitchen and look somewhat presentable. Gardener isn't there though; she's in the living room on the couch, with her phone in hand. An empty plate on the coffee table holds a knife and a few crumbs.
"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" She glances up at him, her grey gaze full of concern and warmth. It's not a perfunctory question, she really wants to know. It occurs to him then that she doesn't do pleasantries, aside from social situations. He's come to count on that quality in her . . . except when he doesn't.
"Need coffee," he mutters, and rolls back to the kitchen to fill a cup and make some toast. When he returns Gardener helps him get settled, matter of fact and unobtrusive about it as always.
"Why?" He says it without thinking. She looks at him, her expression both exasperated and gentle.
"Because I love you."
He blinks at her, astonished that she'd admit it. "But if—if that's still true—"
"It'll always be true. Just because someone hurts you, you don't stop loving them. I know you understand that idea very well."
He does, but he won't say so. "You've been hurt before this." She nods. "Someone you—you cared about."
She takes her time answering. "I didn't know what real love was at the time. Neither did he, as I found out."
Something like terror grips his heart. What if—
"Gregory." Gardener holds his hand in hers once more. He wants to close his eyes, afraid to reveal too much. "You're capable of loving and being loved. You know what the real thing is." She tries to smile, and it's the most heartbreaking thing he's ever seen. "I know you love me. That's what makes this so hard."
There's nothing he can say to that.
After a while Gardener takes his cup and hers to the kitchen and brings back fresh coffee. They sit together, talk a bit. Things are better than they were before; no blank silences, no setting aside questions. Gardener is there with him, as much as she can be-and there's the rub. They're still on opposite sides of a chasm and he's done major damage to the connecting bridge, because he's made it nearly impassable. For the first time he thinks of Stacy and her betrayal, and maybe now that he's committed an act similar in nature (if more deliberate), he might begin to understand a bit how she felt.
After Gardener leaves, goes off to her life and her work and her place, he sits on the couch with his empty cup and plate and knows he has to find a way to make repairs. If he doesn't, he'll be alone. But even worse, she will be too.