xx
The perfect place may never exist, may never exist.
The perfect time might be years and years away.
xx
But I still want to be here, want to be here.
I still want to be here, want to be here.
And I would live in a devil's ditch just to be near you.
I still want to be here, want to be here.
xx
Still Want To Be Here | Frightened Rabbit
The next day, as usual, Tex went to work and Kathleen went to school and Rachel had the apartment to herself. Around midday, she was sitting cross-legged on the couch with a notebook and a pen, making notes about her recovery and physical therapy, when her phone buzzed at her side and she glanced at the screen.
Tom: Hey.
She inhaled in surprise. Tex must have put Tom's number into her contacts before things had gone bad. She stared at the phone until it went dark, and then it buzzed again.
Tom: Thinking about you on my lunch break.
Tom: Same way I do every day.
Tom: Feels good to finally be able to say that.
Tom: That's still so selfish of me, isn't it?
Tom: I just want you in my life.
Tom: If I can make you happy.
Tom: Only then.
Tom: I just want you to know that.
She let the phone go dark again, waiting to see if he was finished, then picked it up and weighed it in her hand.
Rachel: Okay.
Dropping the phone back onto the couch, she dropped her face to rest on her palm.
The next day, when he sent a Hey, she sent Hi back. Almost immediately, he replied with, How are you? and Rachel was momentarily stumped. Physically, she was much improved but still not exactly great. Emotionally, she was… beyond words.
Rachel: Alive.
Tom: I'm glad to hear that.
Tom: I don't know if this… if you'd want to hear this
Tom: But I did keep tabs on your condition
Tom: I know it doesn't count for much
Rachel: No.
Her phone didn't buzz again until just after five.
Tom: When you're ready… or I guess if… I'd like to make you dinner. We need to talk properly, face to face. I know there's a million ways I need to prove myself to you… but at least a few of those have to be in person. Whenever you're ready.
Rachel: Okay.
Poor Kathleen was heartily bewildered by the whole turn of events. Tex may have ranted to her about Tom a few times while Rachel was still in the hospital, but she didn't have anything close to the whole story. Mostly she just knew that Tom had stormed into their home, gotten knocked to the floor by her dad, and then left, and now Rachel was sad all the time.
When Rachel and Tex were sleeping together, Rachel had started to come to life again, laughing with them at the dinner table, and now she was back in her own little world, bewildered in her own right, her mind always somewhere else.
They gave her time, gave her space, Tex and Kathleen both, but they also watched her with worried eyes, hurting for her in their own ways.
Rachel was used to being alone, didn't really know how to be a part of a household (she wouldn't say family) while working through her own shit. She tried not to worry about it. She was in recovery, after all. Tex got it, and Kathleen was patient. She just hated… being this way. Being in this situation. Feeling this way. Everything, sometimes.
The daily lunch hour text conversation became a routine.
Tom: Hey.
Rachel: Hi.
Tom: My last good memory of you was your smile as you walked away down that hallway
Tom:I don't think I'd ever seen you smile so many times as on that day
Tom: Every time it took my breath away
Tom: Your smile… God. If I get to see it again, I'll never take it for granted
Rachel: Okay.
Even on the weekend, he texted her at the same time every day.
Tom: Hey.
Rachel: Hi.
Tom: I'm looking forward to cooking for you
Tom: Not to brag… but I've picked up a few things
Tom: My Saturday morning pancakes are phenomenal
Tom: Do you like pancakes?
Rachel: Yes.
Tom: Good.
Tuesday:
Tom: Hey.
Rachel: Hi.
Tom: Ashley got an A+ on her book report
Tom: She's so happy
Tom: I can't wait for you to meet them
Tom: You're incredible with kids
Tom: It's like you hand over your whole heart every time you spend time with them
Rachel: Is that where my heart went? I've been looking everywhere.
She had to give him credit for persistence. She certainly wasn't making it easy.
On Friday, the message didn't come, and she sat there on the couch tapping her pen on her notebook, pretending she wasn't waiting. Halfway through the hour, her phone buzzed.
Tom: I'm sorry – meeting went long. Somehow "I have to eat lunch alone at my desk right this minute" wasn't convincing enough to hurry it up.
She almost smiled, her stomach twisting, and tapped her pen on her book a few more times before writing back.
Rachel: I think we should have that dinner.
Tom: Name the date.
Rachel: Sunday? 7pm?
Tom: You got it.
It seemed like a good idea to plan it in a few days, give herself time to get used to the idea, but instead it just ramped her nerves all the way up and she resumed her obsessive pacing.
On Sunday, Tex drove her over and dropped her off at the entrance to the building. She clutched his hand the whole way over, and stayed in the car for a minute staring at the building.
Bringing her hand to his mouth, he pressed his lips to her knuckles and said, "Call me any time. You can go down to the lobby if I'm too far away."
"Yeah," she said, squeezing his hand and looking back at the building. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
"Yes. I'm sure."
She sighed, giving him a grateful smile and finally stepping out of the car. The elevator ride was interminable, and Tom seemed just as nervous when he opened the door for her. He led her into the kitchen, sitting her down at the table, and offered her a drink.
She accepted a glass of water and then said, "Can we talk first?" Her stomach was in knots; she didn't think she'd be able to eat.
"Okay." He sat down across from her and she stared down at the table's surface, pressing her fingertips against the wood and watching her knuckles go white.
"You said that you loved me," she said softly.
"Of course."
"We weren't… there… were we?"
He hesitated a moment. "In that hotel hallway, when you turned and smiled at me… I wouldn't have said it, no. Not then. But… I thought, with the war over, we would have time to figure it out together. Then you were flying out in the morning, and I thought we'd have time to figure it out separately. Then… gunshot."
She inhaled slowly. "You found me."
"I thought you were dead," he said matter-of-factly. "You looked dead. I thought I was too late, again. I'd failed, again. You'd died without me—just like Darien—I wasn't there—maybe if I'd been there I could have stopped it—I wasn't there—I'd failed you—just like I failed her—I couldn't—"
He was having a panic attack, his breaths short gasps as he spoke between them, and Rachel was at his side before she knew she'd moved, kneeling on the floor and rubbing her good hand between his shoulder blades.
"Okay," she said calmly, "you're okay. I'm here. I'm fine, I'm alive, you saved me. You didn't fail me. I'm here."
When he'd calmed down enough to breathe normally, he dropped his face into his hands, and she stayed there at his side, sliding her hand down to his bicep, rubbing over the material of his shirt.
"You really were terrified," she said softly, and he nodded into his hands.
"I had to be there for my children. I'm all they've got. I thought if I could just… if I could protect them… I thought maybe I could do that. If I couldn't protect you. If I couldn't protect Darien. I had to keep them safe."
"What changed your mind?"
He dropped his hands to his lap and she reached for one of them, wrapping her hand around his. He looked at her and said, "That was—it wasn't rational. When I got some distance, I knew it was wrong, but by that time I didn't know how to apologize. I left you… that's all that matters. I left you."
Looking down at their hands, she said, "If that's all, why are we here?"
"Because I love you," he said, on an exhale, like the words were just waiting in his lungs, "and because I'm selfish. I can't let you go."
"And you won't leave me again," she said, still staring at their hands.
"Right."
"Even if I end up in the hospital."
"Especially then."
"Even if…" She winced, squinting her eyes almost shut. "…I had sex with Tex?"
He didn't say anything, and after a minute she peered up at him to find him almost not-quite smiling. "I already called him a son of a bitch."
"True."
"Are you still sleeping with him?"
"No!" she said, a bit defensive, raising her chin and meeting his eyes in full, and he squeezed her hand, nodding.
"I know. I don't care about any of that. I'm here, I'm staying."
"Okay," she whispered, her eyes dropping down again.
She shifted on her knees, the hard floor biting into her flesh, and leaned her weight on the only hand she had free, pressing down on his thigh and trying to stand with some amount of grace when her legs had lost all circulation. She wobbled, and Tom kept his grip on her hand, letting her brace herself, but she still managed to rock forward, colliding with his legs, and before she knew it he'd wrapped his other arm around her waist and tugged her onto his lap to keep her from falling face-first into either the table or the floor.
"My hero," she said faintly, her head fuzzy as the blood reorganized itself in her body. She separated her hand from his, wrapping her arm around his neck instead and tugging herself more securely onto his lap as she straightened her legs out in front of her. "Ow."
"After all that," he said quietly, his forehead resting against her cheek, "you went and knelt on the kitchen floor for me."
She wanted to deny it, make an excuse, but the fact was she'd knelt on the kitchen floor for him and she'd do it again, so she just hummed her assent and closed her eyes, accepting her fate. Even though she'd ended up in his lap by accident, she didn't particularly want to get out of it. She'd spent so much time wanting his arms around her, and while it wouldn't be quite so easy for her to forget what had happened, she was a lot closer to forgiving him.
Would she rather it had never happened? Of course. But seeing his emotions, his fear—she felt at least a partial understanding. They'd both been through so much, some truly terrible things, and blaming him for his trauma wouldn't serve either of them.
This wouldn't be easy, but it never would have been. She wanted him—she wanted this—and she almost believed him when he said he wouldn't leave again. Almost.
Her stomach grumbled, and he nudged her gently to her feet, keeping a hand on her waist until he was sure she was stable. She went back to her chair, and he went to the oven, serving her a dinner that they ate in silence, trading looks filled with a desperate vulnerability, a yearning that she couldn't hide even if she wanted to.
When he walked her to the door, she hugged him, wrapping her arm around his back and leaning up against him for far longer than any reasonable hug should last, and then he walked her down to the driveway, standing with his hand at her lower back until Tex pulled up and they waved goodbye.
She stared out the window on the drive back, feeling Tex's concerned glances on her.
"You don't look like you've been crying," he said, and she smiled briefly over her shoulder at him.
"I think it's going to be okay," she said back, her stomach twisting at the audacity of her optimism.
Coming back to her room after brushing her teeth for bed, she checked her phone and found a notification.
Tom: Sleep well. I love you.
Rachel: Goodnight, Tom.
The next few weeks were filled with baby steps, and Rachel felt like she was at the wheel of a running car, sitting on the brake and taking her foot off of it for a half-second at a time, inching forward. She wanted to leap, wanted to run, wanted to barrel past all this in-between, but she knew that the foundation they'd built over the entire length of time since they'd met had had cracks shaken into it, cracks they were ever-so-slowly attempting to fill with lunchtime text conversations and one solo dinner a week.
The first time she kissed him, they'd moved to the couch after dinner, sitting close and talking about Tom's kids, how they were adjusting to the new city and new school and life without their mom.
"I told them about you, of course," he said quietly. "Every day, they ask for a new Rachel Scott story; how she broke me out of a jail cell; how she took a case of the cure onto the streets of Baltimore to save sick children; how she tested the contagious cure by taking an infected child into her arms…" His voice was thick with emotion, and Rachel ducked her head, frowning down at her lap.
"They're going to be disappointed to meet me if you keep filling their heads."
"Not possible," he said softly, and she glanced up to see the look in his eyes that was beginning to feel familiar, the look that she knew was love and was gradually beginning to believe was love.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she raised her hand to his cheek and leaned in to kiss him, closing her eyes and pressing her lips to his for a handful of seconds and then sitting back, eyes still shut and heat rising to her cheeks.
"When you're ready to meet them," he said, as though nothing had interrupted their conversation, "they'll find you just as I've described you."
"Okay," she said, what had become her favourite way to acknowledge something he'd said that she wasn't quite ready to agree with.
He didn't mention the kiss, their text conversations carrying on as normal, and when Rachel arrived for dinner a week later she kissed him as soon as the apartment door shut behind them, her hand pressed flat to his chest and his hands coming to rest at her waist. She drew it out this time, just a little, kissing him slow and soft and then stepping back and letting him lead her into the kitchen.
They chatted over dinner, almost a normal conversation, and then moved to the couch afterward as was their routine, and she immediately leaned into his side, her hand going up to curve around the back of his neck as she kissed him again. He wrapped his arm around her waist, his other hand cupping her jaw, and kissed her back just as gently.
There was no reason to stop, so she didn't, leaning up against him and learning his mouth like the streets of a city she'd always longed to visit. His touch on her was so careful, so delicate she could have cried, but instead she scratched her nails lightly through his hair and tilted her head, her tongue sliding past his teeth.
When she finally pulled back, keeping their foreheads together as she rested her weight on her arm, over his shoulders, he whispered, "I missed you," and it didn't really make sense—they'd never done this before, he couldn't miss the reality of this—but somehow she knew exactly what he meant and felt the same.
It was different now, an undercurrent of sadness and regret that she wasn't sure they'd ever erase completely, but they were getting closer to the place they should have been in, if things hadn't gone so wrong, and it was starting to feel as deeply right as it had in that last moment before the gunshot. She knew she loved him—she'd been forced to realize that very quickly after she'd woken up in the hospital—and being with him, finally, finally, finally, filled her heart up in her chest.
Turning around, she settled back down onto the couch, her back against his chest and his arm around her waist. She laid her arm over his, her hand resting on top of his, and tipped her head back into the curve between his shoulder and his neck. "I'm—" she started, and then paused and took a deep breath. "I'm happy," she said, and heard him inhale behind her.
"I love you," he said quietly, and she squeezed his hand.