darnitdraco

[darnitdraco]

The grip this story has on me y’all. I am constantly reminded of how talented Wyn is every single time I read something of hers. This epilogue was just the icing on a very delicious cake and I loved every bite. If you ever find yourself having any bit of free time I highly suggest reading this, re reading it and then going through Wyn’s entire collection of stories. Ask me for my favs because I don’t shut up about them.

Days of You & Me: Days Gone By

Word Count: 12.5k+ Warnings: Hospital talk. Sick people talk. People being shitty to hospital workers. Marriage talk. Slight alcoholism talk. Unprotected sex. Please read longer note HERE. Author’s Note: Thank you to @tauralmie and @darnitdraco as well as @marvelousmermaid for being my continuous shoulders to lean on throughout writing this series.

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September 27, 2003:

“I could kill you!” There’s not a single floor in this hospital that has known quiet or peace in days but I know I'm disturbing what little is left as I shove him away from me. “Were you drinking?” 

If I thought my voice was raw last night, I know that I may never get it back after this morning—after the sobbing and the screaming and the begging.

Clock pressing into noon, I still haven’t eaten. I can’t do it, I can’t bring myself to do much of anything at all. Not after my phone cleaved through nightmares just to tell me that my worst one had come true. 

Again. All I heard was her name and hospital and I’ve never driven so goddamn fast in my life. I didn't even lock the door. 

“How can you ask me that, Alison?” 

He’s practically my best friend now but he’s covered in fucking blood with a scar that’ll match his brother’s now.

“How can I ask you that? Maybe because you have a fucking habit, Tommy! Maybe because you have records because you won’t get help! Maybe because you were supposed to keep my family safe and there was a goddamn cop up your ass when I got here!”

“Ali, please.” His voice is tired, a deep well of exhaustion pouring up from out of him and his hands rest on my shoulders as he pushes me back into the wall begging me to calm down. “I got in trouble last night, yes,” he says. “But I wasn’t drinking and I wasn’t fighting, I was just out getting dinner and this asshole was harassing a waitress—when I told him to leave her alone, he swung at me and fell, ended up knocking himself out against the table as he did.”

“Promise?”

“I fucking promise, Alison, I knew I had an early morning and I knew I had to take y’all to the airport, I was not putting this family in danger.”

“Then why were you being questioned?” I haven’t gotten all the answers. Hell, I’ve practically received none at all. The accident was so early this morning that the sun wasn’t even up. Nobody was around to call for an ambulance until closer to seven and Tommy was unconscious until nine. By the time my phone rang, my whole world had flipped and I had no idea. “Tommy, I need to know how bad it really is.”

They won’t let me see them, either of them—I’m not family.

As far as any of the systems are concerned, I’m nothing to Joel or Sarah Miller and I don’t deserve the information on their wellbeing.

He takes a deep breath, thumbs stroking mirrored patterns into my bare shoulders. I don’t have clothes at the apartment anymore but I did have a pair of shorts and an old tank top in the donation box—it’s what I ran out of the house in. 

“Tommy,” I breathe out. “Please tell me how bad it is.”

“Sarah got the worst of it.” He starts crying and I want to fall apart because Tommy Miller has never seemed capable of being sad to me but here he is. “Broke her leg,” he says, head shaking as he pushes a tear off to the side of his face. “Shattered her fucking ankle, Ali, she’s in surgery and”—he wipes his brow and winces at the pain as he brushes his stitches—“she’s not gonna play soccer again.”

“Okay.” I nod. “But her organs?” I ask. “Her brain? Her beautiful little face? That’s all good?”

"It's all perfect,” he says as he takes his jacket off. “You look like you’re fucking freezing, please take this.”

There’s blood on it and he’s changing the subject.

“And Joel?” I ask. 

Tommy takes another deep breath and exhales hard. “He’s… in surgery, too,” he says, jaw setting hard. “I-I told them to do whatever they felt was necessary, I told them I’d sign off on it all, you know?” He shakes his head. “Alison, I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner, they were yelling at me for decisions while treating me and the cop was here a-and they were the first thing on my mind, I'm sorry.” He steps forward again and pulls me into his chest, similar but not at all the same to his brother’s, and he folds his arms around my shoulders. “They're all I have too, Ali.”

“From the beginning, Tommy,” I beg. “I need to know everything.”

He takes a deep breath and clears his throat, says there was a lot of traffic from a concert last night as well as a UT game and they took a short cut to the airport instead of the highway, but as they went through a green light, they were t-boned right into Sarah’s side of the car. “Fucker fled the scene,” he drawls out on half a sob. “He just fucking left us there, that’s why the cop was here.”

“Do you think they’re gonna be okay?” I ask, the tears on my face seeping into the cotton of his undershirt. “I can’t lose them, Tommy, I just got them.”

He shrugs as he pushes me away, holding me just at arm’s length to make eye contact with me. “I’m just hoping for the best here, sweetheart, you’re the medical professional and I can’t have you being mad at Joel right now but he told me about some of the stuff you deal with and”—he breathes in again and tightens his grip—“please don’t leave me alone to deal with this on my own, Alison, we really need you right now.”

September 28, 2003:

Everything has felt like it’s going so slow and not slow enough.

I left the hospital yesterday after my initial talk with Tommy. I wanted to tell him to head home, to grab a shower, but I knew he shouldn’t be without observation. I knew, as well, that they wouldn’t tell me shit about Joel and Sarah and I couldn’t stand that, sitting alone in the place I had left just hours previously wondering if they were okay; which surgeons they had; if my favorite OR nurse was up there with Joel or Sarah; if she recognized them; if she was holding their hand because I couldn’t. 

So, I left. I went back to the house and I took a shower, ate the untouched Chinese take out that Joel had bought for me, and paced the hallway between our room and hers putting shit together.

I couldn’t find his favorite shirt; couldn’t find hers; none of the books they had been reading or things they might’ve been interested in were. That’s when it occurred to me their suitcases were probably in the car and the car was probably in evidence and my heart started hurting all over again because Tommy was right—I do want to break down.

When I came back, he told me Joel was out of surgery and that he'd been moved into a room and they were just waiting on him to wake up. It’s been hours now and we’re still waiting.

Tommy and I switched spots throughout the day; me in Sarah’s room and then here; him in here and then Sarah’s room. The only reason I’m even being allowed to stay in either is because the staff does know me and they are very much putting their employment at risk by letting me be here past visiting hours as a non family member.

Honestly, the more I think about it, the more pissed I get and it just leads me to looking over his or her vitals again to check that everything is okay.

Luckily, she woke up fairly quickly. She’s in pain with a cast almost up to her thigh and a couple of broken ribs for good measure but she’s okay; no signs of concussion or internal bleeding.

Her father, on the other hand, has both and, even though his heartbeat is steady, the longer he goes without opening his eyes, the more I want to scream at him. 

I all but do that now in the aftermath a nurse coming in to check on him. She said she was hoping she’d be able to send breakfast in for him, asked if I wanted it still so I could get a bite to eat and made a comment about the bags under my eyes and how I should probably try to sleep, too.

“Joel, get up,” I beg him. “You’ve been unconscious for days now, Joel, fucking get up.” I have lost my voice, I don’t know where it is but I know that he can’t hear me and that hurts worse. “Joel, I need you to get up because there’s a little girl upstairs who needs her dad and I need you, too. Tommy needs you.”

I keep talking to him like this, low and tear stained and pleading until I drift off in the uncomfortable chair at the side of his bed.

When I open my eyes again, it’s to him telling me to get up and asking if I’m real. He’s asking where he is and he’s asking me to say my full name and he’s asking for Sarah as he tries to stand independent of all the tubes tucked in to various parts of his body.

“You’re going to rip your stitches open.”

“Stitches?” The way his face twists makes the few in his cheek pull, too, and he pushes his head back and away into the pillows as his eyes dart everywhere. “Alison,” he breathes out, finally focusing in on me. “Fuck, you’re so young.”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I do think you’ve given me some grays though.”

“If you’re here, where is Sarah?” 

“She's upstairs in pediatrics,” I tell him. “Tommy's with her, they’re doing a puzzle. She has a broken leg.”

He lifts his head and I can tell it’s a little too quickly for him, his eyes bugging out beneath the head rush I’m sure he just experienced. “Broken leg?” He asks. "I don’t understand.”

“You were in a car accident,” I say and he nods like that was so obvious and I didn’t even need to tell him. 

He says that makes sense, they were in a car accident that night and that's the last thing he remembers before—“can we go up and see her?” 

“We need to get the doctor,” I insist. “We need to check your head, maybe run a CT scan, baby, and you need to eat. We can go up to her later.”

“I want to see her now,” he demands and it’s that low, dangerous tone he takes on when Tommy or one of the other guys has really pissed him off and I am trying not to take it personally but I can't help it because I'm the only one here to take it at all.

Having already pressed the button for the nurse, I sit back and agree with him. He can have arguments about leaving this room with somebody who still works here because I don’t have that fight in me right now. I know what he should do but I know what he wants to do and I know that he needs that.

But there’s no telling how much the accident impacted his head and I’m not transferring him to a wheelchair of my own accord until his stitches have been looked after. 

Before he gets back from the CT scan, I have to call Tommy. I have to switch places with him because the doctors refuse to tell me anything, again, and there was an anger hanging in the room that I couldn’t handle either. 

Which is fine, that’s okay. I’d be angry if I woke up in a hospital bed with no real information on what happened or what I went through, too. Hell, I was angry with my concussion and my broken ribs, and I still don’t feel like myself, so I can’t imagine how he feels knowing he was cut apart and stitched back together with no preparation. 

Sarah was asleep when I went up so I went to find food instead, wandering around the overcrowded cafeteria looking for something that didn’t look three days old or otherwise cross contaminated with what was on the recall list from earlier in the week. 

It’s hopeless or, at least, it feels like it—trying to make any decisions when I’m not allowed to make any decisions on the things that matter. 

Joel’s room is empty when I find my way back on autopilot, having ignored former coworkers and their comments on the way back through the halls. One even joked that I just couldn't stay away from this place and then he noticed something in me and promptly excused himself out of my way. 

I run into the doctor on the way to the elevator, ask about his whereabouts to which he apologizes, says I don’t work here anymore and he can’t tell me anything about a patient unless I’m immediate family or have a release of information.

At least the halls of the hospital are starting to clear out. Everything’s been loud with transports since early this morning; the university opened up a ward where med students and nursing students are taking on patients with supervision and that’s where they’re all headed.

I keep thinking that if they had done it sooner, we wouldn’t be here right now. If they had done it sooner, I wouldn’t have stayed over my final shift; wouldn’t have called Joel and told him to go on without me.

Or maybe we would be here but separated even further from one another, Joel in a bed and me in another and only Tommy and Andrea to hold it all together for us.

Tommy meets me at the elevator, says he was coming to find me and that he thinks he needed to give Joel a moment alone with Sarah anyway. 

“Scans are good,” he says. “Stitches are good but they kept saying shit to me that I don’t understand—how to take care of his wound and what I should look for in his eyes for signs of trauma, Alison, what happens if I can’t tell.”

“I can,” I reassure him. “He was pretty angry at me.”

“Yeah, at you,” Tommy says. There’s stubble on his jaw now, thicker than Joel’s, and he runs his hand against the grain. “Not with you and I hope you understand the difference because I seem to remember you being pretty pissed off the day you got hurt.”

“Was I?” 

“Not verbally.” He shakes his head and laughs. “But I could feel it and I think that’s what he’s holding onto now and I wish I could sign over the release of information, but that has to come down to him, Ali, you know the law.”

“I hate the law.”

“Sounding more and more like him every day,” he breathes out. “If only all this had happened next week instead.” He smiles before I can ask just what the fuck he’s talking about and it hits me suddenly what he’s reminded me of this whole time. Tommy and his grin; his charm; the mischief in his eyes. Like he’s always holding on to a secret. “Think they would’ve been more likely to tell you shit if they saw that ring on your finger.” 

He asks for my keys then, says he’s gonna go pick up their suitcases from the police and look at what’s left of his car. When I remind him it’s Sunday, he reminds me that they know him down there and nods his head towards the hall that leads to Sarah’s room, leaving me with a push in the opposite direction.

There’s no anger in this room, just fear and relief all mixed in together and I can’t tell which one is hers and which one is his but I know that I’ve got both bunched up in my chest ready to explode. 

“You look like hell, Murph,” a voice says, drawing closer. It’s Kara, one of the pediatric nurses who was on duty the day that Sarah broke her arm. Her scrubs are cute, they have Care Bears all over them; I was always jealous of the cartoon characters everybody got to wear to try and bring some joy in an otherwise overly sad space. Adults just get to suffer through pain while everybody looks the same around them. 

“I feel like hell,” I tell her. “Friday was my last day here but here I am.”

She laughs. “Funny how hospitals always suck you back in.” She stands at the door with me, looking in as Joel just holds her hand. “I know nobody’s telling you shit and I doubt that hunky cowboy with his broken nose is good at regurgitating information, but she’s perfect, Alison, and she’s gonna make a full recovery.”

“Do you know if she’ll get to play soccer again?” I ask but she’s shaking her head before I even finish. Says she’s not an orthopedic surgeon or a physical therapist so she’s definitely not the one to ask that question of.

Then she’s gone with a nod of her head towards the room. “I'll leave you with your family but come find me later if you need a coffee or a hug.” 

I don’t know that she can tell, but I can tell that he’s been crying and all the most exhausted parts of me feel weighed down further beneath that knowledge. 

Briefly, I think about going back down to his room but I know that somebody needs to be here for when he’s ready to go back, too, so I just sit here and watch them until Sarah spots me and calls me in. 

Even with her bright voice, I can tell she’s in pain and I wish I could take it from her. I wish it was my reconstructed leg in that cast and that her place was standing where I am beside her father. 

Her father who looks up at me now and it’s not just that he’s been crying, he’s still crying with red rings around his tired eyes. He hiccups through a pitiful laugh and wraps his hand around my wrist to bring my palm to his lips.

Over and over again, he kisses against into the middle of my hand before finally holding it to his cheek to lean into.

“Hi.”

There is so much pain in his coffee colored eyes. Not just physical either but the same kind of hurt he held there when Sarah broke her arm and I broke my ribs. Like he feels bad because he wasn’t there to protect us.

Except, I know he’s feeling like he could’ve done more for her this time. Because he was there and he still failed to protect her like he could’ve done anything about the hit and run; like he could’ve done anything about being unconscious and bleeding out on the inside.

“I wasn’t very nice earlier,” he drawls out, accent thicker than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“That's fine, I was just happy to hear your voice.” 

“Me, too,” Sarah says. “I was really scared and Uncle Tommy didn’t really know what was going on either.”

“Why didn’t you—“ He looks from her to me.

Shaking my head, I tell him we’ll talk about it later. Because if I start talking, I either won’t stop or I’ll start crying and I can’t have Sarah seeing me like that. So I pull a chair up next to them, between the wheelchair and the bed, and apologize to Sarah for how horrible the hospital gowns are and tell her that if she gets bored of books, I’ll buy her a Gameboy. “I'll go to the store later and get you a whole bunch of pajama pants that can be altered so they can be half shorts and half pants. Okay?”

She nods but I’m not sure she knows exactly what I mean, really. Not when her eyes are far away and her head looks like it’s too heavy for her neck. 

It’s the pain meds and Joel doesn’t want to leave her yet but we need to let her rest but only after I’ve let him strain himself to stand up and bend down to kiss her forehead does he let me fix her blankets. 

“You seemed really shook up,” I finally observe as I help him back into his own bed. “Pain meds not good enough while you were out?”

Big hands frame my face the moment I sit him down in front of me, biceps flexing to pull me forward, and he opens my mouth with his as fingers slide back to grip firmly in the hair at the base of my skull.

“Don't strain too hard,” I tell him. “Your stitches.”

Joel laughs and it warms me over with how light it sounds; how it reaches his tired eyes. “I don’t fucking care about stitches, you have no idea how happy I am right now.”

“Well, somebody oughta be.”

“Scared the hell out of you, didn’t we?” He asks. 

On a nod, I take a deep breath. “Marry me.”

More laughter as his eyes dart across my face and his features set. “I was supposed to ask you.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t,” I tell him. “You got your permission and your answer forever ago and you did nothing with it.” My arms are crossed over my chest, protection to this vulnerable part of me thumping hard against my ribcage. “And I wasn’t asking.”

“You're impatient,” he tries to laugh it off. “I was—“

“Asking in Wyoming,” I finish for him, hiccuping on the last word as tears start to fall out. “Yeah, I was able to parse that out from what Tommy said but I have sat here all weekend being denied information about you and information about Sarah because I wasn’t formally attached to either of you so”—I take another deep breath, desperate for air and confidence and this hurt to subside—“y-you are going to marry me, Joel Alexander Miller, and you are going to like it.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes out. “I'm going to like it very much.” 

September 25, 2004:

“Ice cream before dinner?” Joel drawls out, placing his keys and phone on the coffee table before sitting down. “Again?”

“I'm wearing really cute lingerie under my pajamas,” I whisper. “Don’t make me lock myself in the bathroom and take it off all alone, it was very hard to get on.” 

He laughs and covers his eyes. “I'm guessing Sarah’s not home yet then?”

“No, she’s home,” I tell him. “She's in the backyard reading with her feet in that little kiddie pool and her iPod on full blast in her ears. I told her I’d come get her when you get home, she really wants burgers for dinner but she says, specifically, that she wants daddy’s burgers.”

“I take it you went ahead and bought everything I need to make ‘em?”

“Oh, of course.”

Stroking his hair back when he groans, he asks if I'm really wearing cute lingerie beneath my pajamas and just what exactly I was hoping to accomplish with it. “Been going between job sites all day and then went to check on the house progress, my love”—he leans forward and starts unlacing his boots—“I would’ve come home much sooner if I knew my girls wanted burgers and my wife wanted me.”

“I always want you,” I remind him, "and you should’ve prioritized coming home and starting your birthday early anyway.”

Groaning again, he starts to lean over as if he’s going to lay his head on my shoulder until he steals the rest of my ice cream sandwich instead. “I hate my birthday,” he grins out through a full mouth. “I was just gonna work on the house tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Yeah, baby, it’s almost done and I’d like to be moved in soon so I can fix this one up and get it ready to sell.”

“You don’t have to beat yourself up about selling this one though,” I reassure him. “My mom’s buying it.”

“And I really don’t feel like giving my mother in law a shitty fucking house, Alison, it’s been a year and I wish you and Tommy would get off my ass about pitching in with the labor still.”

He’s pissed because this is how every conversation about the business ends—with complaints that Tommy and I don’t let him do anything since the accident. Not that it stops him and not that it’s true either. We decided together that Tommy would go ahead with running the physical operations of things while Joel handled the background.

Originally, it was just until he was better and then more jobs started coming in; more crew had to be hired; more people had to be put in charge. Joel ended up buried further behind the desk and only drove from site to site to survey progress.

He pitches in where he can and I love him but I yell at him every time, especially when he was pitching in over Christmas and then again with the new house when they started work on it a few months ago. Turns out he and Tommy had bought the land real cheap years ago—acres of it with the intention to build neighboring houses and a shared backyard one day. 

Our house started up first and, when it’s finished, Tommy will move in with Kara not far behind him the moment her lease is up.

Sarah had to stay in the hospital a lot longer than Joel did both because she’s a child and because her surgery was a lot more complicated. If Joel wasn't there, Tommy was and, when Tommy was, so was Kara. When she was discharged, he kept showing up. Said he was pulling a Joel Miller with her and hoped it was working. It helped that I gave him her coffee order before he even had to ask.

Unfortunately, they’re staying upstairs with us in the guest bedroom which is fine except for the fact that where Joel and I are quiet, Tommy and Kara absolutely are not. The space was originally meant for my mother and step-father when they came to visit but as soon as the plan changed, he redrew plans to add additional soundproofing.

“At least let me get Sarah’s room finished,” he begs. “That, our bathroom and the kitchen are the last to finish out, if you let Tommy and I work this weekend then I can send the painters in next week and then the inspection can happen, we can probably even move in by Halloween.”

“So what? Sarah and I can just have cake by ourselves? Joel…”

“Are you guys fighting?” Sarah asks, the sound of her cane hitting the hard flooring as she crosses the threshold.

“No, bug,” I tell her. “We're not fighting, your father is just being stubborn and says he’d rather work on the house than eat cake with us tomorrow.” 

“Dad!” She stomps her good foot on the ground. “You promised you weren’t going to be all sad ass—“

“Hey!”

“—on your birthday, you promised you weren’t going to overwork and you promised you weren’t going to beat yourself up over the car accident.” 

He stares at the scar on her right ankle, angry and raised still and his jaw sets. “Sarah, the sooner we get the house done, the sooner you don’t have to deal with the stairs—you’ll have a bathroom with a shower that’s easy for you to get in and out of.”

“It's not that bad,” she insists, hands gesturing out and down at the discolored skin on her leg. “You’re already super far ahead on the thing, one day isn’t going to kill any of us and you owe me for making me have my stupid Quinces in a pink cast.”

“Don't look at me,” I say as he turns his head for back up. “She's right, she didn’t want that party after everything that happened and you made her have it and you made her get a pink cast for her final one even though she wanted a purple one, Joel, you don’t always get to have your way.” 

After months of doctors and appointments and casts being taken off for physical therapy only to be put back on again, she got her final one taken off in the second week of August. She’s been really overwhelmed by the entire ordeal and her father’s insistence that she have that party only served to stoke that into a low simmering anger. 

“There was nothing you could do to prevent that accident, Joel Miller—“

“—I could have insisted on changing our flights, too.”

“Hey, bug, can you go into daddy’s office and put your headphones in?” 

His head hangs the moment she rolls her eyes and I watch as she walks back towards his office. Almost there, she turns and decides to go back out to the backyard, calling back to me that she wants to put her feet in the water for a little longer and sliding the door shut behind her. 

“She's right, one day isn’t going to set anything behind,” I finally say. “I know you didn’t like your birthday before and I know you associate it with the day she got hurt now but that anniversary is actually on Sunday.”

Joel pushes himself back into the cushions with a defeated breath. “You've both been through a lot this last year,” he says. “Her leg and your grandmother, PG”—he lifts his head and looks up at me again—“I just want to finally have these spaces for you both to be comfortable.” 

At the mention of my grandmother, my heart squeezes uncomfortably. Her death broke the family, even Sarah cried for days about it with me. It’s why my mom is moving here finally, there’s nothing really to keep her up in Massachusetts now and her brother got the house. She’s even been back and forth to Texas already to help with taking care of Sarah; helped get her application to the arts high school together. She was the one who came up with the idea of getting Sarah a cane after she heard us complaining about the chafing the crutches were doing to her underarms—even convinced her she looked cool when she couldn’t stop crying about needing it at all.

I could stay right here and argue with him all night but I don’t want to. This isn’t how I’d planned out my Friday and it’s certainly not the one I want to live. Not when I’m hungry and tired and could be spending the time with Sarah that I know he wants to spend with her, too. Except he barely lets himself because he's doing that shit where he frets and overcompensates and overwhelms us with the way he tries to take care of us. 

He thinks the accident was his fault because he should’ve changed the flights. He thinks he failed her because he couldn’t predict the future and now he’s overcompensating with taking care of her in a way that makes her feel like a burden and not the teenage girl she very much is and should be allowed to be. 

"She lost soccer, Joel,” I call back over my shoulder on the way to the kitchen. If he doesn’t want to get started on the burgers then I will. “She lost soccer and she lost her classmates and she lost her friends but she didn't need to lose her dad, too.”

“Yeah, well I thought I lost her,” he says, so loud it feels like it's right beside me. “I thought I lost her and I thought I lost you so excuse me if I want to do right by the both of you.”

He’s still on the couch when I look back at him, legs spread wide with his broad shoulders curved inward. “Doing right by us isn’t denying us the right to celebrate you when we thought we’d lost you, too,” I tell him. There’s a migraine building behind my eyes now and what I wanted to do tonight clearly isn’t happening because he’s too worried about losing a day’s worth of work on something that isn’t that pressing at all. “It's not isolating yourself away and working yourself to the bone on building a walk in shower in her en suite, baby, you’re not even a fucking plumber. Just leave it to the professionals.”

It wasn't even like this to begin with. The first few months he was just focused on healing himself and then focused on driving her back and forth to her appointments on the days that I couldn’t. But he’s been exhibiting more and more guilt as time moves up to the first anniversary of this; guilt that he healed faster than her and how it wasn’t fair—isn’t fair. 

Warm hands settle on my shoulders before sliding forward to cross over my chest and pull me back into his. “I have watched you take care of my little girl for a year and it’s made me fall more in love with you,” he whispers. “And I really didn’t think that was possible after how much further I fell when you demanded I marry you in that hospital room, because all you wanted to do was take care of us.” His lips press into the crown of my head. “I don’t even think my parents liked each other this much.”

“I don’t really like you right now,” I say, tone flat even though I want to melt into him. Especially when he laughs.

“Why? Because I’m stubborn as hell and just want to build you your dream house?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Joel,” I say, turning in his arms to lean back against the counter. “This isn’t because you’re stubborn, this is because you feel guilty and you are overcompensating with longer and longer hours. We started on the house earlier than planned,” I remind him. “I got a job and we dipped into our savings and my mom and her husband took over the mortgage of this house already so that we could focus on building Sarah an accessible space that she could be comfortable in and be our happy, bright girl again, Joel.” He presses his thumb into the swell of my cheek and pushes away a fallen tear. “Better not become a fucking tradition for me to cry on your birthday, I’ll kick your fucking ass.”

“You’re being really mean to me.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen mean, honey.” Because he hasn’t, not from me. Because I’ve only ever wanted to talk things out with him and make time for him. “Sarah and I are trying here and you were here with us and then you decided that she was fine enough that you could focus on the next steps to make it even better and I love you,” I tell him. “I love you so much but she is fifteen and she is angry and she misses her dad treating her like a person and not some doll that needs to be handled with care.”

He smoothes a hand down his beard and scratches beneath his chin, eyes squinting to study me. “Have I really been that bad?” 

Shrugging, I tell him I kept thinking he was gonna snap himself out of it. “I thought it was just something you needed to go through, I thought you were seeing your therapist about it.”

After a recommendation from Dr. Bonner during one of the sessions he attended with me, he started seeing a therapist earlier in the year. Not that he was happy about it and not that he’s been consistent either. Not when he thinks Sarah seeing hers is more important. He doesn’t like it when I remind him that both things can be important because, again, martyring himself is his top priority.

“This is the last birthday you’re going to have with only one child, Joel.” His eyebrows raise and he looks at me like he’s looking for the joke but it’s not. It’s also not the way I had planned out to tell him but my plans have been thrown off a lot tonight so that one wasn’t much of a loss either. “She just wants to have cake with her dad but, between you and me, I think she deserves a hell of a lot more.”

A beat and then another followed by a few more as I watch the gears and calculations turn behind his eyes. Finally, he takes a deep breath. “We could take her to Dave and Busters,” he says on the exhale. “Or maybe the zoo?”

Considering for a moment, I tell him the zoo’s too much walking. “Dave and Busters though, that sounds fun and they have food there so she won’t feel bad for resting if she needs to.” 

“And, um”—he gestures towards my midsection, eyes darting down my body and back up as if he’s seeing me for the first time—“ho-how—”

“We don’t use condoms and I’m not on birth control.”

His lips purse and he pushes out a hard breath. “You're a fucking smartass, sweetheart, I know exactly how we made it. I wanted to know how far along you are and how are we going to tell Sarah?” 

“Not very far,” I shrug. “I was going to tell you tonight but in a much cooler way.”

“Lingerie?”

“Yeah.” I nod, watching as he starts to roll his sleeves up so he can start dinner with the ingredients I got out. “And we don’t have to worry about telling her, she already knows.”

Joel looks over at me with one raised eyebrow. “Y'all both been keeping this secret from me?”

“I only just found out this week so it hasn’t been very long,” I promise. “She was in the car when the doctor called, I couldn’t not cry about it.”

We said we’d start trying when we started building the house but I also wanted to wait until Sarah’s cast was off for good—we were all struggling with getting her up and down the stairs, I didn’t want to add a pregnant belly to the mix. Especially not when it had been so many changes already. I went ahead and had my birth control taken out in May, though, because I knew it would take a while to get me back to normal.

“I didn't expect it to take this soon,” he says, focusing on forming the patties in his hands. “H-how far along are you really?”

“Sixteen—do not touch your face,” I say as he drops the raw meat in his hands and hangs his head.

“Alison, I have to get the house done.”

“It’s a day, Joel,” I remind him. “Dave and fucking Busters.”

He’s asking questions as I start back into the living room and towards the stairs.

When’s the due date? March.

Is it a boy or a girl? I don’t fucking know and I don’t fucking care.

What about names? Let’s think on that and decide at the birth.

Where are you going? To take my bra off because I didn’t think my plan through and it’s itchy.

Seriously, Alison, what about the names?

“How about”—I turn to him—“I come up with girl names and you come up with boy names, just don’t pick something fucking stupid like Tyler or Jaxon with an x.”

“Baby.” His tone might as well be a warning and a question rolled into one as it follows me up the stairs. “Ali. Come back down here.” 

January 3, 2005:

These paint fumes make me want to scream and I cannot escape them. Even hiding out in Sarah’s room downstairs all day with all the windows open in the house didn’t help.

Even the fancy air purifier Joel insisted on putting in every single room didn’t help. 

Really, I thought I’d escaped the vomiting part of pregnancy, given how under the radar the first trimester flew. But the migraines mean I’ve spent the better half of the last few months pushing my head into the toilet and today has been no different.

"How's my girl?” Joel’s voice cuts through the darkness as he opens the door, a new wave of nausea hitting me with the smell of paint that comes in. Sarah helped me back up the stairs and into my bed about an hour ago and I couldn’t stop apologizing.

Because the whole reason we put her room by the kitchen is so she wouldn’t have to bother with the stairs anymore. She just made a joke about how it made sense she was helping me with the stairs after I spent a year helping her with them. Plus, she assured me it was fine, she wasn’t bothered at all.

She even stopped using the cane shortly after we moved in.

“Why did you let me decide to repaint the baby’s room?” I ask him through tears. I’m sure that not eating all day hasn’t helped. Tommy even offered to drive me somewhere to get away from it but we spent thirty seconds in the car and I begged him to stop so I could throw up out the open door before I finally just walked back to the house. 

Truthfully the migraine has subsided enough with the darkness and the open windows but the nausea has stayed and I’m completely over it. 

I’m completely over every single part of this.

“Hey.” I feel his rough hands on me, sliding up the expanse of my back beneath my shirt. “I let you decide to repaint the baby’s room because you cried over how jarring the orange really was and you wanted it to be green instead, like our room.”

Even he smells like paint but I can’t not turn to him or push my nose straight into the crook of his neck. Really, it's the only relief I've gotten all day. Because the smell isn't sticking to his skin, it’s sticking to his clothes.

“I think the first trimester was such a breeze because it was tricking me about what was coming,” I tell him. “What if our baby hates me?”

His hand slips back down to curve around the swell of my belly and it doesn’t even feel large anymore, I feel like I’m the one who dwarfs him now. “Our baby doesn’t hate you,” he says and there is a stretch inside me I feel reach towards his touch and his voice. “Everybody in this family is stubborn and pregnancy is already hard, baby. We didn't know the paint would do this to you.” 

“We didn’t know this baby would do this to me.”

“Oh, pretty girl,” he whispers, kissing into the crown of my head, “we just know better for next time.” 

“Next time?”

“Oh yeah,” he confirms. “I’m pumping you full of as many babies as you’ll let me give you.”

“What if I don’t want anymore?” I ask. "After this? I don’t know if I can do this again.”

He releases a breath and laughs. “Then I’ll get my sac snipped and pump you full of nothing,” he shrugs. “Either way, you get whatever you want out of me including the honeymoon you deserve.”

Again with the honeymoon I deserve and it’s making me cry again, harder this time, and the baby kicks up against his hand as if he’s the one who upset me in the first place. 

Pulling back and looking down at me, he swipes his thumb along the swell of my cheek and asks, “what are these for?” 

“You're doing it again, Joel,” I tell him. Sitting up is a struggle between the light head and the no food and the stomach the size of a house but I push forward anyway as he asks what exactly it is he’s doing. “You're perfect,” I whine, “but overcompensating again.” Getting into the house was what I deserved, getting the correct shade of paint was what I deserved, doing and redoing things that I had no problem with was what I deserved. Now he’s talking about a honeymoon we both have not taken and cannot take like I'm the one pushing for it.

“That's not what I'm doing, baby,” he promises, pulling me close to his chest again. “Please don’t cry on our anniversary,” he whispers. “Please don’t be sad, I don’t want you to be sad or think that I'm babying you, I just want to give you the best and I couldn’t give you a wedding or a honeymoon, we didn’t even make the trip to Wyoming, sweetheart. You didn’t sign up to take care of Sarah and I through recovery.”

“Yes, I fucking did, Joel,” I tell him. "That is exactly what I fucking did because I would have sucked your dick without a ring on my finger until my final fucking breath. But hospitals and doctors and school systems and disability services don’t give a fuck about parents who don't have pieces of paper to prove who we are and—“

“Hey, take a breath,” he tells me, guiding me through the action. “I know you did, I should’ve chosen my words better, but you know how I get around your pretty ass. What I meant is that you shouldn't have had to,” he says. “You shouldn’t have had to marry me in our kid’s hospital room just like she shouldn’t have been there; you shouldn’t have had to take care of her through recovery just like she shouldn't have had to go through it.”

It’s barely seven and the sun is already gone but even in the flat dark of our room, I can make out every single line in his face and how they move with his words. 

“You had to bottle a lot of shit back up to deal with all the things that happened very quickly,” he goes on. “They’re still happening and you swallowed that and put your shields back up because people needed you in ways I wish we didn’t need you and you’re all over the place because this baby isn’t letting you do that anymore, okay?”

He's right. Tommy told me to get it the fuck together and I’ve kept it that way this whole time. Until we moved. We moved and Sarah was able to be more independent with her primary sized bedroom downstairs and her physical therapy and I got put on bed rest.

“I want you.”

Joel’s laugh is deep and low, sticking somewhere inside that broad chest as he breathes deep and scrubs a hand down his beard. “You always want me, beautiful.”

"Don't call me beautiful, I feel like a house right now.”

“Pretty girl,” he drawls out, words lost as he pulls his shirt over his head. “I build houses for a living so I happen to think those are quite fucking beautiful.”

“You just agreed with me,” I say, tears welling up again.

Watching as he walks into the bathroom and switches the light on, he calls back that he did. “Because disagreeing with you gets you mad,” he says over the sound of newly running water. “Your headaches get worse when you’re angry so I’d prefer the sad.” He comes back into view and leans against the door frame, arms open in invitation. “Come get in the bath and I’ll bring up some toast you can chew on while you figure out what you want me to order for dinner.

“I'm so mean to you and you’re so perfect.”

Helping me undress, he hums an agreement. “The meanest and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

March 4, 2005:

Rough hands frame my face, turning my head towards him and he pushes away the tears but not as fast as they’re coming. It’s been hours of this and screaming, blinding pain. Even with the epidural, I feel like I’m being ripped apart from the inside out.

“You fucking listen to me, pretty girl,” Joel says, voice cutting through the blood rushing between my ears. “You are going to get through this, do you understand me?”

Drea made it seem like a breeze and my mom sure as fuck never said I gave her this much hell. No, all she could talk about was how I must’ve known my grandfather was an asshole and made this part as easy on her as possible.

"This is my punishment for wanting this child out of me,” I bite out. “This is your fault with your excitement and your big ass head, that’s why it’s taking so long.”

“I will buy you the biggest cheeseburger after this.”

“Fuck you, you’re buying me a porterhouse.”

He laughs and tries to guide me through another fucking deep breath but all I can do is cry. That’s all I’ve been able to do this whole time, through every fucking contraction and nightmare about just what kind of world I’m bringing our baby into. It’s all so full of war and death and sadness and it defeats me completely; bows me over right back into the hospital bed and away from his grip and his words encouraging me on.

“The doctor’s saying it’s just a couple of more pushes, Ali,” he whispers, head dropped low against my shoulder. I can feel the weight of his hand in mine as I squeeze down on the bones, his small encouragements telling me to fucking break it if I have to. “Just a couple of more pushes, baby, and then our baby is here.” 

He keeps saying this and I keep thinking about pushing but I don’t know if I am, I can’t tell anymore and I tell him as much because that has to be wrong—something has to be wrong. I’m not doing this right and it’s not fair, all the people in history who have given birth with less support and less drugs than me and I’m the one who’s failing. 

Before I know it, he’s pressing his nose into my cheek, beautiful and scarred as it is, followed by kiss after kiss as he tells me how proud he is. Which is so dumb because there’s nothing to be proud of, I haven’t done anything—I can’t do anything.

He pulls away from me then and I can’t handle his absence. I want him back and I must say that because he is, hand smoothing down across my hair to keep it from my face.

“You did it, baby,” he says. God, he practically cheers and a high pitched cry cleaves through every syllable at the same time seeming to last forever until it stops because the source is in my arms. “It's a girl,” he says and he’s so proud. “I told you it would be a girl.”

“She can be whatever she wants to be, Joel.”

“I don’t have any names,” he says. “I thought you'd think everything was stupid.”

I can’t take my eyes off of her, she looks so gross and, yet, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Already, I see Joel’s features in her face but that could be the drugs talking so I keep it to myself. “I’m really sorry that I threatened to cut your nose back off last month,” I say, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean it, I love your stupid nose.”

“I know,” he reassures me. “I know.”

“Your nose is the reason we’re here right now, oh my god.” That only serves to make him laugh and something about that makes her give over the smallest sound of contentment. “I want to name her after my grandma, Joel, can we do that?” 

“Nora?” 

When I look back to her, she’s looking up at me with the most suspicious look on her face; opening and closing her big, brown eyes against the bright lights. Her eyes are his and I feel like I’m being torn apart all over again. “Eleanor,” I correct him. 

He starts to laugh and I feel his lips on me again as he nods into every kiss he presses to my cheek. “Eleanor,” he drawls out like a question, testing the weight of the name in his mouth. “Now we just have to ask your sister what middle name she decided for you, she’s kind of in charge around here but you’re probably used to her already.” 

After the tests and the clean up and all the movements of Joel’s palm over my forehead and across the top of my head, I’m not just exhausted but I’m pretty sure I’m bald. But even being as tired as I am, I’ve never been this happy either.

Sarah pretty much refuses to let her go, walking around with her in her arms and looking down at her adoringly saying her full name over and over again.

Eleanor Charlotte Miller.

“We’ll have to do something about that, though,” she says to her little sister. “That's far too many syllables and I’ve gotten lazy since the accident.

She hasn’t but she thinks she has with the lack of sports.

Joel and I were pulled into a family session close to the end of her first semester at the arts high school where all she could do was cry and cry as the therapist explained that she has been going through an identity crisis. Soccer was such a large part of her life, her friends were such a large part of her life, and then they were both gone. Just like that without so much as a goodbye and she didn’t know how to start putting the pieces of herself back together again. 

Again, Joel started drawing inward on himself after that, that same bullshit rhetoric that he failed her coming through as he tried to constantly improve on her room and the activities he felt were safe enough for her to do. 

I didn’t let it last long. I had to remind him, again, that she wasn't a baby and she doesn’t like being treated like one, she said as much in the therapy session; that she feels like a different person now and it’s hard enough relearning that without being reminded constantly.

“Where’d your dad go?”

She looks up at me again with her smile stretched wide across her face. “He said something about a porterhouse and you saying he has a big, stupid head.”

“He shouldn’t tell you that I call him mean things sometimes.”

Her footsteps fall in a half circle around my bed from one side to the other and she laughs. “It’s not mean if it’s true,” she says down to her sister in her arms. “Is it, Ellie? Plus, if it gets mom over a hundred grams of protein then it’s worth it being a little mean to him isn’t it?”

“Protein, Sarah?” I ask her. "You shouldn’t be worried about that.”

“But I am,” she says, concern written all over her face as she looks up at me. “I read in one of your baby books that you lose a lot of calcium and protein while making a baby because you’re building their muscles and skeletons, which is terrifying, and then all the energy it took to go through seventeen hours of labor.”

“You shouldn’t know these things,” I laugh. “I mean, you should because it’s smart to know these things but you shouldn’t have to be worried about them—not for me.”

“Too late,” she shrugs. “Do you really think dad's the one remembering to replace your calcium supplements?”

“That's been you?”

“Yeah.” She’s looking back down at her sister and rocking her from side to side, smiling at what I can only hope is a smile back at her. She is the only person besides Joel I want holding my baby. “You and dad have been so busy with everything and also with me so I go to the convenience store next to school, it’s not a big deal.”

“It's the biggest deal,” I sniff out.

“Oh no, mom’s crying again.”

I have been all day. Really, I have been since my water broke because I wasn’t ready. I still don’t feel ready for this tiny little person relying on me for everything. Joel keeps telling me I’ll be perfect with a baby because I’m perfect with Sarah but I’m not so sure. Still, I’m so happy and that only makes me cry harder with my greasy hair and my already swollen face. 

So happy as I watch both my girls together. My mother was sixteen when I was born and, even if I wasn’t the one who gave birth, I was sixteen when Sarah was born and there’s something that means so much to me now knowing that Sarah will be my age when Eleanor is hers. 

July 20, 2006:

“Want!”

Ellie’s bouncing up and down in her high chair, hands up and out making grabby fists at me with her chubby little hands. She's always wearing this look like she has a secret and she’s suspicious of everybody because they may want to know it.

For a while, I thought that secret was because she knew how much I hated being pregnant and, so, she made sure to look like her dad out of spite. All these days and weeks and months I’ve watched her grow, she only looks more and more like him but then she pulls a face I’ve never seen on him and everybody points out that she might as well be my carbon copy. 

“No!” She roars at me when I pick her up, wet wash rag in hand to clean the spaghetti mess off of her face.

“You know, for somebody who loves bath time so much, you sure do hate having your face touched.”

“Want!” Her little hands start making fists into my shirt and then she points at the cake I decorated and put out on the table. “Mama, want.”

“You have to wait for Sarah,” I tell her. “Remember, it’s Sarah’s birthday? Can you say birthday?”

Somewhere near her sixteenth birthday, Joel convinced me, finally, to just be a stay at home mom. That was what he wanted for me when I left the hospital, to settle into the changes we were making and figure out all these things about myself and learn and do without exhaustion taking me over.

He feels bad that I couldn’t. That I could only stay gone from nursing for just enough time to get him situated and get Sarah on a routine. So much was changing, yes, but so much had already changed with the accident and we were still scared about the business, I wanted to be pulling money in instead of just relying on my savings, that way if the business died out or her recovery cost more than it was estimated with insurance, we weren’t completely depleted.

I lucked out, really. I was able to take on a provider role in a family medical practice not far from home and I loved it. I loved the predictability of it all and having a set schedule. It was still medicine so it was still different enough that nothing was ever the same day by day, but it was more stable and I knew, better, what to expect.

But I’d been back at work for about a month last year when I came home crying and defeated. Joel had been working from home, Ellie’s play mat set out in his office floor, and I completely broke down on him. I felt bad for spending all day with other peoples and other peoples’ children while missing so much of my own children’s lives and the catalyst to this feeling was getting a call from him excitedly yelling that she had laughed.

She laughed and I missed it and I hated that. 

Now, though, I don’t miss a single laugh unless she and Sarah are up to something. Which is usually what’s going on with the way Sarah keeps her sister attached to her hip.

“Rah!” Ellie screams out, bouncing up and down in my arms. “Rah Rah Rah!”

She refuses to say Sarah’s full name, I think she’ll call her Rah until the end of time at this point. At first, I thought she was just mimicking a sound she’d heard on television but then Sarah got home and she pulled herself up in her playpen to repeat the sound over and over again and that's when I realized it was her first word.

Her little excited repetition kicks up from her babbles the moment she hears the door shut downstairs, Joel’s and Sarah’s voices drifting up to us in the bathroom.

I told Joel I would pick her up from work today but he said he’d leave the job site early to get her instead. She got a job at one of those pottery workshop places like the one we went to a few years ago. They have a coffee shop attached and she’s half barista, half teacher and loves every second of it. Joel told her she didn’t need to get a job, the business is doing well and she’s more than taken care of, but she insisted that it was more about experience and making friends.

Besides, she wants to make and use her own money to buy a car for herself and pay for her college applications and all the books she’s been reading.

More often than not, we’re at the bookstore. Not just the regular bookstore but the college bookstore as well as she’s picking up psychology textbooks she’s under no requirement to read. Alongside my baby books, she’s been reading so much about developmental psychology and applies the things she’s read to Ellie.

Ellie who starts bouncing happily again in my arms as we head back downstairs, freshly washed and changed and dressed back up to go out to dinner with her sister, because she sees Sarah and doesn’t want anybody else. 

“You'll never believe what your daughter did today,” Joel says, handing me a drink from the little cafe and taking the baby from me. “She informed me that she’s applied for dual enrollment at the community college so she can get most of her required bullshit”—he leans forward—“that's the wording she used by the way—out of the way so that she can enter UT as a junior when she’s nineteen and, get this, she’s been accepted. Starts next month.”

“Yeah, I know,” I tell him. “Who do you think helped her with her application and essay? That’s why she wants us to take her car shopping this weekend.”

“She's so responsible,” he says, looking down at Ellie. “Daddy’s going to be in his fifties when you’re seventeen and I’m starting to think she was my trick baby; because she was so good and you’re already so rotten.”

He ends the sentence by pretending to chew on her neck, her little giggles going insane as he declares how sweet she still is. I don’t see just him in her features in these moments, I see Sarah, too. I see Sarah and how he must have been with her when she was this small.

“Don’t forget to tell her you’re joking,” Sarah says as she comes back into the room. “She has to know that when you tell her she’s rotten that you’re joking.”

“Okay, Dr. Miller,” he agrees with her. “Since you and Ali share everything, you wanna maybe tell her what we did today while I go get changed?” 

She takes Ellie from him and laughs as her sister snuggles right into the crook of her neck and shoos him up the stairs when he stops to look down, that same look like she has a secret she’s trying to keep on her face. Except, whereas Ellie looks like she would keep it all to herself, Sarah only ever looks like she’s bursting to spill every detail.

“Thank you for the drink, bug,” I say, holding up the cup. “Besides giving your father a heart attack over how grown up you are, what’d you do today?” 

She sits on the other side of the couch from me and faces my direction, pulling her feet up underneath her before settling Ellie on her lap and smiles. “So, a couple of months ago, dad asked me if I wanted him to help me buy a car for my birthday and he wasn’t happy when I told him I already had that handled.”

“Sounds like him.”

“Yeah,” she rolls her eyes. “He wants to make sure it’s got all the safety specs or whatever, like, calm down, it’s not like Uncle Tommy taught me how to drive.”

“He just worries,” I tell her. “Is that what y’all did today, though? Are you going to tell me you both played hooky from work and now there’s a new car in the driveway?” 

“No,” she laughs and, when she does, Ellie laughs alongside her. “We did play hooky but not to look at cars, we’ve actually been working with a lawyer the last couple of months,” she goes on and takes a deep breath, tearing up as she releases it. “I told him that what I wanted for my birthday was for you to adopt me and that I was really afraid of asking if you would because I know you didn’t sign up for me when you and him got together.”

“Sarah, I one hundred percent signed up for you, too.” 

The moment I start crying, Ellie looks up at her sister and notices she is, too, which only makes her own face twist up and turn an angry red as she forces her own tears out.

“Okay,” Sarah says, looking down in an attempt to pacify Ellie. “It's okay, these are happy tears. Can you say happy?” 

She doesn’t even try, just wails out of her little lungs until they almost give out before starting to babble for her dad over and over again. Because dad is the safety who comes running every time any of us cry, always there the moment he hears tears and it’s no different now as he takes the stairs two at a time while buttoning his shirt.

“Oh, my girls,” he says, wedging himself into the couch and opening his arms to encourage us into a hug. “It’s okay, I’m right here.”

Sarah and I settle into opposite sides of him as Ellie climbs up onto his chest and nuzzles her head down right over where his heart is beating. Her hair is wild as it stands, all dark brown and all over the place, but the way it’s sticking up as she settles down into him is pulling more laughter than tears from me now which makes her start up on the giggles again.

“So you’re going to say yes, right?” Sarah finally asks, her head popping into view behind her sister. “You’re going to sign the papers?”

“Oh, bug, that’s such a yes and I’m really sorry if I can’t stop crying at your dinner tonight.”

May 12, 2019:

“Oh my god, can you two cool it with your asshole voices?” Ellie asks, eyes bugging out as she commands both of us to be nice.

He blames her colorful language on me, says that she talks the way she does because I’m from Massachusetts because there’s no way in hell he could ever have taught her the words bullshit or motherfucker. At least, that’s his excuse for when she gets in trouble at school time and time again for calling her classmates little dicks.

“She's right, sweetheart,” I say, turning to Joel. “We're not being very nice.”

His jaw sets and his eyes flick between Sarah and her new boyfriend, George. Well, new to us. They’ve been seeing one another since before Christmas but she didn't want to make a big deal out of it, not with her final semester of her doctorate program needing her full attention. “I don’t think it’s impolite to say that I wanted a picture with just family.”

“That wasn't the impolite part, actually,” Ellie says. "The impolite part was saying that would be the one you’d frame because you don’t know how long this guy will last”—she turns her head back to him—“no offense, man, he's just really protective.”

“No, I get it,” he says, smiling up at Joel and I. “Like I said at the graduation, she talks about you two so much, I’m just really excited to finally meet you both.”

“And Ellie,” Joel says, squinting. “You’re not excited to meet her sister?”

“Honey.”

“Oh, actually, Ellie and I have met a bunch,” he says. “She and Sarah study together.”

Sarah is sinking down further and further into her seat, eyes wide as she looks to her sister as if begging for help as Joel turns his attention on her.

“You didn’t feel like telling us that you’ve known your sister’s boyfriend this whole time? Ellie,” he says her name like a warning and a question, “I thought we promised no secrets.”

“Shit, dad, it's not like I stole the nuclear codes, you’re being so weird right now. This wasn’t a secret, we met a few times when I was over at Sarah’s getting help with my homework. If you want a secret,” she says, throwing her hands up, “I'm fucking gay so like if you’re gonna be mad at anybody for anything, be mad at that.”

“Nobody's mad at you for being gay,” I tell her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “and that wasn’t a secret, honey, we’ve known.”

“You know?!”

“Well, yeah,” Joel says, "you and Shana aren’t very subtle with the way you look at one another.”

“Okay, so take it from me,” she says, placing her palm on her chest, “because I’m a great judge of character and George is very nice and Sarah has been very nervous about introducing you this whole time and we’re here to celebrate the fact that she’s a fucking doctor now, dad, so be nice.” 

Joel takes a deep breath and nods. “I’m sorry, George,” he breathes out. “I’m just really protective.”

“I understand, Mr. Miller,” he says, smiling again. “I'm just some random guy to you, it more than makes sense you would want to frame the picture of just you and your girls but it would mean a lot to me if you could send me a copy of the one with me included.”

Joel nods again. “Of course.”

Sarah looks between me and Ellie, one eyebrow raised in question as if to ask just what the fuck is going on.

“Was I too hard on that boy?” Joel asks later. “I think I was too hard on that boy.”

We got home about an hour ago, after Ellie bullied us into going for ice cream because the dessert options at the restaurant were disgusting and obviously formulated for old farts like him.

“You know, Joel Alexander,” I start, gently setting his knee down before picking up the other, “this isn’t a question you would’ve been asking of your behavior fifteen years ago.” 

“Yeah, well, I guess we have the young one to thank for that,” he breathes out, sucking in another hard breath as I dig into the underside of his leg. “She doesn't let me get away with shit.”

She really doesn’t. All that overprotective bullshit he does, all that overcompensating for weaknesses he does not have, never flew with her. Not when she learned how to say no and, later, learned how to call him on his shit. He finally got it together when she was about four, when I lost her brother and was a mess for so long about it. It was our third attempt at a second pregnancy, the farthest we’d gotten, when my body just shut down close to the end of the second trimester. 

I cried and cried and Joel was perfect through it all. But there were moments when he was so overwhelming in taking care of me, that it only made everything I felt worse, and it’s because I knew he was ignoring his own pain about it. Ellie picked up on it, kept bringing up that he was sad, too, until he finally broke down because he hadn’t really let himself feel that pain for the other losses either. 

He got a vasectomy the next week because he said he wasn’t putting me through that again but we both know he couldn’t handle it again either.

“And you say she picked up rudeness from me but her manners are impeccable, she just swears a lot—sounds a lot like her daddy.”

Joel pushes a laugh out and then winces, pulling his leg up and out of my hands. “She's not rude, she’s honest.”

“And so funny about it,” I agree, crawling up to straddle his waist and lay a kiss down on his bare chest. “You apologized,” I mumble, looking back up at him. “You’re just protective and afraid of your little girl getting her heart broken.”

His brown eyes are almost black in the low light of our room, wrinkles settled into the fine skin around them, and he fights the heaviness of his lids to look up at me. It’s hard believe that I was crying myself to sleep sixteen years ago, afraid that I would never see this version of him. This settled in version with sun spots and gray hair I sobbed over. Never once did I tell him that I convinced myself he’d find somebody else to grow old with; that I believed somebody else was meant to watch and love all of the ways he laughed and grew and ached and craved.

And that scar—the one I put on his nose.

I felt so much fear that I would never see the way it would fade out and only be noticeable to me. But here I am, sixteen years later having just watched our oldest become Dr. Sarah Miller while our youngest runs circles around us in every way. They are both the best versions of us and themselves and each other.

“You know,” I start, taking a deep breath to steady myself against the tears I know will come out tonight anyway, “she’s the same age I was when I met you and decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The same age I was when I put that scar on his nose and, now, it’s been years as I’ve watched it fade until only I, and the sun above us, can see it.

#actually don’t wait for free time. #do it now

[darnitdraco]

I don’t care what your weekend plans are if they don’t involve you reading this. Im obsessed and you should be too.

Days of You & Me: September

Word Count: 12.7k+ Warnings: Hospital talk. Sick people talk. People being shitty to hospital workers. Marriage talk. Slight alcoholism talk. Unprotected sex. Note at the end. Author’s Note: Thank you to @tauralmie and @darnitdraco as well as @marvelousmermaid for being my continuous shoulders to lean on throughout writing this series.

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September 3, 2003:

“Fancy seeing you here,” Drea grins over the desk. “That boy ask you to marry him yet?”

“God, what happened to good morning and how do you feel, Sonny?” I ask her. “And no, that boy did not ask me to marry him yet, he says he’s waiting on permission.”

She laughs, loud and full, and throws her head back, light bouncing off the dark brown of her skin in what looks like rays.

We had lunch a few times, even got together as families to have a pizza and movie night last week. I don't even remember saying goodbye that night, I had fallen asleep on the couch before the movie ended and woke up in bed. The next day, Joel showed me a polaroid Warren had taken of Sarah and I asleep, each tucked into one side of him.

But even though I've seen her, I haven't worked with her and that’s heart breaking. The knowledge that I won't be here after this month, that I won't work with her anymore, is heartbreaking. I've missed her and I know that I'll continue to miss her.

“I don’t know what he’s waiting for,” she says, taking a deep breath. “We gave him permission weeks ago.” 

“Weeks ago as in…”

“Pretty much the moment he asked,” she says. “I didn’t see a ring the last time I was over but I know y’all have been busy with the business and with moving plus”—she shrugs—“I didn’t want to ask in front of him and spoil any special plans he may have.” 

“Well,” I start, hands flattening on the counter top to show bare nails and bare fingers. “As of last week, he told me he was still waiting for permission so I don’t know what he’s waiting for either.”

He says he’s worried that I may be unsure of him but now I can’t help but wonder if he’s unsure of me. Even as I'm thinking it, I’m trying to tamp it down—those insecurities that are cropping up. Because if he was unsure, he wouldn’t be so hellbent on painting our room the perfect color. It wouldn’t even be our room, it would still just be his.

“Maybe I said something I shouldn’t have said,” she breathes out. "Let's just get through this day and then maybe you’ll go home and he’ll have made you a fancy dinner and set out candles and wine and bought a whole new box of condoms—“

“Drea!” I look around to see who may have heard, heat blooming up my cheeks even as I remind myself that we are adults and healthcare professionals so this isn’t necessarily inappropriate for the kind of work that we do but, still… “We don’t use those anymore,” I whisper out, the words leaving me as quickly and quietly as they can.

Her jaw drops and then she lets out a low whistle. “Like I said, both of you got it bad.”

But he’s not home when I get here. His truck isn’t in the driveway and there’s certainly no wine or candles but there is Sarah with her big, bright eyes telling me happily that dinner’s in the oven and it’ll be ready by the time I get out of the shower.

“Thank you, bug, but you didn’t have to do that,” I tell her as I kick off my shoes. “I would’ve cooked.”

“Oh, I didn’t cook,” she says. “Daddy made lasagna, it's just in the oven.”

“He's not working a double?” I ask, feeling my eyebrows pinch up. “His truck’s not outside.”

She shakes her head. “He was home for a bit but left a little while ago, Uncle Tommy’s truck broke down again.” 

I learned pretty quickly that saying Uncle Tommy’s truck broke down is another way to say that Uncle Tommy got thrown in county jail for throwing a punch or two on a drunk and disorderly charge but Sarah doesn’t need to know that. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“No,” she says. “He said to go ahead and eat without him and that he’d see us tomorrow so I’m guessing it’ll be late.” 

Late is exactly what it is when he crawls into bed beside me, jeans pushed off and shirt tossed to the side to leave his tired body mostly bare.

“How's Tommy?” I mumble into his chest as I turn into him. “That was a long ass time this time.”

Joel pushes his head into the pillows and takes a deep breath, broad chest expanding against my cheek, and he lets his arm settle around my waist. “Fucking dumbass,” he breathes out. “He has to go to court now because this is his third charge in as many months and the fucking cops said they’re gonna start booking him on assault charges if he doesn’t clean his fucking act up.” He takes another deep breath and pulls me closer. “Dumbass was still fucking drunk when I got there so I got some food in him and took him home, I’ll have to pick him up tomorrow but I’d rather him not have access to his truck tonight.” 

“I know it’s a lot, baby, but you’re a good brother,” I tell him, lifting my head to look up at him, “you’re a good man and I know he appreciates that.”

He pushes a laugh out and I can see the exhaustion heavy on his face. “What about you?” He asks, changing the subject. “How was your first day back at work? How did they take your notice?”

Shrugging, I tell him they said they saw it coming. “My vacation time won’t be impacted and they were grateful I gave a month long notice.”

“Mmm, good.” 

“They also said they know it won’t be the last they see of me since you’ll be the one working there after that. Everybody seemed kind of sad though which I guess was nice. Not nice that they were sad but it was kind of confidence boosting to know that I could have that impact on others.” 

He pulls a strand of hair away from my face and twists it around his finger, eyes darting from mine to my lips and back. “Of course you have that kind of impact,” he rasps out, accent coming out thick through his exhausted body. “My incredible fucking girl, you mean so much to so many.”

Thank God for the low light of the bedroom because I can feel heat rushing up my cheeks in shades of what I’m sure are brilliant red. “When’s court?”

“Next week,” he breathes out. “They're fast tracking it so we’ll see what shit looks like, he’ll probably have to do community service which will hopefully inconvenience his ass enough that he just gives up drinking altogether because I’m sick of this shit.”

“Half of these fights aren’t his fault though,” I remind him. “He doesn't throw the first punch, he doesn’t start this shit.”

“No,” Joel agrees. “But he sure does fucking finish it, doesn’t he?” I watch as his eyes close and he takes another breath. “I love him but he’s gotta stop running his fucking mouth, I’ve bailed him out too many goddamn times, I’m shocked he hasn’t bankrupted me.”

“Take a breath,” I say, guiding him through the action before pushing myself up and over him.

“Are we having sex?” He asks, eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “Because I’m tired as shit, you’re gonna have to do all the work—“ 

“I'm kissing you,” I interrupt him. “And then you’re going to get up and brush your goddamn teeth because I refuse to be trapped beneath your mouth breathing at five in the morning.”

Pursing his lips in a pout, he pushes up to meet me halfway, dodging to the side just as our lips are about to touch to lick me up the side of the face, capping the action off with a kiss and laughter as he pulls away to slip from beneath the covers. 

The bathroom light trickles out into the dark of the room as I fight to keep my eyes open so I can fall asleep in his arms this time. I finally give up when he sticks his head out the door, says he’s gonna hop in the shower and that he won’t be long but that I shouldn’t wait up for him. 

Doesn't matter what he says, I still try.

With the light falling out of the bathroom door, blurred out through steam and tired eyes, I finally give up close to the hour mark as he starts singing I’m Your Man beneath the spray. 

September 9, 2003:

Sarah climbs into the passenger seat and smiles wide as she takes her coffee from me. “Are we ever going to tell dad you load me up with sugar on Tuesdays?”

“Absolutely not,” I laugh out. “He’ll give me a lecture about spoiling you.”

Her eyes turn up towards me and she places a hand on her heart. “How am I ever supposed to respect you if you give in to my every whim and desire, Alison?” Her tone is mocking and she sits back, picking at the whipped cream with the end of her straw. “He's such a funny old man, I think he sometimes forgets that I genuinely like you and is afraid that I’m just using you.”

"He is a funny old man,” I agree, turning the car towards the grocery store. “It’s not like you ask for these things, I just get them for you. It would be pretty shitty if I picked you up on Tuesdays with only a coffee for myself, that would be like if I brought dinner home but it was only for me.”

“Ooh, Tommy’s done that before,” she says. “I was really upset because I wanted French fries and he wouldn’t let me have any.”

“See and I’ll let you have all the French fries you want because I'm not denying you food or happiness.”

She tsks in my direction and shakes her head. “Absolutely killing it as the wicked stepmother here, Ali, actually caring about me. How dare you?”

“And those girls?” I ask. “Are they still giving you hell?”

“One of them tried to trip me in the hallway earlier,” she says. “It didn't work but she tried and another one wants to organize a fight and I don’t really understand, I don’t know what there is to fight about.”

“Just don’t pay attention to it.” I turn to her as I park the car outside of the store. “They're trying to goad you into looking angry and like you’re the problem, it can have a negative effect on soccer. So just ignore them and if it continues to be bad, your father and I will talk to the school.”

“Mrs. Adler says that she's going to pray for them.”

Rolling my eyes, I open the door and gesture towards the store. “You know, I’m fucking catholic but I’ve never seen anybody up Jesus’ ass the way that woman is—not even Nana Nora.” 

“Maybe she dropped off the crazy Jesus train after finding out she had a gay son and a daughter who got pregnant at fifteen,” she suggests. 

We stop in the parking lot and look at one another, her question of whether that was okay or too far barely out of her mouth before both of us break out into laughter.

Pulling her close as we talk through the doors, I tell her she’s going to love Uncle Bill when they meet over Thanksgiving. “He helped pay for me to go to University of Texas so, really, he’s kind of to thank for me and your father being together.” 

“I think we’re going to need to talk to the school,” I tell Joel later after dinner. “She said one of those girls tried to trip her in the hallway earlier and another one is trying to organize a fight.”

“And you think we should talk to the principal about it?” He asks over his shoulder, turning off the water at the sink. “I'm worried that might make it worse.”

"And I’m worried about our kid coming home with a black eye—“

“Hey.” He turns in my arms and frames my face with his hands. “I love you and I love you going into protector mode, but until she says she wants us to intervene, I think it’s best that we let it fizzle out. All we’ll do is make them act worse because they’ll think she went crying to her daddy to fix it but they will get bored eventually.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was a little fucking asshole once, too,” he says like it’s obvious. “I'm an asshole now, truth be told, and I am telling you that it will be okay. Now, if she or the principal come to us, then we will step in. But until then, sweetheart, we just need to let her vent and you’re a safe person for her to do that with.” 

“But—“

He presses his lips to mine. “You are perfect and she will be, too. Now get your ass upstairs and let’s go to bed, I’m tired and I’d like to put my penis in you for a bit.”

“But—“ 

It’s funny how we went from awkwardly eating lunch in my car to romantic dates in gardens to being very crass with one another in a way that the spontaneity of sex is kind of gone. Not gone in a bad way, I assure him as he pushes me towards the stairs, but gone in the way that neither of us feel the nerves around it anymore. We don’t have to wait for half a spark of bravery, we can just say what we want.

“I'm in my mid-thirties,” he whispers, pushing me through the door. “I don’t play fucking games, I met the love of my life and I am going to tell her that I want to fuck her but I am also going to be honest about my exhaustion. Take your top off.”

He laughs and it hits something inside of me that makes my brain go fuzzy. “You called my daughter our kid and have been in protective mama bear mode for hours and I am telling you that if I have to undress you, I will rip your clothing to pieces so”—he pulls his belt buckle open—“take off your top.”

“And if I don’t?” I ask him, biting back a smile as I watch frustration harden his features.

Instead of answering me, he pushes his jeans off, pulls his shirt over his head and walks towards the bathroom instead of towards me. “I'm marrying a smartass,” he mutters under his breath. “A complete and utter little asshole.”

“Joel,” I call his attention back to me as I throw the shirt to the side and barely have time to brace myself as he quickly closes the distance and throws me onto the bed. “You don’t seem too tired to me,” I whisper.

Teeth scraping against my jawline, he breathes out that he’s not too tired yet. “All I said is that I’m tired and I want to be with you, the too tired part comes after you have.”

I can’t think because he doesn’t let me, the full weight of his body laying down against mine. The moment I told him he wasn’t going to hurt me is the moment he turned back into that overwhelming kind of lover he was—all big and broad and all encompassing.

Even Tommy walked in on us one time and asked if Joel was fucking me or trying to crawl inside of my skin. Joel didn’t even both yelling at him, just told him both options sounded great and asked him to lock the door on his way out. He even said please like the nice, polite southern boy that he is.

“What has gotten into you?” I ask the moment he separates from my lips long enough to take in more than just a breath in the space between us. “You've been insatiable the last few weeks.”

He looks up from where he’s bent down to push my underwear off of my legs, eyebrow raised in question. “I'm insatiable? Bold words from somebody who started crying because I’m old and needed to catch my breath before I went in for a fifth round.” 

“That's not fair to use against me, Joel, I was on my period and bloated and felt very unattractive, catching your breath might as well have been a rejection.”

“God forbid I ever experience erectile dysfunction,” he breathes out as he pushes inside of me. “Not tonight though.”

One large hand smooths my hair back and out of my face, making room for the soft press of his lips against my forehead. He really has been insatiable lately, like everything is going right and he needs to celebrate between my legs before the bubble bursts.

As if it’s all some kind of dream—me and this house and the business. 

September 13, 2003:

Yelling pulls me out of my dreams—loud and lively suburban kind of yelling while the weight of his palm rests on my back. He’s not here when I open my eyes, though. No warm hands or strong arms around me, no soft voice coaxing me from my dreams.

In fact, it’s his voice that’s doing the yelling—half of it, at least—in a back and forth across the street with a neighbor.

“No, Denise!” He yells back to the question I didn’t quite catch. “I’m not moving out, my girlfriend’s been moving in.” 

The neighbor—Denise—gasps. “Joel Miller,” she yells over, “you finally found yourself a nice girl?”

“I don't know about nice—“

“Uncle Tommy!” 

The clock shows it’s a little past ten and the anxiety for missing so much of the day sets in immediately. I can’t remember what time it was when he brought up the coffee, rubbed my back and told me he’d be down in the yard, but the sun was up so it can’t have been too long ago.

“She's perfectly nice, Denise,” Joel responds as I make my way out of bed. “Far too good for me.”

Putting on shorts, I grab the travel cup he left for me and take the stairs two slowly, their conversation following me from the bedroom’s open window to the living room’s.

“I'll have to tell my niece the handsome young man I live next to is off the market,” she says.

“Happily so, Denise, but”—his head turns towards me as I open the front door before turning back—“you can always give her Tommy’s number.”

Tommy’s face drains of color, flat hand subtly moving across his neck while he mouths for Joel to shut up.

“They been like this all day?” I ask Sarah as I sit beside her.

Looking up from her book, she shrugs. “More or less… also”—she drops her voice to a whisper and leans in closer—“dad’s not in a great mood.”

“What's going on?” I ask her, looking over at him digging in the dirt.

Shaking her head, she tells me the contractor they’ve been working with has been calling all morning, apparently some kids came in with baseball bats and destroyed most of the framing they worked on yesterday.

“And he… what? Wants your daddy to go fix it on a Saturday morning?” I ask her.

“That's exactly what he wants,” Joel interjects as he walks up. There’s dirt stains on his jeans, neckline of his t-shirt stretched out and a dirty, old rag worrying between his hands to get the dirt off. 

“Don't get paid on Saturdays though,” Tommy says from his place still in the grass. “Don't get paid, don’t work.”

“Y'all are real bad at whispering,” Joel continues. “Baby girl”—he turns to Sarah—“you all packed? Kenzie’s mom is gonna be here to pick you up soon.”

“What time is it?” She asks.

He shakes his head and yawns, “I don't know, my watch isn’t working again.” 

“Was almost half ten when I ca—“

Before I can finish, she’s jumping up and running back into the house almost knocking her father down on her way.

“Movies and arcade,” he answers my question before I can ask, sinking down into the seat next to me. “It’s McKenzie’s older brother’s party and Susan invited Sarah so the girls are gonna watch what they want to watch and the boys are gonna watch… I don’t know, I don’t care.”

I hand him my coffee up when he reaches for it. “When did this happen? McKenzie doesn’t just want to come over here?”  

“Susan called first thing this morning, McKenzie wasn’t originally going but it’s a nice day so she didn't want to be stuck in the house and, also, there’s nothing to do here,” he shrugs as his head drops back onto the chair, “Susan’s house has video games and skateboards and a trampoline, this place has a broken down car in the backyard and a lame movie collection, I don’t wanna hang out here either.”

“Yes, you do,” I respond. “You like lame movies and working on your broken down car, you’re lame and it’s okay.” 

Groaning, he stands up and gestures for me to do the same. “Come on, let’s go pack, I can’t have both of my girls thinking poor of me.” 

When I reach for my coffee cup, he wraps a hand around my bicep and hauls me up alongside him as he moves towards the open door.

“Is this the bad mood she was referring to, Mr. Miller?” I ask.

We’re halfway into his office when he spins me around and pushes me up against the bookshelf. “I'm in a mood alright,” he says, eyes flicking down my body and back up. “You don’t know how fucking hard it was to say no to you earlier,” he goes on, “so sleepy and cute and begging me to come back to bed with your soft little voice.” 

“You and your damn responsibilities, baby.”

He laughs as he presses his lips into me. “God, you’ve been getting so twangy lately,” he breathes out. “My rude ass northern girl with her adoptive accent, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

More laughter but it doesn’t come from either of us and his jaw sets as he looks over at the man standing in the open doorway.

“Can I help you, Thomas?”

Half a smile on the younger man’s lips and he pops a fruit snack into his mouth. “I just like seeing you happy,” he shrugs. “It's so different.”

Joel lets out a breath, shoulders relaxing as he hangs his head. “That was actually really nice of you, Tommy,” he says as he lifts his head again. “Thank you.”

“Nah,” he says, smile growing wider. “We should all be thanking Alison, it’s funny what a little head can do for a man and you”—his eyes flick up to me as he raises his hands in prayer—“are an angel and a saint.”

“Tommy.” Joel’s voice is low and stern but not in the way it is with me in the moments where he has been. No, this is a dangerous kind of tone and his grip on my hip is tightening.

“Aww, Tommy,” I cut in, “what’s really funny is what giving a little head can do for a man.”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel breathes out. “Don't encourage him, baby.”

“Let him have his fun, Joel, he’s just jealous. Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

“Swear to god if he doesn’t marry you,” he says, mouth full of the rest of the snacks, “I am first in line”—he points at Joel and then back at himself—“you hear me? Give me a head’s up for when you’re gonna break her heart, big brother.” 

Joel’s ringtone starts playing and his eyes roll back as he fishes the brick out of his pocket. “This fucking prick again”—he hits the answer button—“hell—no, I told you that we’re not coming out tod—because we don’t get paid on weekends, if you want the shit fixed quick, get those boys who fucked it up back down there but if you want it done right—“ Joel’s eyes roll back in his head and he holds the phone away from his ear, covering the microphone as he says, “I'm gonna finish this call and take a shower, lock the door when both of my children leave, please.” 

“Bye, daddy,” Tommy says as he leaves the room before looking back to me. “He's too fucking easy, Murph.” 

“Yeah, Tommy, but you could still go easier on him.”

He considers me for a moment, eyes squinting as if he’s studying me. “That’s a nice thought,” he finally declares. “But the answer is no.”

Joel’s voice trails down from the top of the stairs, an argument going back and forth between him and the contractor and Tommy shrugs. “Look, I have to do my brotherly duty,” he says. “When it comes to his balls: I bust ‘em and you suck ‘em.”

“Oh my god.”

Since our conversation on Sarah’s birthday, we’ve developed more of a rapport, almost how I imagine it’d be if I had a sibling of my own. He said it helps that I feed him, that’s why he warmed up to me so quick. He also said all of Joel’s other girlfriends haven’t liked him too much in the past. I asked if it was because he was too crude or because he was flirting with them so much. Apparently it was because they didn’t like how close he was to his brother.

“Look,” he pleads as he follows me out of the room and into the kitchen, “all he has ever done is look out for me and I try to do the same by being the one person in his life that isn’t treating everything with dead seriousness. I’m an adult, not a funeral director.”

“Fine,” I shrug, turning to find him peeling open another fruit snacks package. “I can’t believe he told you I put his balls in my mouth.” 

“Oh, he didn’t.” A smile unfurls across his face and he pops a red Scooby-Doo shaped treat into his mouth. “But you just did.”

His hair is dark, wet and pushed back from his face. So different from the tousled, boyish bedhead I’m so used to seeing on him. His face is clearer this way, freshly washed and glowing golden from the sun.

“Mm, was kinda hoping you’d be in bed when I got out of there.” He winks at me as he walks towards the kitchen. “Fucking contractor might never work with me again.”

“I'm sorry, baby.”

Exhaustion is heavy in his eyes, though, as he comes back, beer in hand, and settles himself in close on the couch. “What are you sorry for, pretty girl?”

“That you work with douchebags,” I respond.

“It is what it is,” he shakes his head and takes a sip. “I’ll be the boss soon so it doesn’t fucking matter, shit’s just frustrating when I’m so scared all this is going to fail and I’ll have to go back to getting bitched at.”

Planting my elbow into the back of the couch, I turn my whole body towards his and study him—the curve of his nose, the freckles on his face and arms, the way his dark lashes brush the swell of his cheeks. Head in my hands, I tell him I’m also sorry for not being in bed when he got out of the shower.

He huffs a laugh, chest rising and falling with the small sound. “Probably for the best, sweetheart, I don’t smell any food which tells me all you’ve had is coffee and”—he takes another sip, big dark eyes taking me in when they open again—“you’d really need your strength for what I want to do to you.”

“Well… then I guess I’m sorry for telling your brother I suck your balls.”

“You what?” He sits up, eyes blinking slowly as if that would make him hear me better. “You told Tommy Miller what now, baby?”

Taking the bottle from him, I take a sip for myself and hand it back to him desperately fighting the face I want to make. “He made a joke,” I say. “I said I can’t believe you told him that and he acted like he was the world’s greatest spy to get it out of me.”

A deep breath and then another, pulls off the Modelo in his hand between each one as beats pass by us. Occasionally, his face twitches like he’s running through scenarios in which Tommy could use this information against him and he doesn’t like the future he’s predicted. 

Finally, he sits back again, resting his head as he scoots down, and my fingers find purchase in his waterlogged curls. “Sarah get off okay?”

“Mm.” My answer is lost in a yawn that he easily catches. “I gave her twenty bucks for the arcade.”

“Shit,” he breathes. “I meant to do that earlier, baby, thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“It’s not your responsibility,” Joel insists. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to—“

“Stop,” I try to mimic the same stern tone he used on Tommy earlier but I know I’m failing. “I don’t feel obligated, I just want her to have fun. Besides”—I grab the bottle again—“you never let me take you on a date, you can at least let me make sure she has a good time with her friends.” 

His head moves against my shoulder the same way it did against the pillows in the early hours of this morning—back and forth like he’s burrowing himself in—and he expresses gratitude again. 

We sit together trading sips back and forth in silence for I don’t know how long, eyes half closing as the beer warms through my veins in the moments the bottle is traded off into his hands.

Suddenly, the phone starts to ring again and he lets out a half frustrated scream as he pulls it out of his pocket. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Him?”

“Yeah,” he says.

Before he can press the answer button, though, I take the phone and send the call to voicemail before throwing it into the chair adjacent to us.

“Baby—”

“You said it yourself,” I cut him off. “You’re the boss soon; you did your job correctly yesterday and it’s not your fault there's a mess now.” 

Pressing his head back into me, he covers his face with his hands and takes a deep breath. “Thank you, baby,” he breathes up at me, fingers sliding easily through his clean hair. “And what about you? I got in real late last night, you were already knocked out on the couch and you slept a long time. How do you feel?”

“Honestly? I think I could go for a nap, work was brutal yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I breathe out. “No death, thank God. But lots of people shitting their brains out left and right. This E.Coli outbreak is no joke and they’re already prepping us for flu season so I need to take you and Sarah for your shots soon.”

He hums into my stomach as he slips down to lay his head in my lap. “It's a good thing you don't have to worry too hard about flu season, huh?” He asks. “You won’t be there for it.”

“It's still good to have the information and be prepared, Joel,” I insist. “Especially since I might not have to deal with the flu season as a nurse but you will be in that hospital as a contractor.”

He laughs, says he forgot about that part. All the events of the week with Tommy’s court date and the doubles they’ve been pulling to give themselves as much of a cushion as possible going into the autumn months on their own has left him exhausted and forgetful.

“Fine,” he breathes out, turning to curl into my stomach. “Order a pizza and brief me on the flu season when it gets here, I’m taking a nap.”

He falls easily into sleep almost the moment he says that, his soft snores pushed into my belly falling out between deep and steady breaths. Since I went back to work, I feel like it’s been a while since we both just sat here in each other’s presence—the comfortable, safe silence we hold for one another. 

We’re back to mismatched schedules and late nights in bed with tired movements and tired eyes. I haven’t even bothered going to bed early, always trying to stay up just to see him after he’s pulled a double. Six shifts stands between me and later nights in my home with my family. Two weeks stands between him and freedom of calling his own shots beyond biting off more than he can chew.

Sweeping his curls back, I watch a soft smile push into the dimple that pockets his cheek while ordering food for the afternoon. He looks so content and happy, like all his headaches have melted away to the point he can’t even fathom having one anymore. 

I try not to think about the insecurities that have built up in me with the knowledge that he got permission weeks ago. Not that they aren’t in my mind constantly but I do try and it helps the most to tamp them down when he’s beside me like this; safe and warm in his own way.

September 18, 2003:

“Oh, fuck me, Joel, right there,” I breathe out. “Please don’t stop.”

He shushes me but it doesn’t work as he falls into laughter when I cut him off with what very well might as well be a soundbite straight from porn. “We’re going to scar the child for life and all I’m doing is rubbing your feet.”

“Not for life,” I say. “She'll understand when she’s in her thirties and her feet hurt after a long day at work.”

His head shakes even as he starts giggling again. “You are such a goddamn pain in the ass, sweetheart,” he grins out. “You gonna tell me what else went down at work today besides it being long? I haven’t seen you this worn out in a minute.”

“Honestly, I’m seeing so much food poisoning that I'm afraid to eat anything at all,” I tell him, taking my foot back and sitting up to face him in bed. It’s late. Not so late that I run the risk of oversleeping my alarm but late enough that my eyelids are dragging down further and further no matter how hard I try to fight it. “Apparently more foods are going to be announced recalled soon but I don’t know what they are and I’m really not understanding how E.Coli is spreading through some of these things, I’ve honestly never even seen it behave like this.”

His face pinches up. “How do you mean?” He asks, shifting his own body to sit up further. “I know I'm a dumb son of a bitch but hearing you be scared over something medical scares me. How bad is this?”

“So, E.Coli is a bacterial infection that impacts the intestinal tract. Usually after a couple of days with treatment, it’s done and you’re good to go, you’ll just need to start eating solid foods again. Joel, I have patients I did intake for last week still admitted to the hospital, they can’t keep anything down and it has weakened their immune system to the point that they’re getting pulmonary fungal infections.”

“English, please.” 

“Joel, there is mold growing in their lungs and, at first, we thought maybe the hospital had a mold problem but today we were admitting people who were exhibiting these symptoms and they hadn’t been in the hospital at all, they haven’t even had E.Coli but some are smokers and others aren’t.”

“So we stay away from cigarettes?” He clarifies.

“And mushrooms,” I remind him. “The FDA put out another statement that they’re still receiving reports of contaminated mushrooms in all fifty states and, honestly, I’m tempted to start making you and Sarah wear surgical masks everywhere that isn't this house.”

Joel takes a deep breath and nods. “If that’ll make you feel better, I’m happy to do so.”

Watching as he gets up to go to the bathroom, I tell him that I know it would get him shit, Sarah too, and he just laughs. “You think I give a shit about getting shit? I’ll just tell ‘em all that my doctor was worried about the sawdust particles hanging around and I’ll give Sarah permission to start throwing punches because I’m sick of those little assholes.”

We ended up having to go up to the school on Monday. The principal called Joel and said that he should get down there for an emergency meeting and Joel called asking me to meet him there. I thought that maybe the fight had finally happened even though Sarah said she took our advice and just continued to ignore them; she said they’d started leaving her alone. We all figured they’d gotten bored.

When we got into the office, Sarah was sitting in the counselor’s room crying and asked if either of us had a hat she could wear. 

The girls didn’t get bored. Instead, they just waited until they could be the worst possible versions of themselves and I’ve never seen her so sad or Joel so livid. 

We’d gotten her hair done on Sunday after Sarah mentioned liking Andrea’s braids. It took hours and she was so happy and confident, even had the cutest little butterfly clips throughout and, during science class, the one that tried to trip Sarah cut half her braids off. 

I’ve never heard Joel yell like that and the punishment ended up in suspension for the girl as well as her parents offering to pay to have Sarah’s hair done again. I kept her out on Tuesday and she asked to just go back to how it was before, she’d try again after we got back from Wyoming.

“Swear to god, baby,” he says, turning the light off after he’s washed his hands. “If you hadn’t been there, I probably would’ve punched that little girl's father.”

“She's suspended for two weeks, Joel,” I remind him. “Two weeks and she is required to take her exams no matter her grade and the principal took away her extracurriculars for the semester, if you had punched her father they probably would’ve punished Sarah, too.”

“We should put her in a different high school,” he says, laying himself down next to me. “We should put her in one of those art schools, she really liked that pottery class.”

“She wants to play soccer,” I insist. “The best place for her to be for that is the high school she’s going to and there are little fucking assholes in art school, too. However, when we come back from Wyoming, I think that we should look at changing Sarah’s schedule so she doesn’t share any classes with these girls and I want to talk to Susan about how much it hurts Sarah’s feelings that McKenzie is still entertaining their friendship because she doesn’t feel like she can go to sleepovers anymore.”

“She told you that?” He asks. “God, how are you already a better parent than I am?”

���I'm not a better parent than you,” I laugh. “I think I’m just a woman who makes her feel safe and she can confide in me about things.” I push his curls back and fight the smile spreading across my face as he leans into my touch. “It makes me really happy that both of you feel safe with me and I’ll do everything I can to keep that trust.”

“Even making sure something scars ugly on people who are mean to us?”

“Even that, Joel,” I confirm. “Unethical as it is.”

He pushes his face into me, arms wrapped tight around me, and breathes deep with a declaration of love on his lips as he exhales. It’s late and I’m exhausted, I know he is, too, but I would rather fight my heavy eyelids right now than stop looking at him.

I lose, of course, but not before I catch him mumbling that I am a better parent than him. So much better than him and he can’t wait to see how I translate that into parenting an infant.

“How many?” I ask.

“So many,” he whispers. “Sarah deserves to be a big sister to as many as you feel like giving her.” 

Breathing evened out against me, I’m not even sure he knows what he’s saying but so much is starting to make sense. He told me a few weeks ago that he wanted more kids but he couldn’t do it alone again. He got permission not long after that but hasn’t asked the question. We’re a family unit to him—we have been for a while. But there are micro-tears in his confidence in it where his past fears are seeping through, only really present in the daylight when he can consciously tiptoe around them.

But, at night, with no lights on him and fuzzy focus drifting control off and away, he pours out what he truly wants because he’s working up to asking for it.

September 23, 2003:

“Hey, you weren’t here when I woke up,” he says, hand dipped beneath the waistband of his boxers as he scratches at his lower stomach. He curls into my side of the bed and takes a deep, exaggerated breath. “Had to sit here and hump your pillow waiting for you.”

Lifting his arm, I lay myself down in the space and press my face into the crook of his neck, taking a similar breath to the one he did. He’s been keeping his face shaved for business meetings, said he felt it looked more professional than whatever the fuck sad ass shit he has the audacity to call a beard, but now it’s growing back in the lead up to our trip and I can’t stop rubbing my face against it.

“And you call me a cat,” he laughs out.

“What time are we dropping off the truck?” I ask. “It's gotta be before we see Dr. Bonner.”

Joel hums and it vibrates all the way through my body along with his. “I was thinking we could drop it off around ten and then go grab an early lunch before your appointment?” He goes up an octave on that last word, framing it as a question when I know he actually won’t let me dare skip a meal. “Then Starbucks to spoil you and the kid and you can drop me off at the build to make sure shit was done right before Tommy signs off for the day.”

“He coming for dinner?” I ask. “Or is he gonna go out to chase some college girls around the bars?”

“Oh, well, you know him,” he mumbles into the crown of my head, “they see those dimples and that jackass cowboy charm and he gets laid.”

“Poor boy,” I say. “He's got such a hard time.”

“Yeah, so long as he stays out of trouble, he can chase whatever tail in whatever bar he chooses.” 

Tommy’s wearing his nicest boots when I drop Joel off, that shit eating grin of jackass cowboy charm as his brother calls it wide across his face as he takes the coffee I told Joel to buy for him.

“Don't get in trouble this week, Tommy,” I beg him, watching Joel’s retreating back walk into the new build. “No drinking.” I search his eyes for a hint of his thoughts. “Please, Tommy, you are on mighty thin ice with Travis County sheriff’s department and it could cost y’all the hospital job and he is so stressed out about it.”

My therapy sessions have sometimes turned into mine and Joel’s therapy sessions, including today where he shared his anxiety over putting the truck in the body shop to get the business name when he’s not even sure the business name will last longer than one job. Partly because of his brother’s run ins with the law, and his refusal to get help, because he thinks communication is bullshit and he can get by with a nod and a smile.

He hits me with both now and promises that he’ll be on his best behavior.

“I love you to death, Thomas Miller, and your brother will never punch you but I fucking will. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” he answers. “Love you, too, Sonny girl.” 

He sends me off with a message to give to Sarah, something about some soap opera plot point because he was watching on the build and thought it was funny. She, on the other hand, thinks it’s sad—the main character lost her entire family in a series of tragic events. 

“I guess the funny part is how she reacted to it all,” I suggest. “You know your uncle has a sick sense of humor, bug.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. It’s not rainy but it's not sunny either and that seems to be hanging on her.

“You alright?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I just got a catalogue for the classes I can take next year at the high school and I thought pottery would be in there but it isn’t.”

She really liked that workshop.

“Maybe it’s in the higher grades.”

“It's not in any of the grades,” she says, big eyes up to the sky through the window. “I asked. It’s just home ec or wood working and I know how to do both of those things.”

“Could be an easy grade,” I say. “We can go to more of those little classes independently if you want.” Even as I say it, I know it’s not quite good enough for what exactly she wants—consistency in the art, time to build on her skills and the quality of what she can make. 

I’m already deciding to look into equipment needed to give her a small home studio for Christmas when she turns towards me. “I want to get daddy’s watch fixed for his birthday.”

“He'd really like that,” I say. “Man might as well be walking around blind without that thing on his wrist—do you need money for it?” I ask.

Her dimples pull her smile back, cheeks pushing up against her eyes. “I would not mind that.” 

“Okay, well”—I gesture to the door and get out of the car—“your daddy thinks I spoil you so I’ll leave about sixty in the top drawer next to his watch, grab that in the morning and go to our neighbors’ shop after school, they’ll give you a good deal.”

“Can I come to the hospital after?” She asks. “I wanna see Andrea, I know it’s her birthday soon, too, I made her a card.”

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself at the door and kick my shoes off. I haven't told her about what’s been going on; I don’t want to scare her. Not when Mrs. Adler and the teachers at her school keep going on about biowarfare and weapons of mass destruction. “I'd prefer if you didn’t,” I tell her, watching her face fall. “It’s just that the emergency room has been really busy lately, UT is dealing with the bullshit of rush week and people who would usually go there are overflowing to us.” If she can tell it’s a lie, she doesn’t show it. “We’ll have a movie night when we get back from Wyoming.”

“Promise?” She asks.

“Like your daddy’s always saying”—I turn and look at her on my way towards the kitchen to make a grocery list—“on my life.” 

September 24, 2003:

The phone goes to voicemail for the second time and I can feel nerves snaking their way up my throat as I feel the frustration rise up in me. Taking a deep breath, I press redial and all but hold my breath in some attempt at schooling my beating heart.

“Baby?” He picks up on the third ring this time. “Are you okay?” 

"Do you know what brand the flour is at home?” I ask him. “You know what,” I go on before he can answer me, “just throw it away—the pasta, too, and I don't know that I trust the frozen pizza in the fridge either.”

He laughs and I want to scream. “Are we suddenly allergic to wheat, Ali?” I can hear the power tools in the background, his petulant ass contractor barking orders like a tyrant. “I don’t think it’s fair to punish me and Sarah just because you—“ 

“It's the flour,” I tell him. “That's what’s making people sick, Joel. It’s flour and it’s tobacco and it’s mushrooms.”

He begs me to slow down and I take another breath, glancing up at the time to check how long I have on my break. “From the beginning, sweetheart.”

“Tobacco and wheat is sometimes grown together,” I tell him. “The farm that supplies the most to, like, all the brands had a contamination with animals getting into the crops, they defecated in the soil and mushrooms grew, that’s where the E.Coli and the fungal infections are coming from and it’s really fucking bad, Joel, so please toss the flour when you get home.”

I can practically hear him nod and he tells me he has to go. “I'll take care of it, pretty girl, just do me a favor and take a breath, okay? You’ve got two more days and we will avoid all the flour and all the tobacco until you deem it safe again.”

“Do you promise?” I’m close to tears and I feel irrational but it’s bad today, it’s so fucking bad. The products in question have been on the shelves for a bit but are really only starting to come up now with stock rotation in the grocery stores—always put the earliest to expire first. That’s what people are grabbing and they’re getting sicker and sicker.

Part of me feels horrible for leaving the hospital at this time but I don't think I can do anymore. Truthfully, I cannot do this anymore. I wish I had made my notice earlier, I wish I was gone already. There are young kids in here; kids that are Chloe’s age; kid’s that are Sarah’s age. 

Joel tells me I can just come home tonight. I can come home and he won’t be mad if I don’t go back to work and when I tell him it’ll fuck up my vacation pay out he tells me he doesn’t give a fuck about that. All the worry about the business and if it’ll succeed or if it'll bankrupt us and he's telling me he doesn’t care about the money, he cares about me and my mental health and my wellbeing but I can't leave it like this. It’s not like me to leave and never come back, it’s not in my work ethic and it's not in my personal ethics either. 

“It's two days, Joel,” I remind him. “It's two days and then we go to Wyoming for a week and I won’t be so stressed out.” 

“And I’ll do that thing you like,” he whispers, low and drawn out, “when I’ve got you on all fours in bed, gorgeous. Hell, I’ll do it tonight if you want me to.”

“I'm so tired already, Joel,” I breathe out. “And don’t you dare focus on me while we’re on vacation, this is for your birthday.” 

“You act like I give a shit about myself,” he laughs out.

There’s yelling in the background, somebody calling for his help for something. I take the moment to remind him that after this week, he’s the boss; he gets to call the shots and bark the orders.

“And Joel?”

“Hmm?” 

“I really need you to give a shit about yourself,” I practically beg him. “I need you to care about your cholesterol and your happiness and your stress levels because Sarah and I need you and we need you to be okay.”

He laughs. “I ain’t that special, sweetheart.”

“I know you're making a joke but we’re in the middle of an epidemic that is getting worse with each fucking report so I need you to understand that you are everything to us and please don’t smoke that occasional cigarette I know you steal from Tommy and please throw that shit out before I get home.”

“What do you want me to tell Sarah?” He asks. "I don't want to scare her.”

“I don’t know, tell her you're on the Atkins diet or some shit and please order me beef and broccoli for dinner tonight but no egg rolls.”

He whistles low. “No egg rolls? It must be bad if you’re asking for those to be left out.”

“Yeah,” I say, the sadness and frustration I’ve felt all day giving out to defeat in my voice. “I'll see you at home, I love you.” 

There’s a crash behind him as he’s barely through his response, the call going dead beneath his quick goodbye and I’m left here in the break room wondering about Sarah and wondering if the school knows and wondering how the lunches are being made and if I should let them know.

But it’s a school, they’re usually the first to know about anything that could impact the kids, right after hospitals and other emergency services. I take a deep breath and check the clock. Four more hours. Four more hours of this and then twelve more hours and then twelve more after that.

Twenty-eight total hours until I can go home to my family and start figuring this all out; who I am to myself and who I am to them and this life we built together on the thread of a few stitches.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my mask back up and head for the doors to enter back into the chaos.

Twenty-eight total hours until I don’t have to live like this anymore.

September 26, 2003:

“Joel, wake up,” I whisper against him, nuzzling my nose into his cheek as I kiss against his lips.

He hums low and lazy, the question asking me what I want very clearly on display as his grip tightens on me.

Again, I encourage him to wake up with a nip at his earlobe, and the smallest bit of laughter I can give him without being obnoxious, as I feel him harden against my leg.

“Mm, is this a dream?” 

“It very much is not,” I confirm, telling him that it's just a little past five when he asks me what time it is. 

Barely being able to sleep aside, I wanted to be the first one to wish him a happy birthday. But it’s also my last day at work and I’m nervous and I need him in a way that I cannot fully explain, I just know I can’t wait until tonight or tomorrow in the hotel room in Wyoming.

He pushes himself up into the kiss I press into his lips and he helps me push his sweatpants off his hips and down his legs.

By the time I take him in hand he’s already leaking. I can tell by the way he throbs against my palm that if I looked down at him, he’d be an angry, almost purple color begging to fall apart inside of me.

Not that he has to wait long for what he wants. It’s half a sleepy fight for dominance but he lets me overpower him quickly because he’s just as desperate as I am now but lacks less than half the energy I have.

Heavy lids fight to open as his jaw drops slack, his tired brown eyes watching as I sink down on him. He doesn’t even have a view of anything until I’m taking my shirt off; pulled over my head and tossed to the side of the bed where my panties and his pants lay to give him a full view of everything we both want him to touch.

“Your tits look like a fucking pillow,” he slurs out, lazily grabbing at one with his rough hand. “Bend your cute little ass over and let me suck on it.” 

Hands braced on his chest, I do bend over him but not to give him what he’s asked for. “Happy birthday, baby,” I whisper into his lips, kissing softly at the open mouth that’s having trouble forming words. “You’re a good man and I love you,” I go on. “I can’t wait to be Mrs. Joel Miller, I can’t wait to be the mother of your children.”

A slow smile stretches across his face beneath another press of my lips to his and he starts giving words back over to me. 

How happy he is that he spent most of thirty-five with me and that he’ll now get all of thirty-six.

The way he thinks about how it would feel when there’s a ring on my finger beneath his grip as he we hold hands.

That he notices his heart rate steadies out the moment he sees me; that my presence takes away his stresses and the only fears he keeps when I’m around are the ones about me and Sarah because all that matters to him is his family.

He makes a joke, asks if I’m getting in a practice session before he’s got me riding horses all next week and laughs at his own joke on half a moan when I bite his neck.

“Fuck, I love you, baby,” he breathes out, strength building up in his muscles as he wakes up to the moment; grabbing against me in more than just a lazy way. “Best birthday ever and it’s not even really started yet.”

“You turned thirty-six at midnight, Joel, I think it’s you that hasn’t started yet.”

He takes it as a challenge, eyes going hard as his grip tightens around me and he switches our positions to push me down into the pillows instead of him.

“Most gorgeous girl in the whole world,” he says in the space between our lips. “Thank you for waking me up, I think I would’ve been really broken hearted if I woke up all alone on my birthday.”

Trying to tell him that I would never have let that happen, he punches the breath from my lungs on a thrust that hits up against that spot he knows better than I do by now. 

When my muscles tighten up, he shoves his tongue into my mouth to cut the possibility that anybody but him could hear and I can feel every ounce of his body weight bearing down on me as I push back up against him—my body desperate for all of his. 

“Is this our thing, huh?” He asks. “Wake up before the sun to make a mess of one another and then just go about our days?”

Breath coming out hard as I try to catch it, I push my head further back into the pillow and take every bit of him in.

The paling skin that hasn’t seen much sun between business meetings and inside work; the gentle slope of his nose and the faint scar I love so much; disheveled hair and beard; exhausted eyes and heavy lids.

He’s losing weight, too; body returning to the size he was when we met and not the puffed out chest that strained his clothes from double days on job sites. 

“Yeah,” I nod up at him, tucking my bottom lip beneath my teeth as he sits up on his knees between my legs to change the angle. “I think that’s our thing.”

Joel’s large hands rest on my hips and he pulls me up, back arching beneath his touch, just to start moving again with a steadier, more controlled rhythm.

A crooked, cocksure smile splits one side of his face as he encourages me up and over another edge with praising words and expletives until he meets me there with a deep sigh of relief.

“Best birthday ever,” he yawns out. "I swear, I could never have coffee again if I got to wake myself up between your soft, thick little thighs.”

“You’d never give up coffee for anything,” I laugh. “But nice try, baby.” 

His agreement comes in the form of his body crushing down on mine again, lips pressing into my forehead and then my nose and then my lips. “Don't go to work today,” he practically begs. “Stay in bed with me and don't worry about fungus or bacteria or temperatures or anything.”

He knows as well as I do that it doesn’t work like that and I tell him so, squeezing my legs tighter around his waist as I do just before reminding him that I should get up and shower and get ready for the day.

“Don’t shower,” he says on a smile, watching me crawl out from beneath him and head towards the bathroom. “Don’t wash me off of you,” he pleads. "Don't wash me out of you, Alison.” 

I’m losing my fucking mind today.

Everything is so much worse and only getting more fucked up by the second.

We down several nurses because of fever and the doctors can’t keep up; I’ve only passed by Drea and others, the only form of communication passing our lips being yelling until our throats are raw as every floor of the hospital is bending to respond to this.

Our last pandemic response training was last year and it feels like those protocols don’t even fucking matter here, everything is changing by the minute and I can’t even catch a break to hear Joel’s or Sarah’s voices.

We didn't even tell Sarah what’s going on, we’ve just been covering up my stress and the change in diet with excuses of death and Atkins which she knows is bullshit. She has to. She’s not stupid and the moment Tommy suggested he was going to follow that diet because a girl he liked was doing it, I tore him up one side and down the other for talking that trash in front of Sarah; for encouraging her to keep him accountable.

I’d screamed at him that the brain needs carbs to survive and pushing that shit on a teenage girl who’s still growing showed he didn’t have much left so he needed to be careful that he didn’t lose the rest.

But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about any of it—to scare her. Joel agreed to play forgetful about grabbing ingredients; the pancake mix; the cake mix. He promised she wouldn’t think much of it from him because he does that sometimes and she understands things have been insane with the business.

Around six, they ask if I can stay for a few hours beyond my shift. They don’t care that it’s my last day, they don’t care that I’m supposed to say goodbye. They’re down several pairs of hands and fucking scrambling and are promising me triple overtime if I stay for a few more hours. 

I think of Joel saying he doesn’t care about the fucking money but I can’t say no to this. Not when regular overtime is time and a half and they’re offering me triple that. They intentionally schedule me off on holidays so they don’t have to pay me or Drea the time and a half and they’re offering me triple. That’s over a hundred dollars for every hour past my twelve that I stay—I can’t say no to that.

With that information, I take the break I haven’t been allowed since I walked onto the floor and duck into the break room with my phone pressed to my ear.

It doesn’t take several redials this time, he picks up on the first ring with an apology that he’s not home yet; he’s working a double on his fucking birthday because they’re down several pairs of hands as well and he’s on the same page with me about money. We’re more than fine to get the business going, to last us through vacation and unemployment and getting supplies and payroll started on building a crew but we want to make sure it stays more than fine. 

Emergencies crop up all the time, especially with kids, and neither of us want to be caught fully off guard.

“I'll be home late,” both of us say at once. 

“Please don’t wait for me to open your presents,” I whisper down the line. “Maybe drop by the store and grab some ice cream, baby, she really had her heart set on a cake and I feel bad.”

“Y'all got me presents?” He asks, ignoring the request. “You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Joel,” I laugh out. “We don’t ever have to do anything, we do it because we love you so accept that or I’m kicking your ass.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees, accent low and drawn out. “I can’t stop thinking about this morning.” I can practically feel the grip of his hand on my hip as the plastic of the phone creaks beneath it now. “Every time somebody says some dumb shit, I just keep thinking about how you looked so fucking angelic on top of me this morning; keep wondering if I’m still in you.” 

“How many people are around you right now, Joel Alexander?”

“None,” he says and I can hear that cocky ass smile in his voice. “We’re down several hands, remember?”

When I don’t say anything he whistles out for my attention, asks me where my head is at. Truth be told, my head is filled with the sad excuse for breathing I’ve been hearing all day but his deep voice is doing its best to overtake that.

“Yeah,” I tell him, heat flooding up my face. “You are.” 

“I adore every fucking part of you.” He sounds far away and I know where his mind is again, thinking about where he’ll be in the morning and tomorrow and the day after that.

“Don't operate power tools when you’re thinking with your other head,” I remind him. “It's way too busy in here for me to stitch your fucking face back together, you’ll have to wait a lot longer than three fucking hours and you’ll be lucky to get a cubicle because I’m doing most of my job in the hallway today.”

He laughs and I hear Tommy in the background making fun of the bright red of Joel’s cheeks, asking if he’s talking to his pretty girl and just what the fuck is she saying to make him look like that. “I love you, PG,” he says. “I'll see you at home.” 

My extra hours are more than just a few and I am close to giving out, especially with the way these patients are behaving.

Maybe I should’ve milked the panic attacks like Joel asked me to, maybe I shouldn't have ever come back. Maybe I should’ve ate the fucking vacation pay just to stay in bed with him.

This level of aggression is too much to handle. These patients are angry and they are taking it out on the people trying to help them, unimpressed with the answer that we barely know what's going on either and trying to take our masks off because god forbid they’re not getting a smiling face in their bedside service from the nurses providing care on the vinyl flooring.

It’s eleven when I’m done for good, pulling off my gloves and telling the people in charge that I can’t do anymore. Two months ago, I was coddled with broken ribs and a bruised neck insisting that I didn’t need a CT scan and that there was no chance I was pregnant after one patient attacked me. Now I’ve spent the day getting kicked and hit and bitten like I’m working a shift on the fucking psychiatric floor and even that wasn’t the final straw. 

I'm still wiping the spit off my face when the first cramp hits my stomach, doubled over with a cough crawling up the length of my throat and I want to scream.

Hours in this fucking bright light bullshit and I was about to get a break.

A real one—a good one.

The one that I fucking deserve and earned in years of razor thin PTO and overworking myself to the bone just to not think about a singular goddamn thing—including how my life could be good and what a future might look like for me beyond just being the reliable friend who spends her nights alone if she spends them out of the hospital at all.

They didn’t want to pay me for the holidays but I still took them, happily snatching shifts from working parents so they could spend Christmas with their babies and now I understand why they gave up that money. Because their kids aren’t going to care about the fucking money when they’re older, they’ll just remember if mom or dad weren’t home when they were wanted and I stayed here for money instead of going home where I was wanted by a man who meant nothing to me this time last year and the daughter he insists might as well be mine, too.

My entire life and priorities have changed in nine months.

It happens all the time like that. 

Only nine months is needed to make a family; except mine didn’t really come with a physical gestational period and my baby isn't a baby at all but a fourteen year old girl looking up to a thirty year old woman the way I was at her age.

I can’t bring this home to her—I will not put her at risk.

Coughing again, I pick up the phone and dial his number, hoping he’s home. Somebody should be with her, he should’ve opened his presents. I hope he bought her ice cream.

“Hey,” his sleepy voice comes through the receiver. “I was just about to call you, I thought you’d be home by now.”

“I can’t come home, Joel.”

He’s shaking his head because I know the sounds that accompany the movement so well by now—the deep sigh; the covered eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm coughing,” I tell him. “One of the patients pulled my mask off, spit in my face, and now I’m coughing and my stomach is cramping and I know my immune system is weak because I’ve barely eaten a damn thing all day, Joel, I am running on fucking fumes and I am coughing.”

“I need you to come home right now,” he says, voice stern and commanding. “I'm coming to get you.” 

“Don't you dare,” I tell him. “I have the apartment until November, I’ll sleep there.”

“We have a flight at fucking five in the morning, Alison.”

“Listen to me, Joel,” I beg. “The incubation period on this is so quick that it’s almost fucking negligent so I will still be in Wyoming with you and Sarah but I am not making that flight, okay?”

“Then we’ll all take another—“

I feel the frustration of exhaustion and hunger and fear rising up in me and I don’t want to yell. I don’t want to yell because it’s not conducive to this conversation but also because it hurts. “Joel,” I interrupt on a deep breath, “please do me a favor and go on to Wyoming, I will call the airline and have my ticket switched to tomorrow night, I just need to make sure I don’t develop a fever, okay?” I know I’m begging him but I don't know what else to do. “If I don’t develop a fever then this cough is from a long day with nothing in my stomach and the cramps are likely from that, too, just—“ Another deep breath as I concentrate through another cramp, my stomach rolling in desperation for something other than air and bile to be combined in the bottom. “I love you and I will see you tomorrow.”

Joel releases a hard breath and I know his head has fallen back into the couch, probably pressed his fingers to his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up further so he can better comprehend. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he repeats. “You promise that?” He laughs and I can feel him trying to lighten the mood; my tears; his frustration. “You sure this isn’t your way of finally telling me to fuck off, sweetheart?”

“You're fucking stuck with me,” I reassure him. “Both of you.”

He hums his approval and my heart breaks because I wish I could feel the vibrations of that sound through his body and on my lips at his throat as it pushes out of his mouth. I could be home with him right now, making him make those noises out of pleasure instead of his response to how I comfort all of his fears. Because that’s what it is, when he asked me. It was fear—it always is. Fear that I am going to leave him, that every goodbye will be the last and I’ll disappear just like the last one did and the wife he had before that.

“Is she there?” I ask him, one arm slung low across my abdomen as I sit in the car waiting to hear both of their voices so I can start it, wishing it was home that I could go to because my bed at the apartment isn’t mine anymore. It’ll feel like being sick in a hotel room except this one will be filled with boxes of donations and not a bit of food in the cabinets. “Can I talk to her?”

“She's here,” he yawns out. “But I’m a fucking dick and got home real late so she’s asleep with her cute little head tucked up against my thigh and I would wake her up for you but—“

“You wanna savor your little girl still being a little girl and feeling safe with you,” I finish for him, his laughter following only to ask if he sounds completely fucking pathetic. “You are so far from pathetic,” I tell him. “You really are the best man I’ve ever known, Joel Miller.” 

“Pig shit,” he breathes out. “God, I miss you already and I know what your motivation is behind this but I’m almost willing to risk it just to feel you next to me tonight.” 

“I'm not.”

“I know," he says. “It's why I'm not pressuring you and I told Sarah we have to wear masks on the plane tomorrow and at the airport.”

“Please.”

Several beats stretch between us, silent and comfortable even through the telephone until sirens cut cleave through that peace to announce yet another arrival to an already overflowing sick ward.

“I love you,” I tell him again. “Now that I’ve said it, it’s so hard to stop and I wish I’d done it sooner,” I say. “I wish I’d done it the moment I met you but you probably wouldn’t have come back until I gave you my coffee order and you definitely wouldn’t have sat in my car with me acting like we’ve known each other all our lives a whole week later.” 

“It was two,” he laughs. “Your math is shit and you’re wrong as hell, because I saw those big hazel eyes and wanted nothing but to be near you all the time so I need you to go rest and feel better and get your cut little ass to Wyoming tomorrow afternoon because I need you there with me; I have plans.”

“Plans?” I ask, pushing the fallen tears I hope he can’t hear away from my eyes. "What plans?”

“You'll just have to find out,” he grins out. “Won't you?”

Taking a deep breath, I call him back from the edge of all his jokes and that same stupid charm he swears only Tommy has. “I know Sarah’s asleep, but can you do something for me?”

“What's that, sweetheart?”

“Tell her I love her.” 

Author's Note:

I started writing this story in December after I had been laid off from my job. I never thought it was a story that many would like beyond my own small group of friends and to say that I have been overwhelmed and that I am so grateful by the response and the very kind words feels like it's a misrepresentation because I seriously stare at some of these comments sometimes and I just think to myself, "That's the nicest thing I've ever read." So thank you all for being the nicest people in the whole wide world and sticking with me through this story. I was so close to beginning the story with a note above January that said, 'This is not a love story.' For me, it's not. It's just a story about love - self, familial, platonic, romantic - revolving around two people forming all of those bonds with one another but also the bonds they're building with the others in each other's lives. I don't know if any of that makes sense but I'm so excited that I get to end this the way that I planned.

But this is not The End.

#fu k yea #joel and alison sitting in a tree #i love them

[darnitdraco]

That's A Real Fucking Legacy: The Lips I Used to Call Home

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/former Tommy Miller x f!reader Word Count: 1392 Warnings: I don't think there are any (let me know if I'm wrong). Author's Note: Title longer than a Fall Out Boy song.

That's A Real Fucking Legacy Masterlist

Calling Boston to Wyoming a quick shot straight through would be laughable. It would’ve been laughable in the before but it is definitely laughable now.

But to do this with a baby?

It’s not just laughable, it’s a goddamn death wish. 

The only way she’s calmest is wrapped up against her daddy’s chest, his large arms folded over her small body. It leaves him unable to do much else but it’s also the only way his own fear leaves his eyes.

There’s luck in the Fireflies, though.

Safe house to safe house, vehicle to vehicle. There’s no thick, rotten scent of the infected near until somewhere in Kansas City. 

He feels useless, like he’s unable to protect the baby or you or anybody else. But despite stewing about sitting in the safe house with you and the baby, he does express happiness over the first alone time you’ve shared in about three weeks. 

“You should be sleeping, sweetheart,” he says, his voice laced through with a tone that says it’s not a suggestion. “You need your strength.” 

The season is giving over from late summer to early fall, every day changing hour by hour with the walking and the driving. It was easy in the QZ, year by year. You knew what to expect, how to rest your body—you could seek rest for your body when you needed. 

You need it so much more every day with the way the weather and the travel is going after your body followed by the stress of it all; the complex emotions this entire ordeal is brought on.

This was never a hope in your mind; leaving, going. Your eyes rolled every time Tommy talked about leaving the QZ, it was the subject of so many fights. He believed there was better and you only believed there was death beyond the walls of FEDRA protection. The longer time stretched on after he left, the more steadfast that belief came to the point that you shook with sobs and fear every time Joel made his trips across to trade.

“I'm fine, really.” 

The bed beneath you isn’t what you’d call comfortable, not in the before times at least and definitely not in comparison to the worn in lump you were used to back in Boston. You’ve been laying together since the moment you settled into the safe house, everybody else going out to clear paths for the trucks to get through.

Baby babbles through sleep in her father’s arms beside you, not once have you called her by the name you ended up giving her. Not since he showed up. And the belief that beyond the walls means death is so hardwired into your body and brain that you can’t find it in you to sleep. That’s why he’s talking about your strength, sneaks you bits of his own rations. 

You’re still breastfeeding, as well. When you can, anyway. It’s been harder on the road and the lack of any real privacy isn’t helping. No matter how he tries to shield your body, the awareness that there’s not just eyes but Tommy’s eyes is enough to run every part of you dry and cold even if it’s getting hotter and more humid with every day you pass into the south.

“You look like shit, sweetheart,” he whispers across the small space between your bodies. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re afraid to sleep.” 

“Yeah,” you tell him, eyes darting down to your daughter between you. “I am.” 

“I’m right here,” he says, hand smoothing down the hair at the crown of your head. “It’s okay, please rest.” 

They’re gone when you wake.

It's just you in a cold and empty bed, a threadbare excuse for a blanket draped over your sleeping body along with his jacket. Alarm bells go off in your brain and then you hear the voices in the next room.

Joel’s.

Baby’s.

Tommy’s. 

Nobody else, just them.

“She has your dimples.” Tommy.

There’s a small laugh and then Joel says he’s glad she got them on both sides, not just the one. 

Tommy’s voice is tired, weather worn and rough from strain. Not how he sounded this morning when he left.

There’s a hunger in your stomach, growing and aching loud but it stops with every word spoken between the men you love that filters through the thin walls and half cracked door.

“How is she really?” Tommy asks. “Joel, I still love her—“

“How? How can you still love her when you left her alone for so long?” 

“How could I ask either of you to come with me if I didn’t?”

There’s an annoyed kind of grumble that could only belong to Joel and then silence that stretches on just long enough to make you think there’s space to move forward into the conversation but then it breaks. 

“I wouldn’t say that she’s good, Tommy.” You can hear the way his leg bounces to entertain the baby. “None of us are good anymore but, my God, she’s fucking amazing.”

“Yeah?”

Joel clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Do you love her?” The younger man asks. 

A beat.

Another. 

Two more.

“I feel a whole lot more for that woman than just love, Tommy,” he finally says. “I know you’re hurting but you have to understand that I—we thought that you were dead. She hurt for a long time and I watched her do that and I did my best to be there for her but—“ Baby babbles to interrupt him and you can practically see the smile in the laughter that follows. 

Those feelings, the existence of them, aren’t new to you. Still, every time he insinuates their existence your head gets light—fuzzy and warm.

“But what, Joel?” Tommy prompts him. “I’m trying to understand this, because I want to not hurt and I want to look at this little girl and not want to cry.”

“Yeah.” A chair creaks and you assume somebody sat forward or back. “I want to look at her and not want to cry, too, but I felt that with Sarah—I feel that with you, Tommy, you might as well have been my first kid sometimes. It wasn’t just me that was there for her through all that hurt over those years, she was there for me and refused to let me pull away. Being with her is the closest I feel to who I was before, I need you to understand that.” 

“That's how she made me feel, too,” Tommy responds. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever really understand.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Joel concedes. “Hell, that’s more than fair, you’re probably really sick of us asking you to understand. Can I have Baby back now?”

Confusion floods through you, you were certain the calm, happy babbles were because she was tucked into her daddy’s arm; bouncing on her daddy’s leg.

“Does she have a name?” Tommy asks. “Or have you just been calling her Baby this whole time? I know you’re afraid to get attached, Joel, but—“

“We named her Thomasin,” Joel says, that stern, warning shot in his tone again. Begging his brother to understand this, that this was the honor you could give his memory—that you named what was born out of grief and love for him after him. “We call her Thomi for short but we’ve been thinking about changing it. We figured it would make you uncomfortable.” 

“No,” Tommy answers. “No, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” 

Hunger grows loud again but so, too, does the blood rush of his words up your neck, into your cheeks and between your ears. For all the tears and all the yelling and the hurt of fresh cuts on closed wounds his arrival brought back into your life, those are the words of the man you once loved. It has been weeks and he is holding her, speaking about her—about you—so gently. Despite saying he doesn’t understand, it’s there in his voice and lacing through every one of his words and it grows stronger each day closer to Jackson.

“I promised her that I’d come back for her, give her a safer and happier life that she deserves,” Tommy starts again. “I’m heartbroken that it won’t be with me, Joel, but I am glad it’s with you.” 

#the last little bit there did me in

[darnitdraco]

❕❗️ yall im in love again, feeling all the emotions actually

That's a Real Fucking Legacy: To Leave

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!reader/former Tommy Miller x F!Reader Word Count: 2.1+ Warnings: Bad words. Relationship problems. Suicide/death/blood mentions. Author's Note: The previous one was supposed to be a one shot with this tacked on to the end. When I was writing the other day, my brain said, 'no, just post it now,' so I did. The response was very overwhelming and kind. I hope this part lives up to expectations. Where the first part focused heavily on Joel's confrontation with Tommy and his relationship with reader, this one focuses on reader's confrontation with Tommy and her relationship with Joel.

Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates (if you'd like).

Masterlist | Taglist Sign Up | ← Part I

Two brothers—one giant fucking mess.

Their lives, long before this one, were always bloody too.

Fist fights and war zones and broken noses and bullet holes.

So many bullet holes.

So many bullets.

You stopped being afraid of the actual monsters long ago; when people showed you that they were capable of being so much worse than just ripping one another apart.

But that day, that last little faith you had in anything is dissolved as Tommy’s fist cracked into Joel’s cheek.

He didn’t come in, just knocked Joel back a few paces and looked at you like you’d shredded him far worse than any bullet or bloater that ever looked his way.

Then, again, it was just you and Joel and the baby.

Baby, that’s all Joel called her in the aftermath of it.

Baby, he’d say followed by the suggestion that you should really discuss changing the name.

Everything was silent after that.

No gunshots outside, no knocks at the door.

No bullshit for days.

Joel pressed hasty kisses into you in the early morning light, two fingers pushed deep inside of you and encouraging, praising little words falling from his mouth into yours. 

It’s been days of his quiet observance to your routine. How you behave; how you react; how you nurture his little girl. 

He’d held you that night, long after you cleaned him up, and just let you cry against his thick, broad chest. Not once did he ask to know who your tears were for or what they represented. 

Now, though, he’s pressing himself against you and fortifying all his lost strength and the hastily put together pieces of his heart with the soft cries you give back out to him. 

The knock comes just as you’re about to; hard knuckles hitting the door while Joel’s buried up to his between your legs.

“Ignore it,” he whispers. “They’ll fuck off, you’re so close.”

Nodding your head, you cover his hand with yours and push further as he encourages you more and more.

“Come on, sweetheart, come on”—another knock—“FUCK!” 

Joel pulls himself from you and stands, sucking his thumb and then each thick digit into his mouth afterwards as he walks towards the door.

“Who is it?”

“Tommy.” 

Joel looks back, a question in his eyes but you’re already pulling pants on as you come around to the table. Something tells you that Tommy expected you to follow him out the door, explain yourself and beg him to come back to just talk.

As much as you love him—loved him—your family now needed you in that moment. You owed him nothing.

Still, as the door swung open, he looked at you like you did.

“Am I interrupting something?” He asks, eyes going from Joel’s shirtless figure to your half dressed one.

“And if you were?” Joel asks. 

“Baby.”

“Baby?” Tommy pulls back like he’s been slapped, like he has a right. “So I go to find us a better chance at life and you jump in bed with my fucking brother first thing?” 

“First of all, you’re gonna keep your fucking voice down,” Joel says, pulling his brother into the room. “Our daughter is still asleep and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Your daughter,” he says, like he still can’t believe it, looking from Joel to you and back. “The daughter that should be mine.”

“Should be,” you agree. “Could’ve been, would’ve been.” Your arms are crossed over your chest. There’s an aching deep in you that you’ve been trying to keep in since the moment you saw him.

“You left,” you remind him. “I waited for you, Tommy, there was no first thing.”

The baby cries and Joel moves instinctively towards her along with Tommy’s gaze. 

Tears roll easily down his cheeks, caught in the gray hairs of his overgrown facial hair. “I fucking radio’d,” he says on a step forward. “Marlene was supposed to tell you, she was supposed to keep you informed.”

“The only thing that bitch and the Fireflies did was take you away from me followed by any sense of fucking safety I held onto—or did you not see the fucking spray paint and the lack of a goddamn floor?” 

Another step forward, closer now and he looks the same but so different. Cold paled golden skin with freckles joined by sunspots blossoming in random, beautiful patterns. 

There is gray streaked through his curls—his thick mustache. 

His face is longer than Joel’s, chest somehow thicker with a rounded out barrel shape and you remember sleeping on it. Pressing your ear to the flat plain beneath his pecs and hearing his heart beat steady. There was comfort in those moments, safety and stability in an unsafe and unstable world. Now you lay your head on Joel and he gives you the same. Sometimes, you even think he gives you more.

Your grief is churning again, painful and ruinous. Because this man in front of you was supposed to be dead. After years with nothing, he comes back now. After years of grieving for him, keening for him in those confines of those walls and these ones. He looks at you like he has all the rights to the hurt that he caused; like he can come in here and take from you the very thing he put into your hands.

Crimson blushes up to the tips of his ears beneath all these things you say to him, held back by Joel’s strong arms.

“Don't you dare stand there and feel sorry for yourself, Tommy; don’t you stand there and blame your brother or me or my fucking daughter for the shit that you did.” 

“Do you love him?” He asks, eyes squinting like he’s studying you—picking you apart like all those nights just so he can see how it all fits back together again. He doesn’t know, he never will again—not the way he did.

You shrug. “What the fuck is love anymore, Tommy?”

Covering his face, he pushes the tears away and runs his hand down the length of his beard. “When you look at that little girl”—he points to Baby in Joel’s arms—“what do you feel?”

He is looking for love but that’s not the answer. When you look at your daughter, there is so much more than that within you. There is love, yes, but there is also fear; pride; strength; weakness. All in beautiful, bruised violet tones that live just beneath your surface.

This feeling does not paint with the same brush as love because there is no brush for this; no clear picture to be made because all it does is grow and bleed and seep far beyond whatever edges you thought existed. It cannot be contained, there is no neat little box for it to fit inside of.

Joel, too.

It is the same for him but more. More than a need to protect and care for and nurture but there is a warmth within it all for this man who puts on such a cold mask. Do you love him? No.

There is so much more than that inside of you for your family.

Obligation. Bloody—blood bound—and waiting to be broken. Ready to do whatever it takes.

“I thought you were dead,” you tell him. “I waited so long for you and I never heard a goddamn thing.” Saltwater cuts into your words and and Joel’s broad body cuts into the frame of your vision. “I loved you, Tommy,” you continue. “I loved you and then I hated you and then I mourned for you and then I loved you again. 

You walked away and took my whole life with you, you took that love and you took your laughter and your guitar and your singing and all the things that made me feel like a person. You know? I had something and somebody to come home to, I had a reason to keep going through the motions of every single fucking day in this shit hole that we call a world now, Tommy. I had you and I loved you and that love—that connection—made me feel like a fucking human being again.” 

“Are you done?” He asks. “Are you done blaming me?”

The hold has on your hip tightens, those fingers curled into your skin at the edge of your jeans. Joel’s looking down his nose at you, this man with all his height and all his strength, with terror half in his eyes. Because he knows by now, he realizes, the last few years have made you stronger than he is—tougher. Diligent and resilient and half feral with anger bottled up close to your chest just waiting to be uncapped.

“I’m not blaming you, Tommy,” you tell him. “I’m thanking you. The love that I had for you was so pure and unbridled and the closest to the before that I have ever known. I would have gone with you, I would have bled for you. But you took the coward’s way out—“ 

“That's not what I did—“ 

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy, that is exactly what you did and you know it. You left with some excuse about wanting better for me.”

The tears in my voice are nothing compared to the ones on his face, sitting there and taking this—so different from the man he once was to you. The man that ached to argue and debate. He never could do that with you, though. He never had a reason to until now. “I did want better for you, I do still.”

Your hands rise in gesture of the walls around you. “This is it, Tommy,” you say. “You leaving me took all the breath out of my lungs, I thought I was fucking dying and my only hope was that your death was a lot quicker than the one I was experiencing.”

“Neither of us are dead, though,” Tommy says.

“No,” you agree. “Neither of us are dead but I wasn’t living for a long time, I didn’t want to. I would’ve bled for you, Tommy. I would’ve followed you anywhere but for them”—you look from Tommy to Joel and your daughter in his arms—“I would die for these two and that’s why I’m still alive so do what you’re good at and get the fuck out of my house.”

Joel’s hands are wrapped around your one, pulled to his lips over and over again. “I talked to Tommy.”

“Cool.”

His jaw clenches and the grip he has on your hand tightens slightly. “I know you’re hurting, sweetheart, but I think he kind of gets it. He’s not mad at you—me. He told me about where he went, where he wants to take you.”

“Oh? So, what? You made some fucking trade for me? Giving over the baby and the life that he could’ve had? Starting everything for your brother only to come in in the middle and leave when it gets too hard for him again?” 

Joel’s head shakes, pain in those big, brown eyes. “He helped set up a city out in Wyoming, they’ve got electricity, water—food, baby. A life, a real one. Clean and safe.”

“What do you want from me?” You ask. “How do you want me to react? How fantastic for him that he has a real life, baby.”

He swipes a thumb across the swell of your cheek and makes those same soothing sounds he gives over so easily to Baby at the first sign of any kind of distress. “He wants us to go back with him, sweetheart.” 

Huffing a laugh, you ask him why the fuck he’d want to do that. “Some unburdening of his fucking soul for what he thinks he left me to the last time? He took my life and gave me two more.”

“He still loves you, sweetheart, and he wants the best for you whatever you may decide that means. He told me he figured you’d moved on when he got nothing back, that’s what he had to hold onto to not think the worst because Marlene just kept saying she couldn’t find you.”

Couldn’t find me, sure.

Hopefully she found what she was looking for when she destroyed your apartment. She’s just as responsible for this new life, these new loves and hurts, of yours as he is—maybe more so.

“So what do you think we should do, huh?” You ask. “It's a long fucking way to Wyoming from Boston, Joel.”

“Yeah.” Your hair is wrapped around his finger again, body so closely leaned in to yours at the kitchen table. “It only takes one step to leave.” 

[darnitdraco]

Yallllllllll. Please tell me you hate Jenny as much as I do. But Days of you and me? I more than love. Its a very lovely break from the weekly episodes while still giving us Joel™️. Each chapter makes my heart full and bust.

Days of You & Me: May

Word Count: 14.5k+ Warnings: Mental health issues. Body image issues/ED. Food mention. Alcohol consumption. Shitty friends. Our girl goes to therapy. Broken bones. Medical talk. Shitty dad jokes. Anything left off was not intentional. Author's Note: Thank you to @tauralmie and @darnitdraco as well as @marvelousmermaid for being my continuous shoulders to lean on throughout writing this series.

Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates for notifications. You can sign up for my taglist HERE.

Days of You & Me Masterlist | ← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

May 2, 2003:

“What is… this one?” Joel's finger is trailing all over my body, the ghost of his touch moving quickly along the surface of my skin.

Turning my head to the best of my ability, I try to pinpoint exactly where he’s landed, somewhere just along where my back ends and my ass begins. “That would be a chickenpox scar,” I tell him. “Again.” 

It’s near three in the morning and, really, he should be asleep. But the forecast is calling for heavy rains tomorrow so he’s already written off any kind of work. Of course, that could change at the drop of a hat—I told him so. His acknowledgement of that possibility was simply saying he’d do things that didn’t involve power tools. 

But then it started pissing down like the end times while I was still in the shower taking the hospital off and he held tight to his belief that he’d be staying home with me come the morning.

Said you can’t pour concrete on a waterlogged ground.

Then he begged me not to put a shirt on as I dropped the towel, just crawl in bed next to him.

Totally innocent, he promised—and it was.

Until it wasn’t.

Now he’s sat up with tired eyes exploring my body beneath the soft lamplight; asking about all the scars he’s only ever touched but never knew the meaning of.

So far he’s found three chickenpox scars.

“You fucking rule breaker, baby,” he says as he traces the outline of the depressed shape permanently held by my skin. “A whole ass healthcare professional going after the one thing you’re not supposed to scratch.”

“I wasn’t a goddamn healthcare professional in the seventies, Joel, I was a child.”

“Ooh, you’re fucking cranky, PG,” he breathes out. “You gotta stop having these split shifts on top of doubles, you’re so mean to me. It’s very surprising behavior from you.”

“What's surprising is that you don’t know the United States stopped requiring the smallpox vaccine in ’72,” I tell him, still amused by his shock that I don’t have a scar on my arm that matches the one on his.

Shrugging to the best of his ability, he tells me, “I was a child.”

The forecast held true, it looked like half the Gulf of Mexico was being dumped on the entirety of Austin right now.

Joel explained that even without the rain, the lightning would be enough to cancel the work. So, either way, he would’ve been here with me and poking me in the ribs until I woke up.

Which would be fine, if he didn’t keep me up until just around four hours ago looking over every inch of my body like he’d never seen it before. Because all the times we’ve spent together naked in his bed or mine has been in dim light with tired eyes and shaking hands because we’d both been holding onto nerves about the other. 

After last week, though, I don’t think I’ll ever shake for him again—at least not with nerves.

He categorized every inch of me, delicately traced the edges of the scars he found and asked for the stories behind them. My ankle; bike accident. My knee; soccer accident. My back, upper arm and lower belly; chickenpox. The faint white lines on my upper thighs; my attempt at hurting myself because the girls at school said it would help.

His brown eyes fell into something sad and even if he tried to school his face against it, he really couldn’t shake it.

Then it was my freckles.

Then it was the small stretch marks that grew as I did against the disease in my head.

After that, he sat on his knees directly in front of me—looking down at me—and took me in only to describe it all to me. Naked against the dark sheets of his bed; exhausted but blissed out and begging for him to come sleep.

He wasn’t next to me when I woke up but he is now, coffee in hand and asking if I want bacon.

“Sarah get to school okay?”

He laughs. “No, she’s passed out, I let her play hooky too.”

“How did that play over?” You ask him. “You know how serious she is about school, baby, she probably had a test today.”

“Eh, she’ll make it up,” he says. “Give me something stupid to use as an excuse, if I say she got another cold, the school might send Texas CPS.”

I ask if he uses that excuse a lot and he blushes up to his ears.

“Okay so, the school isn’t gonna send Texas CPS for a weakened immune system and frequent colds but—“

“It's so hot when you go into nurse mode.” 

Apologies follow as I follow him down the stairs, eyes cast down to focus on my foot placement and he begs me to continue.

“But, if the school does send Texas CPS, all they’re gonna do is check to make sure you have food and running water, baby, they’re fucking useless.” 

His hands go up to his heart as he reaches the bottom step and his head falls back like he’s been struck, body turning towards me with dopey eyes. “It's hotter when you call authority bullshit, Alison.” 

“Anyway, tell them the rain hitting the pollen made her allergies act up and she had trouble sleeping so you didn’t think school would be a good idea. That’s it, they don’t need to know she watched shitty action movies with her dad and his girlfriend all day.” 

A shiver runs down his spine at that word, crooked smile splitting his face as he runs a hand through his unbrushed hair. It’s a word that usually comes out of his mouth but, when I say it—or anybody else does—he gets this giddy look like he’s been given lottery tickets with all winning numbers. 

Tommy’s voice came through the phone one day, saying he must be talking to his girlfriend since he was kicking his feet up and twirling his hair and I haven’t been able to unsee it since.

After breakfast, through lunch, we did watch action movies. As many as he felt he could fit into the day with the windows open and the sound of the rain coming in over the grunts and groans of bloodied men saving the world.

Until the sound was only rain and hushed voices, an entire day wasted away with junk food and the television—Sarah and I intermittently taking naps tucked up against Joel’s body.

There’s only a blanket wrapped around me now, legs stretched out across the couch and a pillow beneath my head instead of his arm.

Part of me feels bad that I’m hardly at the apartment anymore. Joel’s even started calling it our sex getaway; the place where we can be obvious and loud and naked all throughout. I only really stay there when he’s staying there with me, which is increasing in frequency.

I asked him if I was taking him away from time with Sarah, told him that he should be prioritizing her. He told me he was. Said that all anybody could tell him was that it takes a village to raise a baby and he was utilizing his. He had Tommy, he had neighbors, he had Sarah’s friends whose parents he trusted. 

Still, even if we want to be near each other, I want him to be available for her. Even if Tommy is her emergency contact, it just makes more sense to me that we’re here instead of there.

Plus, I like the life in his walls; the laughter. I like the pictures of his family and how he and Sarah have grown throughout the years.

The house itself feels safe, too. I can sleep even when he’s not beside me, I’m not getting up and pacing to tire myself back out or otherwise waiting to get ready for work.

There’s also the issue of work—or the lack of it.

Not exactly the lack but, maybe, just so different that it feels like it. I have been pulling doubles and triples. I still haven’t told Joel that it’s because I’m trying to see if there’s another floor in the hospital I could fit into. So far, I haven’t really felt like I belong in any of them. No real chaos to take up all the mental real estate I’m trying to fill That’s the lack of work—the lack of chaos. All these hours and everything is still empty enough for overthinking.

Going to find their voices, my ears lead my feet into his office where Joel’s sat at the computer and turned to Sarah, who’s tucked into one of the arm chairs.

“There's my chainsaw.” His voice raises from a whisper as he sits back in his chair, thick arms crossing his broad chest. “I was so close to coming to wake you up but Sarah told me not to until the pizza gets here.”

“Pizza?”

“I bullied him,” Sarah says, following up with the fact that it’s not from the place that made her sick. Then she bounces up and says something about a shower, wanting to be able to eat and continue watching movies uninterrupted until the early morning hours.

He takes her spot in the chair as she leaves, holding out his arms as her footsteps disappear up the stairs. 

“So,” he starts, arms folding around me as I tuck myself into him. “I was thinking that tomorrow we could go out and figure out a suit for me for this wedding.”

Right.

The wedding.

The wedding full of people who hate a man they don’t even know.

“Why don’t we hold off on that, Joel?” I ask him. “Let's just stay in tomorrow until they inevitably, you know, call me into work for something.”

His eyebrows knit up. “Everything good, PG?” 

Twisting a curl around my finger, I focus on the movement as he prompts me again. I didn’t tell him about the brunch, I didn’t want to. It has to be enough I’ve started opening up about the shit in the hospital, he can separate himself from it to a degree. At least, that’s what he promised me.

There’s no separating himself from this, though. This is about him and I want to protect him from it. He works so hard, he’s so good.

He’s so good to me, even when I feel like I don’t deserve it. He doesn’t need to know that people think the opposite based on nothing, it’s not fair—that all these girls could do was make false allegations because of the height of my neckline.

“Hey.” He pulls me back to him. “Where the fuck is your head, sweetheart?”

Shrugging, I tell him it’s back at my apartment reliving that moment on the couch over and over again.

“Can you fucking wait”—he looks around me to the door of the office—“to make me hard until we’re in bed?”

I’d sat in his lap on occasion before that night but, now, I might as well be permanently attached to him with the way he constantly pulls me down on him. He drops his head into the crook of my neck and pulls me closer, breathes deep.

His hands are squeezing into me, kneading into the meat of my thighs; the curve of my hip. All while he kisses into my neck and face like he hasn’t seen me in years. 

Then the doorbell rings and the water shuts off and he lets out a broken whine like he’s being ripped from the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. I think of how relaxed he looks when he’s with me as he walks from the room; how he actually sits and takes in silent breaths; how I can tell from his facial expressions that he’s actively fighting to shut his brain off.

I keep trying to do the same.

May 7, 2003:

“So,” the brunette woman on the chair across from me pulls her glasses down and looks at her notepad, pen poised at the ready. “Can you state your full name for me?” 

“Uh-um, Alison Summer Murphy.”

“Perfect,” she says, scratching at her blank paper.

I’ve picked the skin of my nails absolutely fucking raw already but sitting here makes me want to go back for more. 

“And does your husband know that you’re here, Alison?”

“I don’t have a husband,” I answer. I think my flat tone lets her know that I’m already close to walking back out and it’s not even been five minutes.

Well, five minutes with her. I spent thirty minutes in the waiting room answering the same goddamn questions.

“I'm sorry, I filled out the intake paper, why do I need to answer these questions again?”

“I'm just trying to get to know you, Alison,” she responds. “Intake paperwork can only tell me so much. I’m asking you these questions because I want to hear how you answer them, not just read. So… no husband. A partner?”

“I have a boyfriend and, uh, no.” This was a mistake. “He doesn’t know I’m here; I don’t want him to.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Is there a reason for that?”

“I just don’t want him to worry about me, he already does so much.” 

“Worries about you how?” She asks. “Is he the reason you’re here?” 

I know the question is meant to be objective but it doesn’t feel like that. Not after the time spent with my friends.

Shaking my head, I tell her no. 

No, Joel doesn’t know I’m here. 

No, Joel is not the reason that I’m here.

I mean, in a way, I guess he is. I don’t say that, though.

And I don’t want him to know that, I don’t want her to know that.

She asks me how sexually active we are; very.

She asks me how often we see each other; every day now.

She asks me if we’ve had any large fights; only when I don’t take care of myself.

Or when I’ve held information that hurts me back from him.

She asks if there’s any information I’ve held back from him recently, if he knows now or if it’s still just with me.

“My friends,” I tell her. “One of them is getting married and she’s made all of these judgments of Joel off of one meeting just based on the way he looks o-or some shit—I don't know.”

“What happened?” 

“At lunch the other day, she pretty much had everybody else convinced and repeating how bad he is for me, alluding to physical and emotional abuse that doesn’t exist.”

"Do you know what made them think that?”

I’m going to hear the scratch of that goddamn pen in my sleep tonight.

“I wore a high neckline,” I shrug. “Or, ya know… high according to them. I didn’t really want my tits out in front of Jenny’s mom, it was a bridal party lunch but… they jumped to conclusions that I was trying to cover up a mark.” 

“Were you?” She asks.

“Yes.” I’m surprised by how casually it comes out. “But only because we had a lot of sex the day before and I’ve been bruising like a goddamn banana lately.”

“And do you think there’s a reason for that?”

“The sex or the banana?”

Considering, she finally asks, “how about both?”

I shouldn’t have come here—I should go.

“The sex is because we’re a newer couple and he hasn't gotten bored of me yet, the banana is because I haven’t really been eating. I haven’t really been doing much of anything that I used to do.” 

She nods, almost like a lightbulb has gone off in her head.

“Your paperwork said you have a history of not eating, that you beat the thoughts in your head once before. Do you have any ideas of what it is that’s agitating that sickness again?”

“Like a flare up?” I ask her.

She nods.

“Dr. Bonner—“

“Julia,” she interrupts me. “Please, this is just a conversation. Our first few sessions will be, actually. While I get to know you. You’ve been in therapy before?” 

Shaking my head, I tell her no. “Not unless you count the revolving door of college interns from my own campus in eating disorder treatment—no.” 

“So, let’s start at the beginning,” she suggests. “You started dating a man—when?”

“January.”

“And what was life like before that?” She asks. “Did you have any flares ups between original treatment and now? When was original treatment?” 

“Seven or eight years ago,” I tell her. “Maybe nine, I don’t remember. No hiccups, nothing like this a-and I can’t let it get to a place where I have to go back into treatment.”

“How did you maintain it between then and now?”

“I-I—“ I’m leaned forward, curled in on myself with my hands clasped between my legs, focusing on the desk behind her stacked with psych books and knickknacks—the DSM-IV held down by a coffee cup like one thousand pages needs a paper weight. “I don’t remember much of what’s been going on.”

“Elaborate on that.”

If I fucking could, I wouldn’t fucking be here.

If my brain had nails, it would be scratching at my skull to leave.

“I don’t know, I was too busy to think about fucking it all up.” 

I have never fucked cried like that in front of another person.

That’s not true, I’ve cried like that in front of Jenny.

My mother.

All Joel’s ever seen are the remnants of tears or the silent ones easily pushed away. He’s never seen me like this but this person has.

A hundred and fifty dollars just to be told it was the upset in my routine, the lack of exhaustion as I allow myself and my body to take time and feel safe, that’s plummeted my weight. I’d already figured that out and it’s not even what I wanted—what I went there for.

Maybe it fucking was, I don’t know. 

She said it was the lack of predictability that has upset how I’ve held onto the success of my initial treatment for so long. That my predictability was to go go go and I used the little time I had off to shop and cook and pack food just to then go to sleep and get ready for more. 

I can’t go home to Joel like this, with this on my mind. 

Even the fucking dress I bought one size lower needed taking in.

When I get him on the phone later, close to ten, his voice is heavy with exhaustion. Another double.

I told him I had the same.

I only had last night in the emergency room, came back to my apartment instead of going to Joel’s so I could shower, do laundry. Maybe get some sleep before I got my head shrinked with no real answers.

“You're not here, I feel weird,” Joel says. “I wonder if any other couple has gone from zero to a hundred this fast.”

“I don’t think we’re at a hundred yet, baby, but I also told you I don’t know if there are any rules to this.”

“How was work today? I wanted to come by between jobs but I just didn’t have time, I’m sorry.” 

“Joel, I didn’t work a double,” I tell him. I could lie but I don’t want to. I hold onto so much already, I don’t want a lie added on top of that pile. “I just told you that, I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” He sits up, I know he does based on how the pillows sound behind him. “What’d you do instead.” 

I can see the gears turning in his head and I wish I was there. I should’ve gone there. I shouldn’t be in this apartment having this conversation only to hang up and know he’s sleeping alone with the fact that I lied to him running on a loop in his dreams. 

Deep breath. “I had a therapy appointment.” I don’t know why I’m terrified of telling him. He said he went with his ex; goes with Sarah sometimes. I think I was just hoping it would have all the answers for me today.

“Oh, and how did that…”

“It was fucking awful, I felt like I was being grilled. I went for one thing and she made it about something else entirely.” 

Pillows shuffle on the other end and he lets out a small sound as he lays back. “What'd you go for?”

“I don’t fucking know.” In the hours since I left, I’ve rubbed the delicate skin of my eyelids raw but I can’t stop making it worse. “To help me with this bullshit I don’t want to bring home to you and Sarah, I think. I don’t want either of you to see me in my bad spots.” 

“There's nothing bad about you, it’s just low and that’s okay. Sarah’s seen me low, too, sweetheart, that’s not what I’m worried about her seeing.” 

Oh.

“What is?” 

A hard breath and he swallows so audibly I know exactly how his throat has moved; how it would feel beneath my touch and my lips. “Can we talk about this when we’re together, Alison?” 

“If you were gonna say you’re worried about her seeing my clothes hang off of me like a skeleton, the therapist was way ahead of you, Joel. She said the lack of predictability in my schedule has screwed everything up.”

“Baby, I want to talk about this when we’re together,” he breathes out. “Just… fuck it—yeah, that’s exactly what I’m worried about her seeing. Are you happy?”

“Do you want me to be?” I ask him, pacing a hole into the carpet of my room. “Do you want me to be happy that I’m doing this shit subconsciously in front of my boyfriend’s impressionable teenage daughter? I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing, Joel,” I tell him. “I have lived on autopilot for almost a decade, baby, and I knew what I was supposed to do and when I was supposed to do it and now, I know what I’m supposed to do but I don’t know how to do it—I can’t figure out how to regulate it back. I can’t figure out how to regulate my moods or my sleep. I’m sorry.”

“Baby,” he whispers. “Alison, honey, take a breath for me.” He waits a beat while I do, his own breathing coming heavily through the receiver. “I'm not mad at you.”

“I went because I wanted to handle shit without making it your shit, too, Joel.” I crawl in bed—my side—and feel that tug of sadness in the pit of my stomach and the back of my head again. We’re fighting and he’s not here. We’ll go to sleep in separate beds having fought. We’ll wake up tomorrow without each other with the memory of this being in our minds. I don’t know if there are any rules to this shit, I’d probably operate a lot better if there were. I’d know what to do; how to act. “I’m sorry, Joel,” I tell him again. “Part of me feels like I should've just kept the lie going until tomorrow.”

“And then where would we be?” He asks. “You went there because you said you want to feel better, baby, you don’t want to put your shit on my shit. Newsflash, Alison, your shit is all mixed up with my shit. You sleep in my bed more than your own, you care about my family as if they’re your own.”

He tells me he loves me, that he is anything but mad at me and he understands why I would keep this from him. But I need to stop telling him not to worry about me because he's going to and that’s just what I signed up for.

“Maybe you should’ve made that a little clearer in the contract,” I suggest through tears. Again, only the silent kind that can be easily brushed away.

Joel laughs, genuinely for the first time tonight. “I’ll have my lawyer add that in when it comes time for renewal,” he breathes out. “But I need you to stop apologizing to me, I’m not mad at you.”

“But—“

“Yeah, I’m sorry I raised my voice.” He didn’t. “But my daughter loves you and she looks up to you, Alison, and I know that is a lot of pressure to put on you but you really did know what you signed up for there.” I did. 

Drea said it was a different kind of responsibility. A different kind of heartbreak.

“Look,” he continues, asking for my attention on him as if I can meet those soft brown eyes in real time. “Please don’t ever feel like you have to lie to me or hold things back from me, the point of a relationship is to lean on one another—”

“I'm doing a whole lot of leaning.”

“So? A time will come when I will, too,” he says. “Hell, you met me when I didn’t have a nose, remember? I very vividly recall you carefully reattaching it and, you can fucking laugh at me all you want to but, that is exactly the moment I fell in love with you. Because you were kind and careful and funny and you called my brother on his shit and looked like a half electrocuted angel while you did—so I decided to take a chance. Now look at us.” 

I am lost in all the things that he’s saying to me, my exhaustion catching up on the timbre of his voice. We are on opposite sides of the telephone and it’s only been a few months, but I can’t sleep alone anymore. Not really.

Except… yes, I can. 

Just not here.

No matter how many doors and floors separate me from the outside, I sleep alone in a space that wakes me up to walk in circles all throughout the night. Because even if I’m safe, I don’t feel safe. That’s never been the case, no matter how true it is.

Because this place may be mine but I don’t know how to make it mine, I’ve never known. My college dorm room was bland because I grew up in a room decorated with posters of The Beatles and David Cassidy and Sonny & Cher. Just a scared little girl raising a scared little girl. 

There are elements of my personality here; my books and my puzzles and a small movie collection. Small decorations call various surfaces home and there is color in every room. But it feels cold, it feels unintentional and unloved—out of place. Lately, I’ve found myself picking up more things from here and finding that they very easily fit there with him—as do I.

Safely. 

Peacefully.

Beside him or alone in bed; sharing the space of the kitchen together and those silent moments where I feel like I can just be.

May 8, 2003: 

The door’s open.

Rather, it’s opening. 

But by the time I’m up and grabbing for the bat beneath the bed, Joel’s pushing through the bedroom door and muttering about something being wet.

“Joel?”

That goofy grin I love so much carves into his cheeks as his eyes go wide at the bat. “Why do you have that?”

“Well, I was gonna beat your ass to fucking death with it,” I tell him. “I thought you were here to murder me.”

“Murderers have keys, baby?”

I drop it, let it bounce off the carpet and roll back under my bed. “Do you even know how many people, especially women, are murdered by people they know? Who have access to their homes?”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the side. “I really didn’t mean to.” 

With every word, he’s closed the distance towards me—to his side of the bed—pulling at his belt and working to discard his jeans with every step forward. 

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I should be at work,” he confirms. “Would be, actually, if it wasn’t pouring down rain again.” He sits down in the blankets and looks at me on the opposite side of the bed, lays back against the pillows and then pats his bare chest. “I was really hoping I’d get here early enough so you could wake up in my arms.” 

Sitting, I ask him where Sarah is.

“She's at school,” he says. “Woke up, saw the weather, told me she loved me but she was not missing another day because it meant she’d have to take exams and she’d rather start summer break early than hang out with me. It’s fine.” He nods his head, tone more full of defeat than acceptance. “I'm fine about it,” he insists.

He pats his chest again and tells me to tuck in, asks me how I feel now that I’ve slept. Asks me if I’ve even managed to sleep as his thick arms cage me into him. 

At first, I didn’t even really understand that I was losing weight, I thought he was just getting bigger.

And he has.

The constant doubles he’s pulling as the city is heating up and preparing to dry out has him filling out parts of his clothes that weren’t even really lacking before. Shirts tighter around his broad chest; sleeves cutting into his biceps; jeans hugging tighter around his thighs and his ass.

Filling out the seat of his jeans has caused the denim to pull tighter in other areas, too, that seem to beg for constant readjustment.

But while he got bigger, I actually did stop looking like me. Dark rims around my eyes and sallow skin—the hollow of my throat depressing down to a deep well.

He tells me on every date that people must be wondering what a gorgeous girl like me is doing with a loser like him. Now, I think the opposite statement about us. What’s a beautiful boy like Joel Miller doing with a hollowed out girl like me?

Neither statement is true, I know this. He loves me even though I haven’t said it back to him. Even though I don’t seem to be that person he met at the beginning of the year. At least, I don’t feel like that girl now. 

I feel awake, even as he’s smoothing his hand across the crown of my head and telling me all about the dream he had that’s lulling me to sleep. 

“Did you really come over here just to nap with me?” I ask him. 

His hand is up my shirt—his shirt—rubbing up and down my side slowly. Just weeks ago, I loved this but now, knowing the differences both our bodies have been through in just a few weeks, I can feel the part of me that wants to shove him away; to shut down.

“No,” he whispers into my temple. “I came over here because you said you couldn’t figure out how to regulate this back, so I’m here to help.” 

Every part of me wants to curl into him—does curl into him.

“You should come by the hospital soon,” I tell him, kissing into the meat of his bicep. “Drea would lose her shit over how big these got.” 

“Are you objectifying me?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “Yes, I am.” 

Our shared laughter turns into his mouth on mine, his broad body moving me easily down into the pillows. My leg is halfway hitched around his hip but that doesn’t stop his hand from sliding down and attempting to pull it farther, pressing down on me as he pulls me up to him.

“Did you… get more condoms?”

I tell him I haven’t had a chance. "Did you not bring any?”

Eyes squeezed shut, he says that he didn’t; says he thought I’d picked some up. “But it makes sense you didn’t, you’ve been staying at the house—they’re all there.” 

“Yeah.” When he goes to move off of me, I pull him back. “So… no condoms means you can’t just sit here and make out with me instead?”

Biting the swell of his bottom lip, he takes me in under the soft light of a cloudy day pouring through the windows. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetheart,” he tells me. “We can grab some today at the store.”

But before we can get to the store, he makes me shower with him, drink coffee with him; watches me as I eat the breakfast he brought as he sits with a pen and notepad across from me asking questions not unlike Dr. Bonner.

He’s noted things I’ve talked about cooking in the past.

“How are you so good at this?” I ask as he writes in instant oatmeal to the list.

“I am a single father, Alison,” he tells me. “For the longest time, Sarah wouldn’t eat lunch unless I brought it to her. More doable in the winter but do you know what a pain in the ass that was to schedule around a fucking build?”

“Maybe that’s what it is,” I suggest. “Maybe I got so used to you bringing me lunch that not I can’t eat if you’re not there.”

“Okay, smartass.” He shakes his head and looks back down at the list. “Now we just need to figure out your schedule for work, your schedule for when you’ll be sleeping at my house, and how to make sure you’re packing enough for your fucking doubles and triples—PROTEIN BARS!” He shouts suddenly. “Sarah ate so many protein bars because I could convince her they were from the candy aisle.” 

“Oh my god,” I cock my head to the side and look at him. “You're parenting me.” 

He doesn’t even deny it, just looks up like he’s assessing my reaction and back down again to his paper. Adds eggs to the list, frozen sausage. Anything that can go into the microwave and be ready in a few minutes but is still relatively good for me. “Honestly, though, if you decided that you needed to live off a steady diet of Hot Pockets and gatorade right now, I would support you… even though your farts would most definitely shake the walls.” 

He asks for my work schedule and then looks down at my planner as he asks what days I’ll be with him and when I want him with me.

Always doesn’t seem like the best answer, too clingy for a girl who hasn’t even told him she’s in love with him yet.

He looks over my work schedule, again, fully taking it in, and his nose wrinkles. “Baby, this is insanity.” 

“I know.”

“Why do you do this to yourself?” He asks like realization is finally dawning on him the intensity of the hours I pull. Because the sneaking into bed or sneaking out of it in the early morning hours wasn’t enough to tell him. “Do what you feel like you need to do, but this”—his index finger points directly down into the paper—“this is what worries me, sweetheart, you’re pushing yourself way too hard and I don’t understand what for. I mean—“ He looks down again, turns the pages and takes in the information. “Most of these shifts aren’t even in the emergency room, why are you—“

“I'm trying to find a place for myself elsewhere,” I tell him. “I’m thinking of leaving the department and it’s easier to transfer into another one within the hospital than it is to look for another job—at least for right now.” 

“You're leaving your job?”

“No, Joel, I am not leaving my job, I’m moving it.” I want him to see the difference, I want those two lines of concentration and confusion between his eyebrows to fade back out. “I can’t cover shifts in other departments to see if I’d like it more while leaving my own understaffed,” I continue. “It’s not like long hours are something I’m not used to.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Don't, Joel.”

“I feel like you’re doing this for me,” he says. Which is what I was afraid of—why I didn’t tell him when it started.

“I'm not doing this for you, baby,” I tell him, crossing the small space between us to fit myself on his lap. “I am doing this for me, okay?”

“It's just—“

“Stop.” Head in both my hands, I swipe my thumbs in mirrored movement across the swell of his cheeks. “I work in the emergency room because I don’t like having time to think but I don’t really know who I am without that chaos, I don’t even know if I’m the girl you say you love so I am doing this for me so I can figure that out.” 

Pushing out farther from the table, he wraps his arms around me with one thick hand sliding up the expanse of my thigh and the other curling into my ribcage. “I’m in love with a very intelligent, very funny, very beautiful woman—no, look at me, Alison.” He follows me as I try to look away, doing his best to keep himself in my line of sight. “You’re gonna be that girl no matter where you work or what you do, okay? I just wish you didn’t have to spread yourself so thin, but you’re going to get it under control and I will be here to help you however I can.” 

May 14, 2003:

My identity has always been wrapped up in what I can do to exhaust myself. Because nothing ever really felt like mine—felt like a place I wanted to be—I turned to routine and did my best. 

Dr. Bonner asks if my best really was the survival mode I put myself into.

“No, not survival mode,” I tell her. “It never felt like that to me, it was more like having the rules at work and having the rules from the treatment were going hand in hand and I made them work together.” 

“And no relationships before this one? No sudden and unexpected life circumstances?”

Shaking my head, I tell her no for the unexpected. “There were a few guys I dated and one I was serious with—Bradley—none of them really liked how much I worked but it was really that they didn’t like that I wouldn’t take time for them.” 

“Of your own accord?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “If the schedules lined up, sure, but I wasn’t willingly taking time I didn’t have to take just to make somebody else happy.”

She scratches something out on her notepad and then leans forward. “What makes it different now?” She asks. “What about this relationship you’re currently in is it that has caused you to upset that routine so willingly?”

“He makes me happy,” I answer.

He makes me happy and doesn’t demand anything of me other than to be. He doesn’t want me in a full face of make up; he doesn’t want me fussing over a date or a zit; he doesn’t want me to hold things back from him. Because he wants to know all the messy details of my life and he gives all his own messy details over to me.

“Your routine was a little upset when you started dating, though,” she goes on. “You told me about your friends, how they treated you and how they treated him through you. Anything else?”

Two shakes of my head and then I remember. “My grandfather died.” 

“My condolences.”

“Please don't, I hated him.” 

She asks me why I hated him and I tell her all the things I told Joel that night from the hotel room; the things he told his friends, the things they said back to me.

“There was a lot of talk about my weight from extended family members,” I say. I haven’t picked my nails raw today but I’m so close to doing so. “Some of it was sexual, too. I ended up switching my flight and came home early, I don’t think it really affected me though.”

“So…” She leans back in her chair, flips the page in her book. “I’m establishing a timeline, you went into treatment between your undergrad and grad school and then got your own apartment when you came out.”

“Yes,” I confirm.

“So, predictability in who would be in your space and when, similar to treatment. When you graduated and passed all your exams and certifications, you started at the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“Twelve hour shifts, schedules made a month in advance, predictability, not in how the day would go but, what was expected of you. Like treatment. Even when you take an extra shift, you do that having already prepared out your month and how your meals would look. So it’s not throwing a wrench in your routine at all in those moments, it's just”—hand in the air, she turns her wrist as if she’s begging for the words to come—“you’re stepping in to fill a gap with a thing you’re good at, because you do what is expected of you. Like treatment.” 

Shaking my head, I tell her I don’t understand and listen as she explains her thinking.

Explains that, in an effort to protect myself and the hard work I put in—in both my education and my body image—I took steps to ensure I could not slip up in either. I got my own space because something I’d always lacked was autonomy in my environment. She said I thrived in my hectic job because, like the common areas of a residential treatment facility, it may be unexpected and unpredictable and vary day by day but I could take that on because I had my own space to retreat to and I transferred what was expected of me there into real life too.

“So how has that…” A deep breath. “How does that… I don’t know what question I should be asking right now.”

“Sometimes not having the answers is okay and I think that you struggle with being okay with that,” the older woman says. “I appreciate that you want them, and that you obviously came here for that purpose, but I’m not the one who can provide them for you, Alison.” 

I want to fucking scream.

Again, I feel like I wasted money by being there.

Yes, I went to her for answers and, again, I've left with nothing.

I feel as though I’ve learned nothing because that’s exactly how I feel about this. All we did was talk in circles just to be told that I like to feel useful. 

“But I already knew that,” I tell Joel. “I don’t understand what this has to do with what I went there for.”

“Baby,” he lifts his head off the pillow, curls mussed in every direction. “You said you didn’t know what you went there for, she’s just trying to get at that.” 

He’s watching me from the bed, tucked naked into the sheets and listening as I summarize the day. Which feels like it’s been long but, really, it hasn’t been. I napped between the time of leaving work and going to see Dr. Bonner. After, I met with Jenny to run over some plans for the bachelorette party; the rehearsal dinner; the wedding itself.

“No, I know what I said, Joel, I just… I want to know how to fix this shit, baby.”

“But that's what she said, isn’t it?” He asks. “Alison, she said you want the answers but she can’t give them to you and I agree.”

Looking up at his reflection in the mirror, I ask him what he means.

He sits up further, resting his arms on his knees as he brings them close to his chest beneath the covers. “How mad at me would you be if I didn’t answer you?”

There is a frustrated whine building in my chest but his laughter might as well throw water on it as he holds his arms out and begs me to finally come to bed.

When I fold myself against him, he trails the back of his knuckle along the length of my nose and smiles. “I know it’s really only been a week but you look a lot better, baby,” he whispers. “Your color’s coming back.”

“Can you just tell me what you meant?” I ask him. “Because if I needed to have all the answers, then I really would’ve insisted on you telling me what you were going to say when we argued last month, but I need this one.”

Eyebrows furrowed, he purses his lips as he searches my face—my eyes. “So you are still holding onto that?” 

I very much am.

“No, it was just an example.” 

He calls bullshit in the space between his lips and mine before the kiss he presses into me and then again whispered into my ear. “I think you like knowing what to do because you feel it determines where you stand with people,” he says. “I think maybe you were doing okay with that, I think that you were accommodating us really well.” Propping his head up on his hand as he pushes himself lower into the blankets, he takes a deep breath. “I think having to go home is what sent you spiraling,” he says on the exhale. “And I think that instead of picking up on it like I should have, encouraging you to set your balance right again, I brought a kid into your life.”

“Stop,” I tell him. “It wasn’t your responsibility to set my spiral right.”

“Yeah, but then after that, you started seeing your friend Jenny again and she is not nice to you, baby. Don’t you think it’s weird that her wedding is this month and you only just got asked to be a bridesmaid in March?”

“What are you saying?” 

Joel takes a deep breath. “It’s all connected, Alison.” He’s got one hand up my shirt again, its permanent home when we’re laying with one another. I go to sleep with at least one large hand cupping a breast so often that I can feel the weight even when I sleep alone. “Nobody’s saying you can’t handle big things but the number of big things that have been offsetting you the last few months is a lot.” 

May 17, 2003: 

“I need to talk to you.” 

Joel turns, both coffee cups in his hands, and he stares at me through the open French doors that lead into his office with his eyebrow raised.

“Is everything okay?”

He’d just said again we should go out and look for a new suit for him, something nice enough to wear to the wedding but can be dressed down if he wants to take me somewhere fancy.

I’ve been chewing on the experience of that brunch since it happened, barely spoken to any of them but the bride herself. Blamed it on work and, to an extent, that was true.

Work helped, too, because I couldn’t sit and think too hard on it all.

But he told me that the way to protect him was to tell him things, not keep them from him. I keep putting off shopping to buy him a suit but I haven’t told him why. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea that you go to the wedding with me”—I hold my hand up to stop him before he can speak—“baby, I’ve been thinking a lot about this and you’re right, Jenny isn’t very nice to me and neither are the rest of our friends really and they’re not very nice to you.”

Joel’s face twists up and I can already hear the question forming in his head before it reaches his lips.

“Jenny told everybody I didn’t go to that other lunch because of you,” I go on. “Then at that stupid brunch a couple of weeks ago, I talked about pulling shifts in other departments to see if I could like it more and, before I could finish, Jenny turned it into some bullshit about how you were forcing me to leave my job.” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“They were insinuating you were abusing me, Joel.” Leaning forward, I reach for him in the hopes he’ll give me his hand. Instead, he pulls me up and into his lap in the chair opposite.

“I'm sorry,” he says into my temple, one hand cradling the crown of my head as the other curves across my hip. “You're right, that isn’t very nice of them.”

I tell him that they didn’t let me get a single full sentence out the entire time. “They just sat there continuing to tell me that I deserve better but, really, I think they’re just upset that I have something good.”

“I think I should still go, baby,” he says. “We could prove them wrong.”

Framing his face with my hands, I tell him no. “You are my good man and I don’t need to prove that to anybody because it’s what I know. I also know these girls, they’re going to twist however we interact and their husbands are macho, banker fucking douchebags.”

Chest to chest, he runs his hand down my back and back up before twisting his fingers in my hair, silence—uncomfortable—between us.

“I made you sad.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he shrugs. “Just hate that, that happened and I don’t really like that people could think that of me.” 

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.”

Shaking his head, he tells me it’s okay. “Like I said, I’m used to girls like Jenny treating me like shit, Alison, but I’m a little upset I don’t get to dress up with my girlfriend and”—he rocks his head from side to side like he’s looking for the words—“it makes me sad that you’ll have to go to this thing I know is going to be a lot for you and you’re going to have to do it alone.”

“I'm used to it.”

“Maybe so,” he continues, callused fingers now trailing across my cheek and down my jaw. “But with everything we’ve been talking about—“

“I'll be fine,” I insist.

“Okay.”

I know he doesn’t want to but he drops it, pulls me closer in the early morning light spilling into the room and kisses me instead. There’s frustration pouring out of him, wrapping up in that sadness. I hate that I told him. I hate that I had to. 

Besides, I found out the other day that Jenny only asked me to be in her wedding because somebody else dropped out and I was the right height and weight to match the other members of her party. She’d sent out the invitations months ago, just didn’t have my address—sure did find my phone number when she needed it.

I don’t tell Joel that part; I didn’t. Honestly, I really didn’t feel like I could. I’m nursing enough of that hurt on my own, I don’t want him feeling anymore of that on my behalf. 

May 21, 2003: 

“I thought about what you said.” 

This is my third session and I keep wondering if it’ll get easier.

If the round and round conversations will make sense.

“What part?” She asks.

“The part about how I crave answers,” I tell her. “I was with Joel the other day and we were talking about how I kind of got knocked off my axis recently, does that make sense?”

“A little,” she says. “I’d like to understand further.”

“H-he said that he thinks I was fine at accommodating a change into my life when we had just started dating but then I had to go home and we talked about how that spiraled me further.”

She nods, “and how do you feel that connects with your need for answers?”

“I was thinking that, like”—I start picking at my nails again—“I’ve had rules surrounding everything my whole life, you know?”

“Yes,” she nods again, scratching into her paper.

“The answers have always been there,” I go on. “They’ve been given to me and, when I had my own space, I just took what I already knew from before and applied it to there. I’ve never really put my own boundaries in place and then things just kept happening and happening.”

Putting her pen down and looking up at me, she says, “I think you’ve got it.”

May 25, 2003: 

“Hey, baby, can we talk?”

For the last half hour, we’ve been crammed into the bathtub of his tiny primary bedroom en suite. Originally, it was just me in here, taking his suggestion to soak my legs after our hike this morning.

I hadn’t even realized that the clock had ticked over into midnight the second time I ran new water; I didn’t really care. But then he came into the room and leaned against the door jamb asking me when I’d turned into a mermaid and joking about how I was running up his bill.

The only complaint heard when I asked him to get in here with me was when I refused to scoot forward so he could be behind me.

Everything was soft groans as he sunk into the water and laid back on me; as I washed his body and his hair.

Now, though… now I don’t like his tone.

“Everything okay?”

One large palm covers my hand where it’s resting on his chest and he turns his lips into my bicep. “Everything’s fine, PG, put your overthinking cap away, please.” 

More slow breaths; more slow kisses into the skin of my arm.

A deep breath. “I was talking with Tommy about the wedding and—I don’t fucking know, sweetheart, how upset I still am that I won’t be there with you. You know? I’d kind of had my heart set on being your trophy boy,” he laughs out.

“Joel, I’m—“

“Nope, don’t do that,” he tells me. “I understand why, you don’t have to be sorry and I love you so much for thinking through all the layers of involving me. That don’t mean I don’t have feelings about it, you know?”

“Yeah, baby,” I affirm. 

I can feel his insecurities cropping up, his fears; the ones I thought we’d started chipping away at. 

Break my heart but do it quick, he’d begged. He waited for the other shoe to drop and I’d chucked it without warning.

Our chests rise and fall in time, the water moving gently all around us.

“Please don’t feel bad, I don’t want you to,” he goes on. “But I was talking with Tommy about it and he suggested we go camping over the weekend, just me and him out in the middle of the woods being fucking stinky as you like to call us.” 

“Okay.”

“I just”—water sloshes over the edge of the tub as he sits up and turns towards me—“I’ll have my phone, of course, but I just don’t think I would feel very nice sitting here while you’re there knowing what I know about what they’ve said and how they treat you. Does that make sense?”

When I tell him that it does, he kisses me and gets out of the tub, says he’ll meet me in bed. But he’s not there when I follow behind a few minutes later. Instead, I can hear him down the stairs tuning the guitar, picking at the strings until it’s just right.

He plays occasionally, even brings it up here or to the apartment and serenades me. One time, he told me he wrote me a song but then he ended up making one up on the spot about the grumpy face I apparently make in my sleep.

Usually, when I hear the guitar, I go off in search of it and him. Sometimes, he tells me he’s glad he didn’t get to go off and be a singer, because he met me and that’s better than having the songs he wrote listened to. Which, of course, I called bullshit on. Still, he said he liked having an audience of one and the way my face lit up when I realized he’d learned Wild Horses.

Tonight, though, I decide to let him be.

May 30, 2003: 

Babysitting drunk girls was a college activity I thought I’d never have to repeat but here the fuck we are.

I have been up for fucking days in preparation for running around this weekend—to make somebody else’s big day amazing—and now I am holding back the hair of a grown ass woman who cannot hold three shots and a margarita.

Between the doubles and triples in preparation for time off for this and Joel’s doubles and preparations for camping, I’ve not seen him this week. Not really. We slept beside each other last night, but I came in very late from the rehearsal dinner only to wake up to a note saying he’d gone to work and was going camping from there.

“I think I got vomit on your shoes, Madison,” a girl I studied with every Wednesday night slurs at me. “Oh, I’m so sorry, you should buy new ones.”

“Yeah,” I say, tone flat as I look down. “I'll get right on that.”

The wedding is tomorrow afternoon and I’ve suggested a few times that we cut the party short on the alcohol and switch to water and electrolytes but, as usual, I’ve been ignored.

At one point, I was able to step away and out into the fresh air away from all the sweaty bodies and overlapping noise. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath against the bullshit until then, when I’d opened my phone to see two voicemails waiting; both from Joel to tell me that he loves me and he’s sorry if I think he’s mad at me. When I tried to call back, though, just to have a conversation in real time and not through voicemails, his phone doesn’t even ring.

Already, I know I’ll be the babysitter in the bridal suite tomorrow morning, making sure everybody’s hydrated and fed just enough that they don’t end up puking on the altar.

This week, Dr. Bonner—Julia—and I started talking about boundaries. I’m a people pleaser, I need to feel useful and have all the answers. I also know what is expected of me in various aspects, I know what I need to do; but where nursing and treatment are concerned, I have it all written out for me. When it comes to real life and navigating social situations, I don’t have that playbook folded up in my back pocket waiting to guide me. So, essentially, I don’t know how to set things up outside of strict regimen.

When I told Drea all this, she rolled her eyes and said she’d been telling me that for years; that I’d just been winging it on a steady diet of exhaustion and caffeine. She said she expected backpay of whatever I gave to this doctor.

I told both her and the therapist what I found out about Jenny’s wedding, that I’m just a stand in for who she really asked; that I wasn’t even originally invited; that she and everybody else made up wild rumors about Joel and my relationship with him right in front of my face; that I’d told him I didn’t want him coming to the wedding with me.

What I hate most is how bad it hurt him, this attempt at protecting him. Keep it in and he hurts, tell him and he hurts. The therapist said some bullshit about these just being growing pains, maybe she’s right. Drea suggested that maybe he’s upset because he wants to be told so that he can help and telling him I didn’t want him at the wedding meant that he couldn’t do that. I’m not sure which option made me feel better and which one made me feel worse but they both combined to drop a weight straight to the bottom of my stomach.

It doesn’t help that I’ve only heard the voice of his past self in my messages all week.

But, still, I’m here, surrounded by bad electronic music and literal fucking teenagers on ecstasy. 

I never really got the point of clubs. Bars are fine but clubs are… a lot. A lot and so young. I can’t help but see Sarah in every babyfaced girl with too much make up and low rise jeans they can’t even sit in. Not really speaking to her father this week means that I haven’t really spoken to her. She’s probably at McKenzie’s this weekend but, still, I wish I’d been able to see her; celebrate the end of school with her. 

“Madison! Madison!” Fingers snap in front of my face and I realize that they’ve been attempting to get my attention for a few minutes now. “Do a shot with us!”

“My name is Alison!” I yell over the music. “And I really don’t want to drink, thank you!” 

“Um, I’m the bride,” Jenny says, “and I’m commanding you to take a shot!”

Shaking my head, I reiterate that I don’t want to drink, trying to ignore the saltwater sting in my eyes.

“Oh, is your boyfriend not letting you do that, too?” She asks, pouting out her lips.

“I think our friend Madison—“

“Alison,” I repeat.

“—might still have the stick up her ass she had in college.” 

Jenny puts a shot in front of me, tells me if I don’t drink it that she’s going to make me. Because she’s the bride and the bride gets what she wants.

Instead, I excuse myself to the bathroom and head through the front door. My mind’s not really made up on what I’ll do once I’m out there—just stand and take in the fresh air or call down a cab to take me back home. Either way, I need to walk away.

Maybe that shit would’ve worked in 1991, and I do a lot of things that keep me stretched thin, but drinking on an empty stomach with people I don’t trust is not in my agenda for the twilight hours of my twenties.

May 31, 2003:

After five minutes had passed in the hot, stale, late May Austin air outside of the club, I had to go back or go home. 

I chose to go home.

There were several angry and drunken voicemails waiting for me when I woke up. Followed by a few new ones by the time I finished breakfast and switched the laundry over.

The wedding starts at three but one of the messages chastised me for not being at the hotel at seven like it’s some kind of shift start. I texted that the earliest I could make it was eleven; the make up artists weren’t even coming until then. 

Whatever the response, I feel like the atmosphere would’ve been the same again, especially after how Jenny reacted when I chose not to stay in the hotel with the group. I told her that I couldn’t afford it but, really, I knew that bringing up the fact that I already split my time between two places was just going to start some fucking discussion about my life that I’d end up being cut out of.

But now I’m sitting in the parking at close to ten and I feel like I’m the topic of discussion anyway. Which is self-centered and it’s not fair but, with the way they speak about me to my face, I can’t help but to spiral.

Either way, I don’t want it. 

The more I think about how Joel has reacted, the camping trip he went on to get away from this weekend, the worse I feel about being here at all. 

Truth be told, this is no different than how it usually is and I can handle it. It’s never made me feel like this when it was just me, but knowing how I’ve made Joel feel because of this.

Even with coffee in hand, it’s worse than I thought it would be because it starts with why I didn’t offer to bring coffee to everybody else. Apparently, I have a phone and it works just fine but I know by now that’s not how Jenny feels about hers. 

It’s a day and it’s… it’s a day. Everything is long and loud and drunk. After going off to the bathroom, I come back to find that my mimosa I insisted on being just orange juice was mixed with champagne anyway.

Maybe it would be better if I could hear Joel’s voice but everything goes straight to voicemail.

By the time I get my make up done, I’ve already zipped up the god awful fucking dress I had to buy which, really, isn’t all that bad. Still, I’ve got pangs of shame built up in my belly over just how easily it sits and the smell of whatever’s on the make up artist’s breath isn’t exactly helping. 

Again, not really a word in edgewise. I know by now that I’m just here for the pictures; the optical illusion of prosperity; the visual representation of being a good person. The more people surrounding you equals the more people who love you equals the more you can show how giving and available you are. 

When I check my purse, there are several missed calls. At first I think it’s Joel but it ends up just being the hospital. I delete the voicemails without listening; I blacked out the days specifically, I almost never do that so, if they need an extra set of hands, I can’t be it.

It rings again as I start to put it away. 

Hospital.

Rejecting the call, I toss it into my purse to go in search of what I opened it for—a lipstick that doesn’t make me look like a vampire’s midnight snack.

A vibration; another voicemail.

When I open it up to delete it, another call comes through—Drea.

The clock reads 2:38, we have to go down soon but I can’t leave this one.

“Hello?”

My name is echoing through each ear, one open to the room behind me and one pressed to the receiver.

Drea’s saying something else but I can’t hear her over the calls to join in on the pre-wedding shots the girls are about to take. 

Waving them off, I walk into the bathroom and ask her to repeat herself as I lock the door behind me.

“—calling you for half an hour.” With the celebrations of Jenny’s impending loss of virginity—please—muffled by the closed door, her voice finally comes through.

Opening the lipstick with my phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, I tell her that I blacked these days out as I take in my half dead, un-blushed reflection. I can’t remember if the other girls looked like this or if it’s just me.

“I know you did, Sonny, but look—you need to come to the hospital.”

Trying to run my fingers through the hairspray the stylist said would tame my flyaways, I tell her again that I blacked the days out. “I know it must be bad already if they’ve got you working on a Saturday but I can’t, we’re about to walk—“ 

“Alison, they called me because I’m your emergency contact

Maybe the make up was a prediction from the artist because any color I did have drains from me. “What’s wrong?” 

Already, I feel like I’m going in a million different directions as the sounds outside the door mute down to nothing. Replaced by some high pitched sound I can only imagine is the frequency at which my heart is vibrating in my chest. 

“Is it Joel?” I ask her. Is this why his phone’s been going straight to voicemail?

“It's Sarah,” she says.

Drea goes on to say that she’s okay but somebody starts banging at the door. There’s something about not being able to get ahold of Joel; Tommy. 

 “Uh—yeah.” There’s no trying to separate the hairspray with my fingers anymore as they push right through. The nerves of it all—of this phone call—have me ignoring the pain I pull from my scalp. I’m just thankful Jenny opted to not put anybody’s hair through the torture of a bad senior prom photo moment. “Are you there? Wh-who’s there with her? Is she okay?”

“She’s okay,” Drea responds.

Her calm would make me feel better if I didn’t know how trained she was in giving news like this; how skilled; how comforting she can be.

The banging gets louder and my name is being shouted on the other side of the door. Right, we have to walk down soon—we have to walk down now.

“Just… I’ll be right there.” 

I open the door to a fist almost in my face, one of the other girls poised to bang on the door again. 

“I—“

“Save it, we have to go.”

Telling her I can’t, I head towards my purse; the small bag of my clothes beside it.

One of them is jumping up and down by the door, repeating, “come on, come on, come on,” like that is going to make anybody be ready any faster. 

Everybody is all over the place, last minute make up details as more hairspray particles fly through the air than oxygen. That same girl from the door—Cameron? Kaitlin?—is following me through to the hallway asking where I’m going and telling me that I don’t need my bag downstairs.

“My boyfriend’s daughter had an accident at her friend’s,” I tell her. She’s not one of the girls I went to school with; I think she’s Jenny’s cousin—the maid of honor. That role wasn’t really clear as Jenny had whoever was available follow her around like a kicked dog but it’s definitely her, her dress is different from everybody else’s; different color; different details. “Her dad’s on a camping trip so I have to be there.” 

“Oh my god, are you leaving?” Jenny’s voice.

I turn on an apology, try to explain the situation again but all she gives me is a disgusted look, says she paid for the dress and everything but I remind her she didn’t. I remind her that it was actually my money that went towards this dress but I’d be happy to send her the credit card bill if she’d like to remedy that. Whatever look she wore before, it gets worse and more twisted as she pulls back like I’ve slapped her.

"This isn't like you,” she says and I can see the true color of her skin as the surface of her foundation cracks like a too dry desert. She calls me selfish as I cross the threshold into the elevator but all I can do is shrug. It feels good, it feels like me. This is the me that met Joel and Tommy. This is the me that exists at work and it makes sense how easily I’ve found all my words to assert myself and not give in. Because that is always what I put forth for the patients under my care. 

I was okay biting my tongue and bearing it when it was me, I told myself Jenny needed me more than I needed peace—that I’d made a commitment as I’d repeated so often. But I made a commitment to Joel, too, even if it’s not really been named or verbalized. Jenny may have needed me more than I needed peace but Sarah needs me more than anybody else could right now.

As I press for the lobby and the elevator doors slide closed, I hear one or two expletives I’m shocked would come out of the mouth of such a good, virginal, Christian woman and the threat that we will never be friends again.

Truth be told, that doesn’t sound like much of a threat at all.

It all goes to voicemail.

The calls to Joel.

The calls to Tommy.

Knowing it’s unintentional doesn’t help because I don’t even know where he went. He told me he’d have his cellphone and he would never allow himself to not be reached for Sarah’s sake and, still, none of this is putting my mind at ease. He could be at a campground.

He could be in the middle of the woods.

He could be fucking dead and eaten by coyotes in the middle of rural Texas but I don’t know that, nobody knows that, because we can’t reach him.

Swiping my badge for the staff entrance, I catch the first nurse I see and ask if she knows what room Sarah’s in with a description: fourteen year old Black girl, tall and slender, hazel eyes, curly black hair—I wish I knew what she was wearing, probably that shirt she got at that concert.

“Sorry, Murphy,” she shakes her head. “I haven’t seen any kids admitted back.” 

Before I can thank her, the head nurse for the weekends—Tammy—interrupts. She’s an older woman, maybe in her sixties, with completely white hair and kind grey eyes. “Alison”—she beckons to me despite the fact that she’s closing the distance—“you look like you’ve seen a ghost so I’m going to need you to take a big breath for me.” 

She tells me Sarah’s up in pediatrics. Says she came in about an hour ago with her friend and her friend’s mom, an accident at the skating rink and my memory is jogged. She had a seventies themed birthday party this weekend, wanted to dress up like a flower child with blue eyeshadow.

“We gave her some pain meds but we had a combative patient situation so I thought it would be better if she were up in pediatrics waiting to be seen. She grabs my arm as I turn towards the elevator and asks me to take a breath again. “You look like you’re having a fucking panic attack, Murph, but that little girl is scared and you were the only person she was asking for.”

This elevator is more comfortable than the hotel one; something about the combination of old linoleum flooring and layers of quaternary ammonia is grounding in this moment. Part of me wishes I’d changed but I couldn’t at the hotel and I really didn’t want to bother dropping into a changing room in case somebody caught me and tried to get me to work.

I can hear Sarah’s giggling before I even reach the nurse’s station on this floor just as the girl at the desk—Kara—is looking up and telling me I look nice. 

“Miller?” 

“Second on the right, Murph.” 

There is no relief. Not the kind I thought I would feel when I finally see her anyway. Even though she’s smiling with two deeply pocketed dimples that run up to crinkle the butterfly wing that sprouts from each eye, she is clearly in pain and her arm is very clearly broken.

“Alison!”

“Hi, sweetie.” I want to hug her but I don’t want to mess anything up, it doesn’t even look like the doctor or a nurse has been in yet. The older woman she’s with—McKenzie’s mom, Susan—tells me as much. 

“Blood pressure? Type of pain management?” I’m so embarrassed that this is how I look, like some wedding set Barbie from the Dollar Store, the first time I’m meeting her.

She shakes her head, “they did all that downstairs and then sent us up here, that wasn’t too long ago but we’ve only been here for about an hour.”

“When did the accident happen? What time?”

She looks at her watch. “About noon, maybe a few minutes after. Tried to call Joel and Tommy to see where to take her but couldn’t get through, I knew they wouldn’t be able to come get her but I would’ve met them wherever they wanted me to take her.” She pulls out a notebook and a pen. “Sarah told us to try you but didn’t have your number, said she knew what hospital you worked at though and that they would get you but I’d like to have it, too, in case of emergencies.”

I give her both the cell and the hospital switchboard so she won’t have to sit on hold if she has to call here, then apologize for how I look. “It's really nice to meet you,” I tell her. “Sarah talks about you and McKenzie all the time.”

“Well, the same can be said for you but I’m sorry we pulled you away from your event.”

Waving her off, I thank her. “This is more important to me, I’m glad you came here and I’m glad they didn’t make you wait three hours like they did with Joel.” 

“Your name seems to carry a lot of weight downstairs and one of the girls recognized Joel’s name as well so it probably got us the VIP treatment.”

All I can say again is thank you. I don’t know what else there is to say right now, I’m too focused on Sarah’s giggles and the way she’s lighting up with McKenzie.

“I know you’re a nurse,” Susan starts, voice low as she leans closer to me. “But take it from a mom of four that stuff like this just happens but these babies are made out of rubber, they bounce back.” 

We sit there a little longer and I examine the med chart; just like Joel’s its bare bones chicken scratch with a normal BP and basic information. 

Susan asks if it’s okay that she leaves Sarah with me, she needs to get home to her other kids and I tell her that’s fine. “I’ve got keys to the house, I can come by today or tomorrow to pick up her stuff?”

Shaking her head, she tells me no, that she’ll drop it by later. “My son has a soccer game over near your house, it’ll just be easier and y’all can rest.”

When she leaves, Sarah asks if I’m angry at her.

“For what, sweetie?” 

“Pulling you away from your friends?”

I tell her I couldn’t be mad at her for that. “It makes me really happy that you came to me when you couldn’t get ahold of your dad and that you remembered what hospital I work at. I’ll write my number down for you in your emergency book.”

“Oooooor,” her eyes light up, smile growing wider. “You could convince dad to finally get me a cellphone of my own, you know…for safety.” 

“Oh, of course,” I agree. “Safety.”

She’s talking again but now I’m focused on her eyes, the way she’s sitting. There’s a silk flower in her hair, one we got from the craft store last week to complete her costume, but it’s stuck at an awkward position.

“Hey, Sarah, did you hit your head when you fell?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. I landed pretty much directly on my arm, why?”

“I’m just making sure we cover everything we need to while we’re here.” In my purse is my stethoscope and penlight and I explain to her what I’m looking for as I ask more about the fall.

Pupils dilating appropriately, she follows my fingers with her eyes. Part of me wants to demand a CT scan but I also don’t want to put her through that; if she says she didn’t hit her head then I believe her. 

She says her arm broke her fall but I still ask if it’s okay if I listen to her lungs.

“What would my lungs tell you?”

“Your breathing can help determine whether or not ribs could be fractured”—I really would demand CT then—“Do they feel tender at all?” 

She shakes her head but lets me check anyway.

“When is the doctor going to get here?” She asks. “I'm getting hungry.” 

“I have no idea but I’m about to take you back for x-rays myself because I am right there with you.”

It takes another hour or so to be finished as the doctor finally comes in and talks everything over with me. I changed while they took x-rays—clean break—and then watch as Sarah puts on a brave face while they set and cast the arm. All they gave her was children’s Tylenol in the emergency department; I told her she could squeeze my hand until it breaks and cuss if she needs to. 

When I’ve got her tucked into the car, I ask if she knows what pain medications she has at the house—she doesn’t—and what she wants to eat—Taco Bell. 

At the pharmacy, she’s asking me questions as I go through the options on the shelf and what they do.

“So, this one”—I hold the red bottle up—“blocks your brain from hearing your nerves tell you you’re in pain and this one”—the blue bottle—“does the same thing but it also helps reduce swelling so that you get more blood flow around the area to help you heal.” 

“How many Matrix jokes do you think dad’s going to make?”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking about it until you said that so thank you,” I say. “And he’s going to make a lot.”

I tried to call him again, still no answer. Left a voicemail to accompany my others with an update. Out of the hospital; getting Taco Bell; please be careful coming home. 

After her shower, she asks for help with getting the cling wrap off of her arm and asks if I can help her take her make up off.

“You look happier since you changed at the hospital,” she says.

This is the closest we’ve been to each other and the most time we’ve ever spent together just us. “Thank you,” I tell her, rubbing gently at one of the butterfly wings. They’re temporary tattoos, we found them at Claire’s. “But I wouldn’t say I’m happy, it just helped to be more comfortable.”

“So…” She looks up at me with a bitten lip. “You are mad?” 

Shaking my head, I insist again that I’m not. “I was scared,” I say. “You needed me to not be so I put on the clothes that felt more like me and I was able to push it away.” 

“But you’re in daddy’s shirt,” she says. “It smells like him, too. How does that make you feel more like yourself?”

Unsure if this is a sinking feeling or the floating kind, I ask her what her dad has told her about us. I want to answer her honestly but I want to do so within the context he has felt comfortable sharing with her already. But part of it is to protect myself, too. Because if I tell her it’s because I love him—even if I haven’t told him—it might just rip me apart if she says he’s told her things just aren’t that serious. And she doesn’t need somebody ripped apart right now, she needs an adult. 

She catches on to all of that, though—the fear and the anxiety I’m holding in anticipation of her answer. Joel doesn’t say much, apparently. Which I figured because, for all the nervous, late night confessions of his feelings to me, this is big and he likes to think before steps are taken. But she goes on to say that what he does say is so obviously barely scratching the surface of what he wants to share.

“I think he maybe doesn't want you to feel like he’s forcing you to like me,” I suggest. “Or insisting upon it. He wants you to make your own decision about me.”

She nods and asks again how wearing his clothes made me feel more like me when I was scared earlier.

“It's not that wearing it made me feel more like me,” I explain. “It’s more like I’m the most me when I’m with him and wearing his shirt made feel like he was with me even if he wasn’t. Does that make sense?”

Quiet stretches between us and I can see the gears turning in her head until she finally nods. “I feel like I’m the most me when I’m with him, too,” she says. “Sometimes, when I have a lot happening at school, I carry around a picture of us. It got to the point where I was carrying it around so much that I finally just hung it in my locker.”

Nodding, I tell her that makes sense, too. I tell her, as well, that she can talk to me about what’s going on if she ever wants to; but I can tell that she doesn’t so I let it go and go back to helping her remove the make up.

“That dress was really pretty,” she says after a few beats of silence. “I know you said it was uncomfortable but you looked really nice in it.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s not so much that it was uncomfortable, I just felt uncomfortable in it. I’m not really a fancy dress kind of girl but it was really pretty—I like the color.” 

“That's actually my favorite color,” she says.

“Well then, I will save it for you and, for your next school dance, I will alter it to fit you.”

“Really?” She perks up, half a wing left on her eye. “Do you think you’ll be here for that?” 

She goes on before I can answer, taking advantage of the silence and confusion before it can really settle in. She tells me about the last girlfriend and how she was just gone one day. “I accidentally called her mom,” she says, features fading back into sadness. “I was really young but I think that freaked her out.”

“Oh.” 

“My dad really loves you so I just—I don’t know, I hope calling you today didn’t freak you out, too.” 

Again, I reassure her that it didn’t; that I’m happy she called me because it means she feels safe with me and I want to be a person she feels safe with. But I see where her fears are, how they so closely align with Joel’s.

“Those friends I was with, by the way,” I say as I take the last of the make up off, “they’re not very nice to me but, even if they were, I still would’ve chosen you over a wedding.” 

#read it. now

[darnitdraco]

Holy hell im in love

I'll Have Another

Pairing: Tommy Miller x f!reader Word Count: 3.3k+ Warnings: Protected PiV. Mentions of guns and allusion to sexual violence (but neither guns nor sexual violence are apart of this story, they are just passing comments). Oral (f! receiving). Author's Note: This is all @d-sav's fault, she derailed me from writing the fifth chapter of Days of You & Me (a Joel Miller x OFC story), you can read the first chapter HERE.

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Two whiskeys, two fingers full, down for the second night in a row as the clock ticks closer to a new day.

It’s only a Wednesday night but the nice weather drove people into the bar in groups of friends looking for a place to watch the game or somewhere new for their fantasy football league. Not him though, all alone at the bar with anxious hands and tired eyes. 

You shouldn’t be looking at him, staring at him like this from the other side of the bar. He’s never been here, you didn’t think he’d come back.

Crowd starts to thin and he raises his hand to call your attention over. 

“Final call was about half an hour ago, stretch,” you tell him, eyeing the empty glass and thinking he wants more. “If you wanna keep going, you’re gonna have to do it at home.”

“If I wanted more,” he grins out, “I would’ve asked for it half an hour ago at last call or”—he rocks his head back and forth, like he’s about to make an obvious statement—“maybe an hour ago when I finished it in the first place.”

“Then why on earth are you still here?” You ask him, arms crossed to consider the man in front of you. “Does it take you that long to sober up?”

He’s got a smile like a little kid, secretive and boyish like he’s never known true hurt because he’s always had somebody else standing in front of him to take the bulk of the blow. Or maybe he just hides it really well.

“I’ve been sober for a minute, actually,” he declares. “Just been spending all this time looking at you and how you keeping looking away from me when you see that I’ve caught you.”

“You’re new here,” you shrug. “It's my job to keep an eye on the newbies, never know who’s gonna start swinging.”

“And what would you do?” His head cocks to the side, eyes looking you up and down to the best of their ability with a bar in between you both. “If some dumb, drunk asshole were to start swinging, what would you do?” 

“If this is a threat, handsome, I should probably remind you that you’re in Texas—my daddy put a gun in my hand long before I ever knew how babies were made and said to use it if some dumb, drunk asshole got handsy.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

He is. Long face and a slightly rounded nose, black curls and half full lips on sun kissed olive skin.

“‘Cause, see,” he leans forward, and drops his thickly accented voice, “I'm talking about fighting and you’re talking about fucking.”

“To most men, that’s the same thing.” 

He considers that. “Well, I may be a dumb asshole but I’m not drunk and I certainly mind my manners.” He winks. “I'm Tommy and I would certainly like to get handsy with you.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re crashing into bed with his hand down your pants, long fingers fighting against the tightness of your done up jeans to touch you in that spot that makes your skin burn.

“If your soft little pussy is as tight as these jeans,” he drawls out, “you may never get rid of me.”

It’s not just the stimulation of his callused fingers against your clit that makes you burn, it's the words and it’s him. Has been since he sat down in the same seat last night and ordered his first drink.

He’s over you now, knees pressed into the mattress as he sits bowed towards your center with full concentration on the buttons between you. 

“You can touch me too, you know,” he says, grin splitting his face again as he looks up. With the button free, he undoes the zipper and starts to peel back the denim gently, like it’s painted on something delicate and only concentrated precision can clean it off without hurting what’s underneath it. “Oh, I hope you do. You can pull my fucking hair right out, sweetheart, it’d be an honor.” 

Shoes and pants tossed to the side, he focuses on his own as he pulls the large buckle free of his belt followed by the button of his fly and a deep sigh of relief.

“Well, you get right to the point,” you tell him, poking a pointed toe into his hip. You’ve never been more thankful for a pedicure than you are right now. “Don’t you?”

Starting with the contact of your foot poked into his side, he drags his gaze up the length of your open leg—takes in your body beneath him—and laughs.

“I really don’t,” he tells you, starting to undo the buttons of his shirt with the same deft fingers you were bucking against not even five minutes ago. “My cock's just real fucking hard and needed some breathing room.”

His voice is raspy, raw with the burn of alcohol and lust heavy on his tongue. He pulls the button up open and shrugs it off, revealing a sleeveless, white, ribbed undershirt over a barrel chest and thick, defined arms.

Lifting yourself up on your elbows, you look down at the straining material below his belt. “I really think you should give it some more.”

“Oh no,” he bends and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. “I'm a real selfish son of a bitch”—he starts to pull the material down—“sometimes I can’t control myself and my pent up little dick can’t last longer than a few minutes so I try not to leave a lady too dissatisfied.”

His confidence is sexy—a magnetic charisma you’ve been drawn to the last two nights he’s ordered whiskey and laughed at all your jokes. You’ve never heard a man willingly, or with such enthusiasm, refer to his dick as little. But here he is, setting a precedent of what to expect that you feel is the direct opposite to the one you’re usually fed.

Finally, his eyes trail away from yours back down your body, pushing your legs open as he tosses the soaked fabric over his shoulder and he whistles. Not the cartoonish kind of wolf whistling reserved for Jessica Rabbit but the kind of silent disbelief and awe.

“It's cute how wet you are already,” he says, pressing two fingers flat against your mound. “The way the streetlight reflects off this slick little thing makes you look like fucking magic.” 

Still on your elbows, he crashes a kiss down on you but unlike the hungry, hard kind of desperation in his lips at the door, this is soft; this is gentle. 

There’s whiskey on his breath and a little more; tobacco; coffee; mint and cinnamon—probably gum to cover it all up.

“May I please eat your pretty little cunt?” He breathes out against your lips.

Dazed, you nod your head. He may look it but this is not the frat boy hook up you’re used to. Hell, this isn’t the kind of hook up you’re used to with any kind of boy you’ve been with up until now. Using the word cunt as a positive, associating it with prettiness and, even, filling the word pretty with so much awe and wonder like he’s lucky to be here.

He kisses you again before sliding back, laying down flat on his stomach as he lifts your shirt to place a kiss to both of your hips and the soft skin of your lower stomach. 

Tommy does not get right to the point, he drags it out.

Shoulders settling between your thighs; soft lips against the inside of your knee, your thighs, and repeated patterns on the opposite side.

Anticipation builds within you, his hot breath ghosting across the sensitive skin he’s already set ablaze while yours comes out in short, heavy puffs.

He looks up at you again with that cheeky grin, like he has a secret that he’s just dying to tell. “Go ahead and lay back,” comes his low voice, breath fanning right over where you want him. “Let me take care of the rest and feel free to pull my hair.” 

Talking back isn’t even an option, not when he hooks his arm over your thigh to place one heavy, rough palm down on your mound. Still, you can’t sit back, too mesmerized by the crooked smile and lonesome dimple as he spreads you beneath that grip.

Then he kisses you. Open mouthed, free hand gripping around your thigh, he closes his mouth around you like he has never seen food, never known the satisfaction of a good meal or a good fuck. 

You do crash then, one hand sinking into your own hair as the other threads through the curls reminiscent of the darkest night you’ve ever seen. 

He hums and the vibration makes you jolt against his face which only makes him laugh. The laughter, continuous and contagious, mixes in with his moans until your own are dancing up to meet his.

You’ve been loud before, but never like this. This aren't the cries of a dorm room pornstar persona keeping herself in the good graces of drunk boys with mean streaks. This is heavy breaths and his name like a prayer before God who you are also calling to in desperation. Not to ask His spite for the man between your legs, but to ask His mercy and protection over him for the rest of his life.

This is tender and gentle.

This is warm and all encompassing.

This is pressure on the dam building up in a hard rain.

“Tommy,” you say his name in a panic, the familiar feeling of a full bladder hitting you. “Tommy, I’m gonna—“ It’s too late.

Pressure releases and warmth slides down to meet his tongue—his fingers—different in feeling from the slick you’ve dripped with after every fleeting moment of eye contact. Different, further, from the feeling of relief you get when you finally find the toilet after a four hour lecture hall.

Lifting himself, he runs a hand across his bottom lip and then his tongue along that too. “Been a while since I made somebody come for me that fast,” he says, surprise lacing his voice. “Tell me who’s not treating you right, I’ll beat the fuck out of them.” 

Covering your face—your embarrassment—with your hands makes him laugh and he lifts his weight off of the bed.

“Hold this for me, sweetheart,” he says as a small object no heavier than a quarter lands on your stomach followed by the sound of a zipper.

Tommy’s toeing his boots off when you sit up to look at him, undershirt already tossed to the side somewhere near his button up from earlier. His pants go next but he leaves his briefs, the soft cotton material leaving nothing much to the imagination as it stretches with his growing cock.

“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” He asks, calling my attention up to his eyes. I can see him slipping his underwear down in my periphery before he joins me back on the bed, but I don’t look—too taken by the liquid coal color of blown out pupils against dark brown irises.

“I don't think I’ve ever come before,” you tell him, lower stomach still clenching and unclenching. There’s a wet spot just beneath where you’re sitting, subtle and cooling against your ass in a way so different than the room temperature spillage of an uncovered cock you’re used to.

He smiles. “That’s why I asked you who hasn’t been treating you right,” he responds. “Somebody as pretty and smart as you should be coming as often as she goddamn pleases.”

“How do you know I’m smart?”

Eyes darting around the room, he lands on you again. “Framed bachelor degree, textbooks on the nightstand and on the desk with big words I don’t understand, figured you were a smart girl.”

“I'm trying.” There’s something so fucking intimate about how close he is, certainly the most intimacy you’ve ever felt.

“Help me with this condom, baby,” he says after several beats. “Been dying to get your soft little hands around my dick since the moment I set eyes on you.”

“Not my mouth?” You ask. “Usually, it’s my mouth that’s wanted.”

Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he encourages you to open up to him, something you find yourself doing so easily, as he leans over to press his tongue flat against against yours.

Kissing after a man has been down on you is something you’re accustomed to, even if men won’t give the same courtesy of kissing you after you’ve reciprocated, but you’ve never tasted this. Tangy and sweet and mixed with his bad habits, there’s a throbbing building down within you again.

“I don’t have time for this sweet little mouth around me tonight,” he whispers when he pulls away. “I’m gonna three pump chump you and I’d like to do that deep inside of your pussy and not your throat.”

Stunning, charismatic. This man could tell you to rob a bank for him and you’d probably do so.

Taking your hand, all eyes focus on the weeping length of him between you. Even if he’s gonna three pump chump you as he says, part of you wants to ignore him and take him in your mouth anyway. He got to taste; why shouldn’t you?

Controlling yourself is hard, wanting to willingly give over everything you so closely protect in other encounters—the vulnerability, the tears, the communication of what feels good and what hurts. It’s usually always just what hurts and no amount of communication can solve a lecture fatigued college boy’s mind. 

With trembling hands, you help him push the condom down his shaft; careful beneath his guidance not to squeeze too hard.

You let him lift your shirt off, his eyes kept on yours as he peels yet another layer of fabric away. The amount of respect within this unforeseen encounter is the kind of shit you’ve only seen in movies.

“Magic,” he whispers again, finally looking down your body when the bra comes off as well. “You look like fucking magic.”

He leans himself into you, open mouth to open mouth as he takes your body back down to the mattress. All of his weight is braced against one arm and you’re gripping half-moons into his ribcage as he breathes heavy and slow, so close to you. It’s like he knows there’s a limit to air between you and he’s saving most of it for you.

Guiding himself to your entrance, he goes slack jawed with a small groan as he pushes slowly inside.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Goddamn, you’re never getting rid of me.”

He lays you down fully, body weight pressing against you like a hard wind, and he laughs when you start counting.

“One…” Your arms curved around his hips. “Two…” His hands smoothing across your hair. “Three…” The heels of your palms pressing into his ass to encourage him.

“There were your three pumps, chump,” you whisper. “Shouldn't you be done?”

Chest to chest, his hips stutter into a slow grind. “Oh, I’m taking my time with you, sweetheart.”

Continuing that same languid pace between your legs, it’s all soft touches and heavy breaths and moans traded back and forth in the space between until that pressure is building in you again.

Before, you thought it was an accident waiting to happen—part of you still does—but you only encourage him to continue fucking up into you at this pace as you chase down the high that fueled your embarrassment not too long ago.

It’s better this time, the same but different. Different in the way that he’s inside of you; the way his cock stretches you makes it all build that much slower and come down in a similar pace around him. His reaction, too, is different with his choked sound of pleasure and the changes in pace with which he continues pumping into you. 

“Never getting rid of me,” he whispers against your lips as another wave rushes through you. “I could live inside this cunt, pretty thing, nothing else has ever gripped me so-oh fuck—so fucking well.”

He doesn’t make a spectacle of his release, doesn’t grunt like a man through the fake tan fumes of a body building competition. This man you wouldn’t have necessarily pegged for gentle not even two hours ago releases soft sounds beneath his grasp for air and stills with closed eyes.

“Believe it or not,” he says a few moments later when he’s rolled onto his back, “I've never fucked like that.” 

“You're right,” you tell him. “I don’t believe it.” 

He’s not in a rush to leave and you’re not in a rush to push him out either. So different, still, from other encounters you’ve had. It helps that he smells good; tastes good; treats you with respect and kindness.

You watch as he stands up and moves across the room towards the ensuite. He’s got a cute little butt, not much going on there but enough to grab onto as you already know. He smiles when he looks up and catches your reflection in the mirror.

“Don't make fun of my booty,” he says over the sound of running water. “I’m very insecure about it.”

You watch again as he walks back and slips naked out the bedroom door. Small moments like this and you’re glad you have the apartment to yourself more often than not.

Returning, he hands you the glass of water he filled up and joins you back beneath the covers.

“So… I’m gonna guess from all the books and the fancy paper framed up on the wall that you’re not just a bartender. Are you still studying?”

“I am,” you stutter; half caught off guard by the interest he’s taken, half caught off guard by the fondness you already feel for him. Like this is normal. “I graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Public Health from Texas A&M.”

“Go Aggies,” he says.

“More like Go Longhorns now,” you continue. “I’m getting my masters here in Austin and then the dream is a doctorate from Johns Hopkins, all public health.”

He looks confused but interested. “I said I was a dumbass so excuse me, I promise I’m not trying to sound like a dickhead, but what does that enable you to do?” He shakes his head. “I never went to college, I’m actually really curious.”

“I'd like to be an epidemiologist,” you answer. “They study infectious diseases, aid in the prevention of them for the good of global health. Prevent pandemics and shit.” 

He nods, crooked smile returning. “That's like superhero level of shit, you know that? What are you doing having sex with a random hick in some bar?”

You laugh in return. “What's a random hick in a bar doing knowing how to eat pussy that well?”

“Oh, I was stationed in France for a bit,” he tells you. “French girls do not let you get away without eating them into a goddamn stupor, best skill I picked up in the army.”

“And you used a condom without me having to beg you, that’s so sexy.”

“Yeah?” He asks, leaning in with that same crooked, cocksure smile of his.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Don’t think I wanna get rid of you, in all honesty.”

Gently, he takes the water glass and sets it over on the nightstand before pushing back up against you. “I got another condom in my wallet, how about another round?”

“I have a whole box,” you counter, “how about several?”

He kisses you again, mumbling something about soulmates against your lips as he takes you back down beneath his naked body.

[darnitdraco]

Read this and then read it again. And again. I love them, i love O, i love this. I find myself rereading parts over and over and just finding more and more things about it that are amazing.

Days of You & Me: February

Word Count: 16.1k+ Warnings: Hospital talk (severe injury, sick children, etc). Eating disorder. Non-penetrative sexual activity. Body image. Strained familial relationships. Author's Note: A labor of love that had my beloved @darnitdraco sending a wild amount of messages during the beta reading stage. All the thanks in the world to my Carlie and @tauralmie for all their help, encouragement and suggestions for this series. The way I describe his house is based off of how it is designed in the video game as I cannot find a detailed mock up of the one in the show.

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February 2, 2003: 

He’s a singer.

I mean… I knew he was on some level. I had to with the humming but he’s stayed relatively quiet around me until now.

“Sarah hates my singing,” he says when he catches me staring. “Says it’s embarrassing. How is me singing in the privacy of my own home or car embarrassing to her?”

“Maybe you have ghosts.”

“Don’t”—he wags his finger—“Do not side with her on this, I get enough shit from her.” 

It’s damn near eighty degrees today and he’s put the windows down, insisting on driving to the gardens if I insist on paying for a date. He’d insist on driving no matter what after he saw me back into a mail box. Joel doesn’t accept the excuse that I did it because he was looking at me and I got nervous. 

“Why are you just staring at me, sweetheart?” He looks over again, one hand on the steering wheel with the other resting on my bare knee. “Do you actually want me to stop? Because I will.” 

“I just like looking at you,” I tell him. His nose is starting to heal, revealing the soft curve of it. Last week, he said that maybe the missing ingredient was that I just needed to kiss it better. That was sometime after he took me out onto the patio at the bar and slow danced with me to the end of the set.

The rest of the world seems to have had the same idea that I did, a picnic basket full of sandwiches and some wine disguised as juice, and the closest parking spot is the farthest from the entrance. But when he puts his hand in mine, it’s not something I mind at all.

He’s humming again in line, my hand brought up to his lips occasionally to place a vibrated kiss into my knuckles.

“You know, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he says.

He puts it out there casually in the tone I’ve come to associate with his quiet insecurities.

Blocking the sun from my eyes, I look up at him. His hair looks so much lighter in the sun while his skin turns golden. Yesterday, I found myself thinking about what he’d look like in ten years; in twenty.

“How so?”

Joel shrugs. “Just keep wondering if the whole kid thing will push you away.”

“But if it did, would you want to date me anyway?” I ask him. “Surely, the kind of person you want in your life is somebody who can accept the fact that you’re a father.”

He’s handing his credit card over for two tickets before I even finish my sentence, my own wallet half fished out of my purse.

“If anything is the other shoe, Joel, it's that you won’t let me take you out.”

“You bring me lunch sometimes,” he shrugs. “You’ll just have to be quicker on the draw next time, sweetheart.” 

Joel’s hand drops to the small of my back as he guides me through the doors, stride matching mine in beat. As I head towards the picnic area, however, his grip curves around my waist and he pulls me in the opposite direction, a small shake of his head when I start to protest. 

“We’re not eating near people, I want to kiss you.”

“And would you want to kiss somebody who isn’t accepting of the fact that you’re a father?”

He stops in the middle of the pathway and pulls me over to the side, lips crushed into mine before we’ve even found proper footing. 

“No,” his breath ghosts into mine. “I wouldn’t.”

We’ve laid the blanket out in a small clearing, an old UT Austin throw I bought in freshman year, outside a little structure made of stone that looks more like it belongs in an Italian tourism magazine than the middle of Texas. 

“What's she like?” I ask him. “I mean… if you’re comfortable telling me.”

Kneeling in front of me, organizing the contents of the picnic basket, he stops for a second and looks somewhere past me.

“Is there a bee?”

Shaking his head, he whispers, “calm down, ain’t no bee next to your ear. I’m just trying to figure out how much I should tell you before I—“

“Scare me off?”

Half a smile and a forced laugh, he nods. “Yeah.”

“Joel,” I lean towards him, waiting until his eyes are on mine. “My mom was a really young, single mother so I get it. Maybe not on your side, but on hers? Definitely.”

He scratches at his facial hair, grown back out, and sits next to me, leaving the picnic basket abandoned. “She’s-uh…” He pinches the bridge of his nose and then laughs again. “She's a fucking spitfire and so funny.”

“Yeah?”

He’s lit up in a thousand ways, smile and eyes both bright.

“She’s whip smart and likes soccer, talks a million miles a minute sometimes. She’s a good kid, too. You know? I know some parents talk about their kids like they’re precious little angels when they’re really the spawn of Satan but Sarah actually has that damn halo. She kicks my ass in video games and then doesn’t let me forget it and—actually, no.” He goes to stand up, knees popping as he does. “Maybe we shouldn’t be a thing, the two of you eventually meeting would be a disaster for me. I’m not sure I can take that much damage.”

Before I can even pull at his pant leg, he’s kneeling back down beside me, large hands framing my face. “I'm kidding,” he whispers. “I think you’ll really like her, though. At least, I hope you will. She worries about me a lot. I-I wish she didn’t, I’m grateful for it though. I hear a lot of guys around the sites talk about how their kids fucking hate them, she hasn’t hit that stage yet.”

There’s pride in his voice. Protection too.

“She’s a huge reason why I don’t really date,” he continues. “That probably sounds horrible—“

“I don’t think that sounds horrible,” I tell him. “I think that’s smart. You focused on your baby.”

Joel’s smile is wide. “Yeah, I focused on my baby… but I was seeing somebody for a while when she was much younger and I didn’t know any better. She was in Sarah’s life pretty much as soon as we became a thing and it’s because I didn’t have a babysitter, I didn’t really have money, so my dates had to be at my house.” He rubs at his eye and takes a deep breath.

“What happened?” 

He shakes his head. “I don't know but Sarah got really attached and then one day she was just gone and I’m not the kind of guy who shows up at a woman’s job wanting to talk.” 

I raise my eyebrows at him and he corrects himself. “Except you but that was different. If you decided tomorrow that you want nothing to do with me, then that's that.”

“Well, I’ll let you know how I feel when I wake up in the morning,” I tell him.

He twists, planting himself next to me, and leans close the way he was that night at the bar. “What can I do to sway you?” 

Sweat beads along his temple, mixed already with his cologne in the late morning, lunchtime sun. I like how warm he smells, allspice and vanilla and coffee mixing with the heat of his breath on my ear.

“You're doing it right now,” I tell him.

Bowing his head, he presses his lips to my bare shoulder, real kisses following butterfly kisses all the way to the crook of my neck. 

I’m so afraid of the way I feel about him already. Everything I’ve ever had has been intense and immediate, fizzling out after good sex I only later realize was bad and I haven’t even had that in a long time. This is intense, it has been immediate, but not in the way every other time was. 

He looks like an Old Hollywood actor, the kind that would thrive on black and white film. Joel has an interesting face. Far from ugly but far from the All American definition of sex appeal and six packs pushed in the movies and on TV now. He devastates me in ways I still have not been able to put true words or feelings to, I only know that I want to be near all this beauty I see within him for as long as he’ll have me.

Another kiss to my jaw, to the corner of my lips, before he grabs my chin and turns my head bringing us mouth to mouth.

There’s a giggle we share when he pulls away, the sound drawing him back in for more. “Can’t believe you paid thirty dollars to make out with me in a garden.”

And that’s it, really. That’s all there has been. It’s technically been three weeks but only this last one accompanied by his mouth on mine. The people pleaser that I am probably would’ve jumped in bed with him on the first date if that’s what he had wanted but it wasn’t.

“Can't believe you were going to pay thirty bucks to make out with me in a garden,” he responds. “Aren’t you glad I saved you the trouble?”

February 3, 2003:

“Have you slept with him yet?”

“Mom!” 

She shrugs, eyes rolling up to the ceiling with her coffee cup in hand. 

I picked her up from the airport last night but before I could even tell her about Joel, she smelled his cologne mixed in with mine.

“It's complicated,” I tell her. I said as much in the car last night; though, it’s really not.

She called bullshit and she does so again. “Sonny, sweetheart, you have never been with a man you didn’t tell me about immediately.”

“This is different,” I insist. Different and not a conversation for pancakes in public. “I was going to tell you about him this morning, it’s not my fault you sniffed it out before I could.” 

“Do you love him?” She asks. “That's the only way I can imagine it’s different.” Air quotes around that last word. 

I feel small. Like a teenager running up the phone bill again and missing curfew, her voice echoing the same words her parents said to her. “I don't know, mom, it’s early. You’re the one who’s always trying to set me up!”

“But I didn’t set you up.”

“No, mom,” I affirm. “But Drea might as well have. It’s fine, you’d like him.”

“I liked your father just fine too,” she says.

She’s leaned back in her chair now, arms crossed as she stares across at me. Her hair is a mix of grays painted through red, a natural ginger shade I tried so hard in adolescence to achieve. 

“And, yet, I don’t know who that man is,” I respond. “You’re the one always asking me about grandchildren and where my life is going, encouraging me to find somebody to build with because you’re worried about me dying alone married to my career.”

“It just seems fast for you to love somebody,” she says, leaning forward again. Elbows on the table, she reaches for my hands. “Sweetheart, I just want what’s best for you.” 

Tears burn in my eyes. “I know that, so trust me when I tell you that this is good,” I tell her. “Joel is good and I just want to keep it to myself for a bit, does that make sense? I don’t need to make a spectacle and tell everybody, mark my claim over him with public displays of affection and going down the list of my phonebook. I-I trust him.” 

“You love him.”

I ask her if we have to bring that into it right now; the idea that my attachments and feelings to him are more than what I’m willing to name for her at the moment. These might be little words but they’re big meanings. I shrug, “isn't trust enough?” 

Her head shakes, clear blue eyes filled up with worry. “No. Because you’re doing yourself a disservice by ignoring the other—you need to be prepared to protect yourself should his feelings not be the same.” 

 She begs me to be careful as the check is brought, as my card’s laid down. She tells me all the issues she had with my father, how amazing he was until my existence was known as if the existence of babies ever truly brings the best out of fifteen year olds. She says to not end up like her.

“I'm just saying, Sonny, be careful.” She tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “Life, and this world, loves to tear happiness apart. You probably see that more than anybody.” 

Recounting the day on the edge of sleep, he hums through soft laughter and lulls me closer to closed eyes.

“Your mom,” he says finally, the water in the background shutting off, “she sounds sweet.”

“She grilled me about you,” I yawn out. “At breakfast this morning.”

“You told her about me already?”

His accent’s thick with sleep, too, but still laced with surprise.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I tell him, eyes following my mother as she walks from my en suite back towards the living room pull out couch. “She smelled you on me.”

They both laugh.

“What? You had a smile two miles wide, sweetheart?”

“Maybe I did,” I tell him honestly. “But no, literally as well.”

He laughs again. “I was all over you at the gardens." Voice impossibly low. “And again in the truck.”

All over in such innocent ways; shoulder bumps with his hand in mine, large hands cradling my head to his chest. Forehead and eyelid and nose tip kisses. 

“And again in your bed.” Lower still, the way it was in the late afternoon as we laid together here trading soft whispers back and forth. “You like a lot of pillows, I’ll have to remember that.” 

We didn’t sleep together—haven’t slept together.

“Hmm, I think it was strong enough on me,” I tell him, casting a glance into the living room where my mother is laughing with the laugh track on the television.

He came in to help put the picnic supplies away, more kisses pressed into my shoulders and my cheeks as he walked around the small kitchen and washed up at the small sink. As he bent to put his shoes back on, I ran my fingers through his curls, thanking him again for the day. Joel looked up with big, watery brown eyes and kicked his shoes back off before pushing me back against the wall.

“I'll tell you what was strong, sweetheart.” He laughs again, the soft sound warming me over. “What was strong was my self control. Yours too, baby.”

I told him I didn’t have condoms, they’d expired so I’d tossed them. He said he didn’t bring one because he didn’t want to be presumptuous. 

That didn’t stop him from pressing his knee up between my thighs; didn’t keep his hand out from beneath my skirt, hard worked palms skating up my sides and back down to the waistband of my panties.

“You weren’t even wearing a bra,” he breathes out.

“Nope.”

“But I was still so respectful.”

“You were,” I affirm.

He was. Gave nothing but a surprised sound and a light squeeze to my ribs.

“I should let you sleep,” he says. “How long’s your mom in town for again?”

“Until Thursday.”

“Well, when I don’t get lunch from you tomorrow, I’ll understand why.”

February 7, 2013:

“Hey, sweetheart,” Joel breathes into the phone as soon as I pick up. “You got a second?”

I haven’t seen him in days. Between my mom visiting and him working a job in San Marcos, no times lined up for even the most fleeting of moments together. 

“Yeah, what’s up?” I’m in the break room, hard chair beneath me as I spear into a salad. “Are you breaking up with me?”

He laughs. “That'd be fucking stupid to do,” he says. “No, no. I just wanted to hear your voice. I kinda feel stupid for how badly I wanted to hear it.”

“God, you have no idea how much I've wanted to hear yours.”

“Yeah?” He sounds closer to the phone now, like he was holding it away before, waiting for rejection. “I got used to seeing you every day there for a minute and now I miss you.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I’ve given up on the salad, it’s nothing but soggy lettuce and croutons now. The chicken wasn’t even good but I bought it pre-packaged out of the cafeteria so, you know, beggars can’t be choosers. “I was so focused on getting my mom to the airport this morning and getting to work on time, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said last night, I ended up forgetting my lunch.”

“Damn, it would’ve been my time to shine.” 

“Really disappointing me here, Joel. How dare you?”

“Watch yourself,” he says, laughing low and dangerous. “I meant what I said to you last night.”

I glance down at my watch to check the time, five minutes left for lunch and an hour left in work. “Maybe you should give me a reminder.” Maybe I should save the rest of this conversation for when I get home.

“Mm.” He huffs a laugh. “If I could, I would show you. Keep having to school my thoughts, can’t stop thinking of the mess you made of me last weekend.”

“If only there were a way you could send me a picture,” I tell him. 

He hums. “Or you could send me one.”

“It's probably a good thing I can’t, given how last week went,” I laugh out. “I imagine I’d be a terror with that power.”

Joel laughs alongside me, says he thinks it’d be real dangerous for both of us if we had that power. He ends with telling me we’ll make plans soon, dinner or lunch or a five minute kiss in the parking lot.

“I expect you to behave yourself until then,” he asserts. “No grabbing yourself one of them polaroid cameras and dropping pictures off at my work.”

“Oh, Mr. Miller… that might be exactly what I do.” 

February 12, 2013:

Wolf whistles follow me into the new build followed by calls to watch my step as I go.

“Bring anything for me, Alison?”

Tommy meets me in the doorway, arm up to lean against the frame and block my way in with a shit eating grin. 

“You know, actually”—I reach into my bag—“I did.”

He holds his hand to his chest when I pull mine back out with my middle finger up, head thrown back acting as though he’s been shot. “You have the humor of a teenage boy and I am so jealous of my brother.”

“Maybe you’d be in his position if you hadn’t questioned my credentials that day,” you tell him. “Watch your mouth next time.”

“Oh come on, Ali, I meant it in the way that I’d never seen a doctor so hot unless they were on television.”

“Oh my god, Tommy.” I push past him into the house, the smell of sawdust and insulation and sweat thick in the air. 

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he grabs my arm and pulls me back to him. “My brother’s gonna kill me if you don’t put on a hat,” he says, taking his own off and putting it on my head. “The neon yellow really goes with the pink dress.”

I reach into my bag again and hand him one of the cling wrapped sandwiches I brought. “Where’s he at?” 

“You don’t hear him cussing up a storm in the kitchen?”

I shake my head. “The only thing I hear is your grating voice.” 

He holds the sandwich to his heart, dimples pulling a smile wide across his face. “If he doesn’t marry you, I’m killing him.” 

Through to the kitchen, Joel’s working on a cabinetry install.

“Hey, Miller.”

He practically melts as he turns, shoulders dropping all tension as he looks me up and down. “Hi. What are you doing here?” 

Not only did our schedules not line up last week, they didn’t line up over the weekend either. I had baby showers and wedding showers to attend and an extra shift I picked up at the hospital between those. He had already promised Sarah a trip to the zoo because the weather had been nice for it and a trip to the same gardens we visited the weekend before. Yesterday, I caught up on sleep and cleaning and television shows and he was here. 

“I brought you lunch,” I tell him. “And there is coffee in my car.”

He follows me out, passing the hat from my head and back to Tommy as we pass barely built threshold. Nobody tells me to watch my step this time, or whistles like a horny cartoon, not with Joel’s hand on my back guiding me across the pathway and down the road.

A small praise leaves his lips when he sees that I’ve parked in the cove, away from the prying eyes of his coworkers. 

Joel drops his hard hat in the grass, tipped up and off his head as I turn to him in the open door of the passenger side, and pins me to the edge of the seat with his hips on mine.

“I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” he whispers.

“It's been ten days, Joel.”

One thumb swipes across the swell of my cheek while the other presses into the pout of my bottom lip. “It's been two weeks.”

“You're so good at math, how do you not end up in my emergency department more—“ 

Fingers sliding back into my hair, he cuts me off with his lips against mine, opening my mouth beneath his own. Sweat drips off his nose and down my cheek, clings to his facial hair and his clothing and I know that I’m covered in it. Covered in him like that night the last time I saw him. But he didn’t kiss me like this. This is hungry and half feral.

Joel pulls away and comes back, a kiss to the corner of my lips; my cheek; my temple. He gathers me up and pulls me close to his chest, chin resting on the crown of my head. “It’s been two weeks,” he says again.

My only answer is a nod of my head against the sweat stained, cotton fabric of his shirt. All I can do, all I want to do, is sit here like this with him for as long as I can but I know I can’t. Not with the sound of hammers and nail guns and table saws in the background. 

God, I feel safe with him.

He steps back and looks me up and down again. ”Where have you been hiding this dress?” 

“In the back of my closet behind all the scrubs.”

“You look gorgeous,” he says. “I'm really glad I rubbed my sweaty man smell all over you. If you go anywhere after this, nobody is going to speak to you.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I really have to beat the boys back at the library.” 

Laughter, light and infectious. He takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips, brushing them against the back of my knuckles. “I need to ask you something.” 

“Oh boy.”

“Sit,” he nods his head behind me.

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. You sit, you know you won’t be able to until you drive home otherwise.”

“With my knees?” His face twists in preemptive discomfort. “Baby, if I sit, I’m not getting up.” 

Conceding, I nod. “Okay. Ask me something, then.”

He takes a deep breath, runs his hand across his forehead and then down his face, and breathes back out. “Sarah has this Valentine’s dance thing at her school on Friday,” he starts. “After that, she’s going over to a friend’s house for a slumber party and I was wondering if”—he pushes out another breath and scratches at his beard again—“I was wondering i-if you’d come over and let me make you dinner.”

“Oh my god, yes,” I tell him. “Why do you sound so nervous? I literally showed up to your job with food, I’m not even your girlfriend.”

“Are you not?” He asks. “Because there are no other women I’m making out with in gardens or bringing exorbitant amounts of coffee to while she slogs through her twelve hour shifts. How’s my friend Gary by the way?”

“Greg,” I correct him. “He couldn’t get his shit together over a patient with a severed arm from a car wreck so he transferred to pediatrics.”

“Fitting.”

“He'll be begging to come back when he realizes a severed arm isn’t nearly as bad as seeing babies in pain.” 

Joel licks his lips and leans in for another kiss and then another and then one more. Small pecks against my lips as he gently cradles the crown of my head, holding to me to him like he’s afraid of letting me go.

“I was nervous,” he whispers. “Because I was also wondering if you’d like to have a slumber party of your own with me?” 

Dear God. “Yeah.” I try to school the enthusiasm in my nod as I pull back, his hands falling to my shoulders, but judging by the way his face lights up, I’m not doing a good job.

“Yeah?” 

“Yes,” I affirm. “I’d really like that.”

Eyes closed, he smirks. “You have no idea how relieved I am.”

“Did you think I’d say no?” I ask him.

Lips pursed, he nods. “I thought this might finally be the time you tell me to fuck off, yeah.”

February 14, 2003:

Slow is a bad word in the hospital.

Hell, it might be a bad word everywhere.

But it is quiet and I will take that over the bullshit most holidays bring. Not that we won’t see the lovers and how their nights have gone—scorned and bloodied or the romantic, candlelit sex gone wrong. But that’ll hopefully come well after seven when I’ve walked out for the day.

“Murphy,” a familiar voice comes up behind me. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Two hours ago,” I tell her, not looking up from my notes. “Another sandwich.”

“Preparation for a long dinner with that broken nosed hunk from last month?” 

“Not tonight, Andrea,” I tell her.

“No Valentine’s date?” She asks, sitting beside me. “Trouble in the honeymoon phase?”

Laughing, I look over at her and shake my head. “No, no trouble. Far from it, he just has plans tonight.” 

“I want to pry but I’m trying not to.”

I laugh again. “He doesn’t have another girlfriend,” I assure her. "He has a tradition with his daughter. They get all dressed up and he takes her out for a fancy dinner which, to a kid, means Olive Garden. Then they go to the movies. Tonight they’re seeing Daredevil.” 

“That seems fitting for him,” Andrea says. “You didn’t tell me he had a daughter. She must be older if she’s seeing that with him.”

“Um… yeah. She just turned fourteen,” I tell her. “Her birthday’s later in the year, I think. Around the same time as his, maybe, I can’t remember if he said.” 

She’s looking at me, eyes narrowed to read my face. “And you’re okay with that?” 

I shrug. “Can't imagine not being okay with a kid.”

Drea continues looking at me, that worried mom look my own mother wore last week.

“I like him and she’s apart of him,” I say. “Everything he tells me about her tells me she’s sweet.” 

“Dating a man with a child is a big responsibility, Alison.”

“I know. You’ve met my mother, Drea, I was also the child of a dating parent. But I love who she ended up with and she took my opinion seriously, I would want him to take hers seriously too,” I insist. “Besides, he doesn’t want us to meet yet. it’s still early and he doesn’t want to drag people in and out of her life.” I shrug again, hopeful to convey that she doesn’t need to worry about me. “I think we’re being smart about this.” 

“Your mama was right,” she says.

“Hmm?”

Mom had visited the hospital on Wednesday, brought lunch for both me and Drea and the two women sat in the break room catching up like old friends. By this point, that’s exactly what they are.

“You're in deep already,” she says. “Judging by the way that man looks at you, he is too.”

“I don’t think he is, Drea,” I say. “But I appreciate you thinking he is.”

“He is,” she reiterates. “Just be careful with your heart, involving kids is a different kind of heartbreak and not just for you.” 

The day goes by, the calm putting me on autopilot until after my shower.

Hell, the cruise control lasted me through dinner and a couple episodes of some SVU repeats. It kept my mind off of Joel, what Drea said. I was just like Sarah, watching my mom get her heartbroken which broke mine in turn. I believe we are being smart about this, the fast but slow burn of it all.

I can’t stop thinking about how she said he was in too deep, too. She said it was the way he looked at me. Said she told my mom as much. Maybe I’m blind because I’m in it, I don’t know.

Maybe I just find it hard to believe because my body wasn’t the first thing offered up—wasn’t the first thing asked for. Intentions never felt motivated by more than just wanting to get to know each other.

I should be asleep. Instead, I’ve been reading and rereading the same pages over and over again, trying to commit them to memory through some sort of comprehension. All I can think about is what to wear tomorrow, what to pack. Briefly, I wonder how childish it would be to bring my pillow. 

Vibrations cause the phone to start dancing across the bedside table seconds before the screen lights up, Joel’s name popping up beneath the low lamplight.

“Hello?”

“Hey, pretty girl,” he breathes into the line. “Did I wake you?” 

“No,” I yawn out. “Can't sleep.”

He laughs, a breathy little sound somewhere between relief and guilt. “In that case, I’d really like it if you came and buzzed me into your building.”

“Buzz—Joel, are you here?”

“Mm, yeah.” His voice is low, happy and warm. “I know it’s late, I’m sorry. Was gonna go on home if you didn’t answer but you did so—“

“Press my apartment ringer,” I tell him.

I hit the buzzer through as soon as he does, barely catching a glimpse of what he looks like in the small camera that connects my intercom to the entry vestibule. 

Five minutes pass. I lost his call as soon as he stepped inside the elevator. My head hurts, I’m starting to think it’s an elaborate prank of a sleep deprived mind and then there’s the smallest knock at the door.

It’s barely cracked before he’s pushing against it, allowing just enough space to slide his body through and against mine as he closes it behind him. Large hand flat across the small of my back, his arm squeezes around my body as he opens my mouth beneath his to grant his own tongue access.

Something’s dropped onto the small table next to us, the catchall container of coins and keys and business cards full beside it, and he grabs my hip with his now free hand—squeezing and groaning into me.

Pressing against his chest, I push the smallest bit of space between us. “Wait… Joel—“

“Yeah?” 

He pushes my hair back now, tucking an errant curl behind my ear before rubbing across the spit slick pout of my bottom lip with his thumb. 

“Where's Sarah?”

“She's asleep in the truck with Tommy,” he tells me, lips pressing into mine again. “He went to the movies with us, said he’d watch her while I came up here real quick.”

“You wanted to see me that bad?” I ask him, sweeping the tip of my thumb below one tired eye. “Just couldn’t wait for tomorrow then?”

“No, I really couldn’t.” He presses another kiss into my lips and then another. “I gotta go though,” he continues, doorknob already twisting in his hand. “If I stay any longer, I’ll end up not leaving. Do you understand?”

It’s the tone of his voice when he asks me if I understand, low and stern; tossing diesel onto the half built fire in my belly. All I can do is nod and he kisses me again—hard—before pulling away and walking back out the door.

Gently clicking back into place, I hold there at the door, hands and legs both a little shaky in the same way he’d left me that afternoon and the other day outside his work. There’s the surprise of it all, too, in the lit up nerves just beneath my skin, and no steadying breath is pushing my newfound wakefulness away. 

Locking the door, finally, I turn back towards the bedroom and my eye catches on what he left beside my keys.

Several small, orange roses sit on the entryway table wrapped in clear cellophane. 

February 15, 2003:

Oh God. Oh God.

His neighborhood is cute; quiet and tucked away just shy of the city in the south of Austin. 

The sun’s already far gone but the house is bright, lights on in the windows of the downstairs and I can see him moving around the living room through the sheer curtain he’s not yet closed for the evening.

Car’s parked on the street, hugging the curb that serves as barrier between his yard and the rest of the world. He told me he didn’t have a dog, that Sarah had been wanting one, and, really, that’s a shame. I know he’s busy, Sarah’s got soccer and school, but this yard was meant for dogs.

Drawing closer, I catch the swing on the porch as well as the small table with two chairs, and realize that the curtains aren’t just open—the window is too. Music filters out and into the open air, the sound of Stevie Nicks barely audible above the hum of a vacuum and his own singing. I almost—almost—don’t want to interrupt him. Just sit here and listen to him go about life like this.

He told me where the spare key is, told me to go ahead and let myself in when I arrived, but something felt strange about that; a strange, young woman with a duffel bag letting herself into a random house on the street. No, that wouldn’t go over poorly at all. Then again, there’s also the optics of Joel Miller standing at the door welcoming a strange, young woman with a duffel bag to his home. Whether it’s a shot gun for suspected trespassing or gossip about the single dad and his lady caller, I can practically feel the the neighbors’ eyes all on me.

Eyeing the Lone Star decoration—where the key lives—nailed to the wall beside the door, I weigh my options, take a deep breath and press the doorbell in.

Nothing happens.

No sound above the vacuuming or the singing or the music.

I try again.

Nothing. Again.

Making a fist, I bring it up to knock. The vacuum cuts on the third hit followed by the door opening and Joel standing in the frame, silhouetted by the light behind him and lit up by the one outside. 

The sleeves of his worn, plaid button up shirt are pushed up to his elbows with one button undone at the neck, exposing both his thick forearms and the defined column of his throat. His short hair is a mess, no doubt tugged between his fingers as he ran his hands through the curls again and again.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, large hands wrapping around my forearms and pulling me forward into the space. “You’re early”—he checks his watch—“I had you pinged for fifteen minutes from now.”

"One of the night nurses came in early and I hauled ass out of there,” I tell him.

The living room is huge, housing a large, worn, brown leather couch across from the television, with an armchair to the side and a dining table directly behind that.

Weight comes out of my hand, Joel’s fingers brushing against my palm to take my bag from me, and he kisses my temple. 

“Should we go for the tour?”

“Actually…” I turn to him. “I was wondering if it would be okay if I took a shower? I’ve been in and around and beside germs all day.”

Joel nods, a half dazed look and a crooked smile overtaking his face.

“We'll tour the upstairs first.”

He points to my left and takes my hand, leading up the stairs. There are pictures all over the walls of him and Sarah going through life. When she was a baby; fishing; soccer matches; concerts. 

“Be nice to me,” he says as we reach the top of the stairs. “I actually cleaned my room today but it’s still not that good looking so…” He trails off, twisting the handle to the first door at the top of the stairs and pushing it wide as if in presentation.

It’s a large room, bed against one wall with a dresser and television directly across flanked by two more doors. There’s another dresser in the corner and I try to hide my smile when I spot the elliptical but he must be two steps ahead of me.

“It's good for my hamstrings,” he whispers, mustache hairs brushing the shell of my ear.

He points me to the attached bathroom, staying to talk to me through the door as I figure out how to turn it on, and leaves when the water’s finally running.

Near eight, I meet him back downstairs, following the sounds of him humming again. 

“What are you cooking us?” 

He looks over briefly and then again shortly after turning back to the food, eyes moving up and down and up again. “Hi.”

Again, a half dazed look and a crooked smile. 

“You gonna pick your jaw up off the ground? You saw me in shorts last night.” 

Reaching out, Joel grabs the hem of the sleeve of my sweater and pulls me forward with the slightest tug until I’m close enough to kiss. “I wasn’t looking at your shorts last night,” he says. “Now, with the way you house a burger,” he says, “I figured you like steak… just don’t know how you like it cooked.” 

“Medium rare.”

He blows a breath out hard. “You're fucking gorgeous, sweetheart.” 

I don’t say anything about another button being undone, the faded black neckline of his t-shirt now visible, or the hollow of his throat framed by the worn fabric like a piece of art.

If he notices me staring, he doesn’t say anything; just works his thumb into the palm of my hand, pressing up and into the heel of it before bringing it to his lips. “Let me cook, baby, you go look around.” 

“I thought I was getting a whole tour, Joel.”

“Well…” He pulls me into him, hands squeezing into the meat of my hips and he turns me in his arms. “You're in the kitchen,” he tells me, “that's the living room”—he points over the counter and back to the couch—“and that back there”—he points to glass French doors—“is my office.” He kisses my temple. “Go explore, you know where to find me.” 

I choose the office, the sound of his humming once again backtracking his movements and now mine. 

The room isn’t small. Not like you’d expect an office to be. On one wall, sits a desk with a computer, a cork board above it adorned with notes and reminders, with a bookshelf beside it. A full bookshelf, the planks bowing beneath the weight of his collection. I pluck out one I’ve been waiting for at the library before looking through the rest. 

Out the sliding glass doors is a large backyard housing a shed and an orange El Camino.

“I’m fixing it up,” Joel says. He’s watching me from the doorway, hands in his pockets and a small smile on his face. “It was my dad’s.”

There’s sadness in his voice but I’m unsure if I should poke at it.

“He died when I was twenty,” he continues, like he can read my mind. “Both my parents, actually.”

“I'm so sorry.”

Joel shakes his head, raising a hand to wave me away. “Don’t be, baby,” he says. “I went off the deep end for a bit but I’ve made peace with it and”—he shrugs—“I got Sarah out of all that grief so I honestly wouldn’t change it.” 

I nod as if I understand.

I don’t, though. I don’t know a loss of that magnitude but, sometimes, I think of a world without my mother in it and it starts breaking me down bit by bit. Andrea says it’s our brains finally understanding the mortality of it all, preparing us for a world without our parents so it doesn’t hit us near as hard when it happens.

I can’t imagine how hard it hit him, to learn the mortality of it all at such a young age.

Book still in my hands, I follow him back into the kitchen as the oven timer goes off. 

He pulls out Brussels sprouts and baby potatoes and asks if I prefer red wine or whiskey.

“Wine,” I tell him, placing the book down on the white tile counter. “Can I set the table? Help at all?” 

He shakes his head, lips pursed as he turns to me. “You’re helping by being here, baby. Usually, Sarah goes out and I just take a damn bath and go to bed.”

“You didn’t really strike me as a bath kinda guy.”

Joel shrugs. “You come to appreciate the finer things in life when you hit your thirties. A quiet bath and a book?” He blows a breath out, big smile across his face as he begins plating the food. “One day, I’d like to get a bigger house just so I can have a damn hot tub in my bathroom—what? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Nothing,” I tell him. “That’s a good idea.”

Truth is, I’m trying not to picture him naked and tucked down into the water as steam rises all around him. Trying not to imagine me in there with him, sharing a book and a drink. 

We finish close to nine, the dinner punctuated with a light head and my hands in soapy water. Joel’s protesting my help, keeps saying I’m a guest in his home like he wasn’t doing chores in mine two weeks ago. 

“Didn't think you could get cuter,” he whispers into my ear as he presses himself against me. “But here you are in your little shorts, moving around my house and looking right at home.” 

“Yeah?” His chest is so broad against my back, warm and all encompassing. “You like the picture of me doing dishes, huh? Want me to be your little maid?” 

“You're an ass,” he whispers, lips lowering down to the crook of my neck.

His hands are back at my hips, lightly moving beneath my sweater and up my sides.

“I loved my flowers, by the way.”

His smile stretches across my neck and he hums against my pulse point. “Good, sweetheart.” 

One more kiss, half bitten in, and he steps back, hands dropping from beneath my shirt and back to his sides.

“I don’t know if you maybe wanna watch a movie,” he says, voice moving back across the room. “Or go on to sleep? I know you’ve had a long day, baby.”

“You've been calling me that a lot lately.” When I turn to him, he’s pressing exhaustion from his own eyes, another button undone on his shirt that starts revealing a graphic on the t-shirt beneath.

“Do you hate it?” He asks.

“I never said that, sweetheart.” 

Dimple pulling the corner of his lips up, he laughs. “You sure do think you’re funny, Alison. Why don’t you pick out a movie,” he suggests. “I'll make us some coffee.” 

Despite being made fun of, it takes me five seconds looking through the options to put on Jurassic Park and tuck myself neatly into the couch to watch Joel work across the room. 

He keeps adjusting his sleeves, staring down at the coffee maker as if willing it to brew faster. 

I’ve never looked at him like this—seen him like this. In his element, mindlessly stretching and scratching at the exposed lower belly as he yawns through the exhaustion of his body and mind. 

“Sarah's been drinking coffee lately,” he turns towards me. “It’s mostly creamer, because I’m trying to curb addiction, but we have it if you want it”—he holds the bottle up, gives it a shake as if in presentation—“it’s hazelnut.”  

He walks over soon after, cup in one hand with the creamer in the other. “This beige enough for you?”

It is and I know I won’t even drink much of it but it’s something comforting for the nerves I have just beneath this surface level calm.

Years have gone by since I’ve slept next to somebody; crawled in bed beside their warm body and fell easily into sleep. I don’t even know why I’m nervous, I feel safe enough with him that I know it’ll be easier than all the times before. 

“You better be glad I like you a whole lot,” he says, sitting beside me. “Corner of the couch is usually mine.” 

“I need an armrest.”

“Damn, baby,” he breathes out while he places one warm hand on my knee and leans. “So do I.” 

There’s that shared comfort again, that familiarity in a close space with one another.

Not long through the movie, I start to stretch my legs out before thinking better of it and tucking them back under myself.

“No,” he says, shaking his head and taking my coffee from me. “Turn towards me and lay back.”

I watch as he puts our cups on the table and leans back again, gripping into my knee and pulling it towards him. “Baby, turn towards me and lay back, you can stretch out that way.”

Once I’m settled with my feet in his lap, he asks me if I’m cold.

Releasing the breath I was holding, I shake my head. Cold’s not something I can be with heat radiating through my body from the epicenter of where his hand lays on my leg. “I like this view a whole lot more than that one,” I say, pointing over at the television.

Red and angry as it is, the stitches are almost fully dissolved in the cut across his nose finally revealing the smooth, subtle curve of it. He shaved as well, not by much—just a trim to clean it all up—but it exposes more of that strong jawline I’ve only felt beneath my hands. Must’ve been too distracted by the humming and the forearms to notice.

He laughs, large hand curving around my knee again. “Watch your dinosaurs, pretty girl, not me.” 

The weight of his hand is almost different now, like he’s putting more behind the small grip he has on me and I’m hyperaware of it—aware of every minuscule centimeter it moves up my leg.

All I keep thinking about is the timbre of his voice last night asking me if I understood him. That if he stayed any longer, he’d stay all night. I barely slept, moved through the day like a caffeine addicted zombie. 

Now I’m the one staying the night and his half shot nerves seem to be taking over all that confidence he used to push past my door and into my mouth.

Every time I look at him, he looks back at the television, the smallest of smirks on his face, but his hand moves higher still. His grip tightens on my inner thigh when I stretch, raised arms and arched back pushing my chest out.

Laughter. I catch him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye while his thumb runs across his lower lip. “Fuck.” 

Halfway turned to him again, he pushes himself up and my legs apart—laying himself between them and on top of me.

“This is what we both really want to be doing, isn’t it?”

The nod of my head is stopped by his grip around my chin, mouth opening easily beneath his as he presses the flat of his tongue down against mine. 

Sound tunes out to nothing, all I can hear is Joel’s heavy breaths mixed in with mine as his hips push down. 

“I asked you if you wanted to go on up to bed,” he whispers into my neck as he maneuvers my head to the side for access. “We could’ve been doing this.”

“Actu—oh—actually, you asked me if I wanted to go on up to sleep,” I tell him. “That's a much different question, Joel, and I wanted to—“

His hips bear down against my center and I know how uncomfortable he must be, how tight those dark blue jeans must feel right now.

“You wanted to what, baby?” There’s a half mocking tone in his voice, like he already knows how wet I am and he’s just trying to get me to admit it. “Hmm?” 

“I wanted to spend time with you.”

Grabbing my hand, he pulls me with him when he pushes himself up, and kisses across my knuckles before adjusting himself in his pants.

“After you,” he says, voice scratchy and strained, as he points to the stairs.

Right on my heels all the way up, he stops me as I reach his door, spinning me in his arms and pushing me against the hard wood as he pins me with his hips.

His hands are in my shirt again, my own fingers working at the buttons of his, and he makes a strangled sound right into the cup of my mouth as his rough palm skates up my ribs.

“You're not wearing a bra?” It comes out like a plea, like he’s begging me to prove him wrong.

I can’t. I won’t. “I'm not,” I confirm, placing my hand on his beneath the fabric. “I haven’t been.”

Joel steps back, both hands running through his hair before he drags them down his face. 

Swollen lips and crimson peaked cheeks, I adore him. This man who surprises me for a kiss in the middle of the night. This man who brings me coffee and orange flowers. This man who kisses like he made a deal with the Devil but still looks wrecked over a suggestive lack of clothing.

Opening the door with one hand, he lays the other flat across my back and pushes me forward into the open space, barely illuminated by one bedside lamp, and pushes me onto the edge of the bed.

“Do you wanna take that shirt off, sweetheart?” He asks, pulling his button up from his shoulders. “Or do you want me to do it?” 

Low and dangerous, an ultimatum but the result is the same either way. 

I hesitate too long and he clicks his tongue at me as he pulls the t-shirt over his head now. “Answer me.” 

Beautiful, built, broad shoulders hold him up, paler than the parts of him exposed to the sun. Edges of gold bleed into the pale skin of his chest, adorned with a light dusting of dark hair. 

“Baby,” he catches my attention again as he leans over me at the edge of the bed, “I’m taking this now, is that okay?” 

Nodding, I meet his hands at the hem of my sweater, helping as he coaxes it over my head. He takes in a sharp breath and I’m trying to imagine how he’s seeing me, trying to bolster my confidence with it. I haven’t sat half naked in front of somebody else in so long. I know he knows who I am and how I look, I know he’s touched me—my stomach, my hips, the thick of my thighs—but being bare to him in the light, no matter how low, is shaking me down.

“You tell me any time you want to stop,” he tells me, tucking a curl behind my ear. “I don’t care how far we’ve already gone, you say stop and that’s it, sweetheart. Do you understand?” 

Hands framing my face as I agree, he leans down to press his lips to mine again, up to the top of my cheek and back down again accompanied by whisker induced laughter. 

“You should take these off too,” I tell him, hooking one finger into one of his belt loops.

Joel huffs a laugh. “Take them off of me then.” 

He says it like a challenge against the shell of my ear before sucking the lobe between his teeth, letting go only to bite down onto the pulse point of my throat instead. 

Fingers trembling, I work at the button of his jeans until I manage to pull it through the hole. Joel reacts to the progress with the smallest sound of contentment as he meets my lips. Still, I can taste the frustration—the eagerness, the anticipation—building up within the both of us. Both of us wanting it over with and wanting to make it last. Another groan of relief, this time louder and longer, hums off of his tongue and onto mine as I pull the zipper down. 

Before I can pull the jeans down around his hips, he puts me flat on my back and crawls over me with both hands bracing his full weight above me. 

“You're gorgeous,” I tell him, head filled up with him.

He shakes his head. “That's you.” 

Palming over his underwear, I open my legs and mouth wider beneath him.

Wet with just a thought of him, I’m desperate to have him and he knows it—meets it with the same ferocity.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Joel pushes himself back to his feet and pushes his jeans down, adjusting himself, again, through the fabric of his briefs. He stares down momentarily, like he’s strategizing how best to approach me before leaning in again and hooking his fingers into the waistband of my shorts.

Just my shorts.

Feeling the brush of his knuckles only against my hips, knowing that he’s leaving this barrier between us makes me want him more. Because it feels so juvenile and so adult at the same time, both curious about these new feelings and taking it slow so actions can be weighed and walked with intention. 

He molds my body to his, weight sinking into me as his fingers dig into my flesh and pulls until all space between us has gone—fused together with lust and the lightest sheen of sweat.

“You have a condom this time, right?”

Laughter, bright and happy and vibrating against my body. “Yeah, baby, I didn’t think I was being presumptuous this time.” Bearing his weight against my hips, he takes in the small gasp I feed him and smiles wider. “Was I?”

He wasn’t.

He couldn’t be—not when it comes to this.

Scraping his teeth down the expanse of my neck, all composure leaves me as he wraps his lips around my sensitive nipple. Clouds fill my head—cottony, fuzzy. If I was warm beneath him before, the rush he sends through me puts that to shame. 

Breathless and panting, he looks up and says, “I won’t last inside of you, sweetheart.” 

Worry’s laced in his eyes, dark and bold and fixed on mine like a puppy begging forgiveness. Only, the forgiveness he’s asking for isn’t needed.

“That's okay,” I tell him.

“It's just that it’s…” He trails off, eyes drifting down to our connected, but not yet bare, hips. “It’s been a while since I did this with somebody else.”

“Somebody else?” I ask him.

“Well yeah,” he confirms, eyebrows pinched up and a look like it’s obvious. “I’m a solo act, baby.” 

“And what are you now?”

“I’m—" 

The phone rings, cleaving right through the silence to cut his words short.

“Fuck,” he says, grabbing the phone as he pushes himself off of me and to the side. “Hello? H-hey Susan, everything alright?”

His voice is raw and he pinches the bridge of his nose, a small expletive falling from his lips as I push myself up to sit beside him.

“No, it’s fine, Susan,” he says into the phone. “You didn’t wake me up and, even if you had, I’d prefer that over any possible alternative.” He waits, a small laugh at whatever the woman on the other end of the line says. “Yeah, I appreciate it. I’ll be about fifteen to twenty minutes.” 

“Is everything okay?” I ask as he hangs up, an apology halfway out of his mouth.

“No.” He places the phone back on the stand and stands up. “Sarah’s sick as hell, all the kids are. Slumber party’s turning into a goddamn vomit pool.” He turns to me then, adjusting and readjusting himself through the fabric of his briefs. “Sorry,” he says again.

“Hey, I work in a goddamn vomit pool,” I remind him, pushing myself up to stand as well. “You don’t have to apologize, shit happens.”

Those nerves I felt laying bare in front of him earlier didn’t come up to stand with me, leaving me again with that silent comfort he makes me feel. 

“I know, baby, but”—he pulls his pants on—“we were gonna have the best sex.”

Looking around for where he threw my shorts, I tell him, “so imagine how much better it’s going to be when we can finally—“

“Hey.” His touch is gentle on my elbow as he calls my attention back to him. “What are you doing?”

“Well, I figured I’d go ahead and head home,” I tell him honestly, having spotted my shorts—and shirt—halfway across the room.

He shakes his head, worry worn eyes darting around my face. “Obviously, I don’t make your decisions, sweetheart, but I really don’t like the idea of you driving on these roads so late and”—he shrugs on his button up—“at the risk of sounding like a selfish asshole, I was really looking forward to sharing my bed with you tonight and I don’t care what capacity that looks like.” 

“But… Sarah.”

“We can sneak you out tomorrow,” he insists. “Please tell me you’ll stay.” 

“Well”—I nod—"if you have your heart set on it.” I don’t tell him mine is, too.

Huffing a laugh, he steps into my space and leans down to press his lips to mine. “Thank you.” 

It’s edging towards midnight when the door creaks open again.

“Hey.” I close the book I picked up while downstairs. “How does she feel?”

Joel starts unbuttoning his shirt, eyes focused on mine. “Did you do all that for my baby?” He asks, shrugging the fabric off of his broad shoulders. “The empty trash can? The gatorade and crackers?”

“I don't know what you’re talking about, Joel. It must’ve been the elves.”

“Alison…” 

“There should’ve been some children’s acetaminophen and an anti-nausea tablet as well.”

He nods. “Yeah.” 

Hugging my legs to my chest, I place the book on the bedside table and watch him as he steps out of his jeans and walks towards me. We didn’t have sex but this seems more intimate—sitting up to wait for him, to check on him. 

Exhaustion is heavy on his lids and on his tongue as he tells me to scoot, lifting up the cover to lay himself beside me. “You mean so much to me,” he says, shaking his head. “If that’s laying all my cards out on the table then”—he bites his lip—“then so be it, sweetheart. It’s important to me that you know.” 

The way he looks at me takes me down—consumed and restrained all at once. It’s how I know him, how he’s been this whole time. Honest and vulnerable while holding just enough back because he’s waiting for me to choke him with it.

“Hey,” his raw voice pulls me from my reverie, “did I finally do it?”

His short curls spill between my fingers as I push his hair back and ask, “do what, baby?”

A grin splits his face and he rolls to his side to lay scratchy kisses across my outer thigh. “Was gonna ask if I finally scared you off,” he murmurs against the skin as he kisses up to my knee. “But I guess I got my answer.”

February 16, 2003:

Bed’s empty when I wake up, but still warm in Joel’s space.

It’s somewhere near six in the morning, it has to be judging on the light coming in through the windows, and it’s cold—I’m cold. 

The toilet flushes as I bury my head into his pillow, taking in the subtle sweet and spicy smell of his soap, his cologne, his work. Him.

I barely hear the bathroom door click shut but I hear the bedroom door creak open and open my eyes just in time to see him slipping out. 

But no matter how soothing and warm his spot feels, or how late I stayed up, my body is stuck thinking I’m already late for the day as I’ve slept well past my normal alarm clock and I can’t fall back into sleep.

When I come out of the bathroom, Joel’s pushing back into the room, his finger held up to his lips as the door creaks shut behind him. He’s put on clothes. Rather, he’s put on a shirt and changed into boxers.

“I turned the heat on, baby,” he whispers.

Nodding, I rub my eye. “She awake?”

He shakes his head. “No, she’s knocked the fuck out but I had to clean out the trashcan, she got sick sometime in the night.”

“Did you spray disinfectant in it?” I ask him, crawling back into his space in the bed.

He’s not far behind me, broad body encouraging me forward before pulling my back flush with his chest. “Was I supposed to?”

“It’s recommended but the scent might have woken her up so probably best that you didn’t,” I say.

“Hm. Okay.” 

Tightening his grip around me, Joel buries his nose into my back and takes a deep breath. “I could get used to seeing you in my shirts, baby,” he mumbles. “How'd you sleep?”

How did I sleep?

Usually I wake up several times in the night, if only for just a second, by the creaks and groans of my apartment and the building that holds it up. Or by the heavy footed steps of my upstairs neighbors. But I didn’t have that here. What I had, instead, was several hours of uninterrupted sleep until I no longer felt his warm body beside mine. 

“Really well.”

He hums approval into my back, pressing further forward to lay a kiss over the fabric and up until he reaches the exposed skin of my neck. “You called me baby last night,” he whispers.

Running the tips of my fingers along the back of his, I ask, “do you hate it?” And he laughs.

“I never said that, sweetheart.” He takes another deep breath, saying, “I could get a little too used to this, baby, so you better break my heart soon if you’re gonna do it at all,” on the exhale. 

He says it like a joke but I know it’s not one. Maybe it was when he said similar a month ago, but it isn’t now. Now he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, just like he said at the gardens, and hoping I’ll give him just enough warning to dodge the impact.

“I'm not going to,” I tell him, turning my head back to him. “I mean… life is messy, Joel, and I know shit happens.” He looks over me now, eyes searching mine, and I cannot get over how beautiful he is like this—kind, dark eyes and pillow mussed curls in the early morning light of day. “I can’t make any promises, Joel, but I need you to know that I don’t foresee the end of this, it’s not even on the periphery of my mind.”

“I'm not worrying you with how fast we’re moving?”

“That's the thing, Joel,” I tell him, “this doesn’t feel fast. I mean”—I rub the sleep from my eye—“it feels like it’s been just a few seconds, you know? But it also feels like it’s been a few years.” 

Joel nods and he pushes his weight down on me, hand sliding up my chest to grip around my chin while his nose slots against mine.

“I should go, though,” I murmur into his lips. “Before she wakes up.”

“Can you stay for one cup of coffee, pretty girl?” He asks. “Please?” 

His smile mirrors my own when I say, “yes,” kissing down before pushing himself back up and out the door.

Dropping my bag off by the front door, he pouts when he sees me.

“What?” I ask him.

“I was gonna bring you coffee in bed,” he tells me. “Wanted to still see you in my shirt.”

I take the cup from him, grateful I said yes to this as the lack of sleep is starting to hit me.

“It took everything in me to change back into mine but”—I run my free hand through my hair—“you and I both know it would’ve turned into a lot more than just a cup of coffee if you’d brought it to me up there.” 

“Have a little faith in me, sweetheart.” He taps his mug against mine and winks. “Did you get your book?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s yours.”

He shrugs. “Sweetheart, you could throw your coffee into my face and I would not care.”

“Yeah you would,” I call his bluff.

He shrugs. “Only because that beige bullshit I put in there would get me all sticky and I’ve already showered.” 

“You showered?” I ask and he nods while he tips the cup back again. “When did you shower?”

“Mm, bit before you woke up. It wasn’t a full one, just…” He trails off, his cheeks flushing red as he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Oh no,” I say. “I have to know now.” 

Joel rubs his forehead with his free hand and huffs a laugh. “Somebody was rubbing her sweet, little ass on me all night and I woke up in a very sticky situation.”

Laughter starts before the final words have even settled, his whole body shaking as my jaw drops. “Honestly,” he starts, trying to regain control of his giggles. “That’s kind of how you looked in the dream I was having about you too.”

Heat is rushing through my veins in different shades; embarrassment and horniness, shame because his wet dream makes me want him more, and powerful over having made a mess of him without trying.

He steps into my space, large hand smoothing down my hair as he moves to cradle my head, and leans into me. “I can’t wait to do this again, we’ll just”—he shrugs—“cut right to the chase next time.” 

“Oh, that’s all I am? Just a chase you gotta cut to?”

“Yeah,” he whispers into my lips. “Right. That’s so right, sweetheart.”

As I finish my coffee, he disappears back up the stairs, a kiss to my temple as he goes, and leaves me alone in the space of his kitchen. It’s weird how familiar it feels, like there’s half a shade of deja vu over my presence in his space. 

Everything looks real here, like a true place where people live. My apartment looks like a copy of a copy of a copy with two or more coats gray-beige paint on every wall—I’ve lived there for years at this point and I’m unsure if it’ll ever feel for me how this looks like it feels for him. There is so much love in these walls, I could melt.

“Daddy?” Sarah’s voice filters down from upstairs and I can hear his feet walking to meet hers.

“Hey sweetheart, what are you doing up?” There’s the click of a door behind him as he meets her in the hallway.

“I heard voices,” she says. “Are you talking to somebody?”

“Television must’ve been too loud, baby. I’ll turn it down when I go back downstairs. How do you feel?”

“Better,” she says. “But also horrible.”

Their voices continue to get further and further away but his laughter still finds my ears easily before I hear him say, “well, you stay up here or maybe get a shower but I think you should try to rest some more, okay?”

Her response is lost behind closed doors as Joel’s footsteps walk back towards the stairs and down.

“Hey,” I whisper, as he reaches the kitchen, “I'm gonna go ahead and go.”

“Did you finish your coffee?” He asks. 

“I finished enough of it.”

One eyebrow raises like he’s calling bullshit but he nods. “Okay. I put the book on your bag”—he takes my mug from me—“we’ll talk about it when you finish it.” 

February 18, 2003:

“Wait…” I type into the open chat. “She’s not dead?”

“No,” he texts back.

“But…”

“Just keep reading, we’ll talk about it tonight.” 

 “This is insane,” I tell him when I answer the phone.

It’s just after ten and I can hear the clicking in the background that I now know to be the lamp on his bedside table. He laughs followed by a groan, probably from sitting down, and then he laughs again. 

“Only person I know smart enough to pull off some similar shit is you, sweetheart,” he says. “God, I better not ever get on your bad side.”

“I don’t know what my bad side is,” I tell him honestly.

“It's whatever the fuck Tommy and that jackass at your work are on,” he responds. “And you wouldn’t fucking believe what Tommy did today.”

“Oh no, did he fuck your nose up again?”

Joel’s laughter is a little more intense. “No, your craftsmanship is well protected, sweetheart.”

“Then I really just can’t imagine what Tommy Miller could do that would shock me more than screwing up your face.” 

He pushes out a hard breath and groans again as his head hits the pillows. “This dumbass, baby, did a goddamn strip tease against an unfinished support beam and now has splinters—”

“No thanks,” I tell him, waving my hand to shut him up as if he’s right beside me. It hits me then, harder than it did last night or the night before that and all during the days since I said goodbye on Saturday. I want him to be here or me to be there; honestly, I just want to be anywhere where he is. It makes me feel an ache somewhere deep within me, higher than the pit of my stomach but lower than my heart. I want to share these words, however trivial they may be, in a shared space with shared breaths. “I don’t need to hear anymore.” 

“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath. “You been reading all day?”

“God, I wish,” I tell him. “I had to brave the grocery store—“ 

“Mm, braver than any US Marine.”

“—and cooked some things for the next few days. All the Valentine’s candy was so cheap but I only bought a few bags.” 

“Mm.” There’s shuffling against the speaker of the other phone, his voice muffled and it comes out sleepy and far away as he says, “good girl.”

My insides twist up with want. Not so much over his words but more over his tone, the intimacy of a voice raw with exhaustion.

Joel clears his throat. “What'd you cook?” 

“Nothing special,” I tell him, “I made chicken, rice and broccoli to take to work and then ate an entire pizza while watching television.”

He laughs. “You contain multitudes, pretty girl.” 

Silence falls between us, easy and comforting, and I’m struck by how close I am to sleep just listening to him fight it off. 

He takes another breath and lets it out. “Listen, baby, I gotta talk to you.”

“Oh,” I say, sitting up. “Okay.”

“It's not bad, it’s just…” He trails off and I can hear him shuffling, another groan followed by the sound of his head resting on the headboard. “You know how that child of mine is whip smart?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, she figured me out, sweetheart.”

I can feel the muscles in my face pinching together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“She knew I was lying to her the other day that I was just watching television,” he continues. “She said I’m always smiling now and sneaking off to take calls in secret.”

“So she knows about me?” I ask.

“Hmm, she knows there’s a woman that I’m seeing and I told her that I like you a lot and that you’re important to me and I want to keep seeing where things go with you.”

“And what did she say?” 

“She told me she can’t believe anybody would like my grumpiness or my creakiness.” 

“Your creakiness?” I ask on a laugh.

“Yeah, she said I sound like a bowl of rice krispies when I stand up or sit down.”

“Oh my god,” I breathe out. “You do. Oh, you’re such an old man.”

He laughs, steady and comforting and it fills me up.

“Look,” he goes on. “If you’re worried about her mother—“

“Joel.” 

“You’ve never asked me about her,” he says.

I shrug against the pillows at my back. “I figured you would tell me when you wanted to, I’m not interested in poking open closed wounds.”

“How do you know it’s a wound?” He asks and I can see those two lines of concentration between his eyebrows even from the tone of his voice.

“Because you’ve never said anything about her,” I tell him. “She's not in any of the pictures of Sarah in your house so I assumed it was a wound.” 

“Well,” he says on a hard breath out. “I’m telling you about her now and… if there’s any worry you have—“

“I don’t, that’s not me.”

“I know but, still… I told you I went off the deep end when my parents died. I got Sarah’s mom pregnant and I thought I was doing the right thing by marrying her. I missed being a member of a family and, you know, I saw it as a sign that I was being given a chance to build one out of all that hurt I felt.”

Water rises up in his voice, shaking and threatening like a dam begging to burst in a hard rain. It hits me that this is the foundation of all those jokes, the small comments, telling me to break his heart and do it soon to minimize the damage.

“She didn’t want to be a mom though,” he continues. “Or a wife. She just didn’t think she had any options to get out of it. Sh-she signed over all her rights, our marriage just went away like it never happened—poof.” He snaps his fingers. “I don’t know where she is now, I just hope she’s happier… and she was the last time I saw her. I was never really angry at her, just scared.”

Silence falls between us and I can hear the measured way he breathes in, harder than a sniffle, and the exhales he pushes out of his mouth.

“Are you there still?” He asks after several minutes.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

With my head in the pillows and a hurt in my heart.

“That was a lot,” he says. “It’s so late and that was a lot, I—I’m sorry.”

“It is late,” I affirm, “but I don’t think this is a conversation you’d have with me in the light of day, baby.”

Joel laughs but it’s laced with a sadness and I feel like I should apologize but I know him. I know I’m right. 

“You’re still scared,” I whisper and he sighs with relief like he’s finally been seen.

“Yeah.” That dam does start cracking now. “Scared out of my mind but”—he sucks in a breath again—“just have to keep finding something to fight for.”

 Quiet. Again. Just him and I at the end of our days in separate beds but still together. I want him here, I want to be there. After all of these words exchanged, I know he has thoughts of scaring me away rushing through his mind again. I don’t call them out—just reassurance isn’t enough to keep them at bay.

“Anyway, baby, I miss you.” He laughs again after that, the smallest sound of disbelief pushed through closed lips. “Just showing my hand every day here aren’t I?” 

“They’re good hands, Joel.”

He says, “yeah,” like I’m humoring him and then, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, sweetheart. Sleep well.”

Sleeping well is not something I can do, hasn’t been since I came home, but I don’t tell him that. I tell him goodnight and let him be the first to hang up after a couple more moments of silence, not wanting to be the one to end the call tonight.

Before I close my eyes, I pick his name out of my contact menu and choose the option to send a message. I think for a moment, considering whether or not I really should send this and wondering how he’ll take it. After a few moments, I take a breath and type, “I dreamt about your hands last night.”

February 25, 2003: 

“You ever gonna tell me about this dream you had?” He asks.

I woke up to several texts begging for clarification with more questions coming throughout every conversation of the last week as I’ve dodged the subject and continued on in other areas. 

Not that Joel would ever admit to begging.

I look over at him now in the passenger seat, leaned back and tucked down with eyes closed looking for relief from the day he’s already had. 

“You ever gonna tell me about the one you had the night I stayed over?” I counter.

“I told you,” he says, “I'm not telling you shit until I can have you flat on your back to recreate it.” 

“I guess you have your answer then.” 

He laughs and his whole body moves with it followed by a twist of pain in his face.

“You okay, Joel?”

“I'm fine,” he says through a yawn. “Barely slept last night, migraine coming on. I know I’m not being great company, sweetheart.”

“Do you need something for the migraine?” I’m halfway to my bag before I’ve finished asking but he grabs my wrist, pulling it up to his chest instead and holding it there beneath both of his hands. 

“I'm fine, baby—already took something.”

“Maybe you should go home,” I suggest.

He shakes his head, tells me there's no sick days in construction.

“That's gotta be bullshit.” 

“The only thing that’s bullshit, darling”—he peeks one eye open at me—“is that you won’t tell me what this dream of yours was about.” 

It’s been ten days since he had me underneath him, fevered up to the tips of my ears with how badly I wanted him. Ten days since, what he calls, the biggest cockblock of the century. That doesn’t sound quite right though, it was probably very low on the ratings list given how many parents must have experienced being called away for sickness.

Ten days of a kid that feels better but still refuses everything she normally likes to eat, afraid of getting sick again. Apparently she picked it up from her favorite pizza place. Joel doesn’t think he’s ever seen somebody go through so much betrayal as Sarah is now.

Ten days of double shifts for me while he drove back and forth across Travis County completing two jobs and still somehow managed to bring me coffee or chocolate or even just a kiss.

“Oh, I have something for you.”

“For me? What could you ever have for me—“ He stops speaking as I hold the envelope out to him, eyeing it suspiciously before sitting up fully.

Joel opens the envelope slowly, remarking that it’s rather heavy so it can’t just be a card and then his eyes go wide as he catches the first glimpse of the polaroids. “Alison, you didn’t.”

“I did,” I confirm. “Keep them safe.” 

Groaning he adjusts he adjusts himself, back arching in a stretch before he lays himself back down. “How much time do I have left in here with you?”

I check my watch. “About ten minutes.��

Face pinched up in anger, his nostrils flair. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll take the damn sick time. Tommy can finish the job for all I care.” 

“You don’t like taking care of yourself,” I tell him.

Both eyes open. “What?”

“This was the tone you had at the hospital that day we met,” I say. “You were about to leave, you thought it was pointless to be there.” 

“I didn't think it was—“

“You would rather have duct taped your face together than be on that gurney, Joel. It’s not a question, I’m telling you.”

He smiles. “I met you out of it so I think it was worth it.”

“Forget me,” I say. “I love how much you care for other people, Joel, but you cannot take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself. I know there are times you just have to push through it but this isn’t one of them. Sarah feels better now, most of the work you were absolutely needed for is finished. Go home, take a shower and then go to sleep.”

My hand is still held between both of his and he pulls it to his lips now. “Will you come tuck me in?”

“I can’t,” I tell him. “But I’d love to.”

“Mm, you got a hot date, I understand. What’s his name?”

“No, I-I’m going back home for a couple of days,” I tell him.

Both eyes open and he lets go of my hand to push himself up, “you don’t sound too pleased, Alison.” 

There’s—I—“ I can’t think of how to say it. I didn’t tell him when I got the news yesterday, it didn’t really impact me all that much. It’s not that I felt nothing but I didn’t really feel anything either—I still don’t. But knowing now how he dealt with the loss of his parents, how much he values family, I don’t want to give this image he has of me a callus nature.

“Alison?” He sits up further, repeating his question. “Is everything okay?”

“My grandfather died.”

“And here I am complaining about a goddamn headache,” he breathes out. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me?”

I shrug. “He wasn’t a great guy,” I tell him. “Not to me, anyway. He wasn’t the greatest guy. He kicked my mom out when she got pregnant and he only mildly tolerated my existence for my grandmother’s sake but I still want to be there for her,” I tell him. “And for my mom, you know? Like, he didn’t really like me but that’s still her dad.” 

He nods, eyes searching my face.

“Anyway,” I continue. “I fly out tonight. I’m taking bereavement leave so I’ll cash in on my doubles next week or whatever.”

“Well, if you need me for any reason or, I don’t know, want me”—he kisses my hand again—“just tell me.” 

February 27, 2003:

Stumbling drunk and full of shit.

That is the end to a hated man’s wake.

At least it is for me.

Shaking hands through tears brought on by rye whiskey, I thanked mourners and took their food and thanked more.

Through every question of, “Do you remember me?” From people who apparently knew me as a baby.

Every statement of, “Look how big you got!” Followed by a wink as eyes went from my chest to my ass and back.

I smiled sadly and I said thank you and I took another drink.

I love my mother.

I love my grandmother.

But I hate the people they come from; hate the ones they married and mated with respectively.

One person remarked that they were shocked I’d actually shown up.

I promised to stay through the weekend, help my mother and grandmother sort through the bills and the bullshit but I can’t. I can’t do this, I can’t be here. 

I can’t stay and listen to the crimes I’ve committed according to a dead man, including being born and abandoning my family. As if he didn’t set the precedent by throwing a pregnant fifteen year old on the street in the seventies. 

He came around about the time I was two months old, moved my mother and, by default, me back into the family home. We stayed there until I was fifteen, sleeping in the same room like sisters until my mother married rich enough for us to, as she put it, “strike out on our own.”

We actually were on our own six months later when the marriage dissolved faster than it started with the rumor of a brother or sister on the way. Which was just that—a rumor. Nothing was wrong with him, she just moves too fast in search of the high of an orgasm and when she was done with that—when she was coming down on those days after—he was too.

Nobody was abusive, mad or outwardly angry. I was just the elephant in the room born into fear and tension. Now I’m the elephant in the room except everybody’s sad and I’m indifferent. 

The tension remains, however. Because when it came time for college, I took the Pell grants available to me and went to the farthest away school that had accepted me. I wanted to be something other than what others thought of me or thought I would become.

Alone in the hotel room, telling Joel all of this now, I realize there are actual tears stinging my eyes and not just the burn of alcohol on an empty stomach shooting acid reflux up to my eyeballs.

“God, fuck.” Wiping away snot with the palm of my hand, I laugh. “This is so pathetic, Joel, I’m sorry.” 

“What’s pathetic about it, baby?” 

“All of it.” My head’s not spinning. It hasn’t been for a while. 

“No,” he tells me. “None of it.” 

“I became a nurse because I wanted to prove that I could actually be useful,” I tell him. “That's so fucking ridiculous.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

A beat. Maybe two. God, my head’s already pounding.

“I was just constantly reminded that I was a mistake or, rather”—I laugh—“an unfortunate byproduct of my mother’s promiscuity. Chose a career that’s never out of demand. You know? I technically… shouldn’t be here so I’m paying for my life by making sure I’m the most useful I can be.”

I am fully crying now, the heat of embarrassment flushing across every inch of my body.

“And to make it that much worse, everybody just had to comment on my weight, including my mom’s creepy uncle who”—hiccup—“who actually patted my stomach and said there was nothing wrong with a little more cushion for the pushin’.” 

“He did what?”

“And, like, yeah… I get it,” I go on. “I’m not as skinny as I was when I left for college but I’m also not starving myself anymore—I’m not sick anymore.” Goddamn it. My head is in my hands, body folded forward to contain the hunger and sadness that I feel. “Goddamn it,” I say. “I’m spiraling, Joel, I’m sorry.” 

“Alison, take a deep breath.” Joel’s tone is low, stern and sad. “Stop apologizing to me,” he says as I follow his instructions. “I’m sorry that this is what you’ve dealt with from your family, that shit is not fair, but I want to make one thing very clear to you right now—you are not, and never have been, a mistake. Teenagers had sex, it’s what they do, and a baby happened because of it. Because that is what happens and you should never have been made to feel like your existence was your fault. Your mother was the responsibility of her parents and they failed her and blamed you for it.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay is good enough for now,” he says. “But, sweetheart, I want you to actually believe it.” 

“Maybe someday,” I tell him.

“Now… I’m trying not to sound like an asshole here, baby, but what is wrong with your weight?” 

“Nothing,” I tell him. “Nothing’s wrong with it, it’s just… I was like ninety-something pounds when I went to college and now I am noticeably m-more than that. You know? I have a stomach with rolls and thighs. I have tits, I have an ass.” I’m naming these things I’m proud of having as if I’m ashamed, that’s what two days has done to me here.

“Ninety-something pounds?” If I actually broke his heart, this is what I imagine he would sound like. “That’s—fuck. That’s almost what Sarah weighs, baby. Where are you right now?”

“I'm at the hotel,” I answer. “I didn't want to stay with my mom and her husband or my grandma. I knew I would feel like shit but, Jesus… I do not want to bring this shit back to Austin.”

“You said you changed your flight to tomorrow? What time?”

“Late,” I respond. “It was only like twenty bucks to switch to the late Friday flight but it would’ve been two hundred for the early one.”

“Tell me what time, I’ll pick you up.”

“I told you, baby, it’ll be late.” I rub at the point between my eyebrows, tensed up around a headache. “Don’t worry about picking me up.”

“I'm your boyfriend,” Joel says, a smile in his voice. “I should pick my girlfriend up from the airport.” 

He can’t see it but I’m shaking my head, still wiping away the tears that did fall—are falling. “Joel, you can’t leave Sarah in the house alone.”

“Okay, baby,” he concedes. “Get some sleep.” 

February 28, 2003: 

Landing in Austin is the first breath I feel like I’ve taken in days.

I don’t think I’ve ever pulled off a sweatshirt faster, hugging it into my stomach while the cool—but much warmer than Boston—air hits my shoulders as I walk the bridge from the plane to the gate.

Mom wanted to drive me to the airport after we met for lunch but I couldn’t do it. I needed to separate and compartmentalize before boarding. Because I didn’t want to bring the events of the day before back home and I didn’t want to bring it back to Joel.

Joel who, as I walk through baggage claim, is waiting for me with his hands in his pockets and a look like he’s bracing for impact.

“I told you not to leave Sarah,” I tell him as I meet him by the doors.

“They’re having a redo of that slumber party tonight,” he says, taking my bag and hoisting it up on his shoulder. “You said you were coming in on a later flight so I looked up what time every flight from Boston was landing. I came straight here after work.”

“It's close to eleven, Joel!” I turn on him in the parking lot. "You’ve been sitting here since work ended?”

He nods.

“Have you even eaten?” I catch sight of his truck and start moving towards it. “Oh my god, you must be so fucking tired.” 

Following me, he tells me that he is tired but that he’s eaten. Then he tells me the exhaustion means nothing because it was more important to him to be here for me.

I was wrong about landing being the first breath I’ve taken in days.

There’s so much comfort in him—in his coffee covered, sawdust scent.

“I told you, you didn’t have to come get me.”

“I know what you said,” he confirms with me. “But let’s switch for a second, okay? If I’d called you from two thousand miles away, drunk and crying, would you not be picking my ass up from the airport?” 

“I would be.”

“So here I am, baby.” 

He kept one hand on me until he put the car in park and was out the door before I was, grabbing the bag from the back.

“I can take it now, Joel, thank you.” 

“Do you not want me to come up with you?” He asks. “You can tell me.”

“I would love for you to come upstairs, I just don’t want you seeing me like this.” I shrug when he raises his eyebrows, the movement slipping the strap of my tank top down. “I'm really embarrassed about what happened on the phone last night.” 

“I'm not,” he says. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, not with me. I barely slept last night, I just wanted you to be okay. After what you told me last night, I should be the one asking if you’ve eaten—“

Asserting that I have, I tell him he doesn’t have to worry about me. Tell him that it’s fine, I’m fine and I’m home now so it can only get better. I don’t tell him about how I’ll be worse before that happens—further down before any up can be gained.

Joel steps back a pace, looks me up and down, and then forward again, closer this time, and smiles. “Good, now can we get out of the cold before your lips turn blue or is that something else I have to worry myself sick over, Alison?”

He takes the keys from me on the third try when I drop them because my hands are shaking I can’t get them in. He can be not embarrassed all he wants but that doesn’t change where I’m at. Where I know I’ll be for a while, because it’s where I go when there’s too much happening at once.

The elevator’s slow, filling up my ears with the high pitched humming of operation. Joel still has the keys when we reach my door and he holds them up.

“Which one?”

“Um”—I grab the end of the skinnier key—“this one.”

But he takes it back from me to turn the lock instead.

And then I’m home, genuine relief flooding into me the moment I’m across the threshold. Even more when I hear the drop of the bag before strong arms find me.

Pulling me back against his chest, he presses kiss after gentle kiss into my temple.

“I need you to know that when I answered the phone and heard you crying, my fucking heart almost stopped.” Rough hands slide beneath the fabric of my shirt and squeeze me tighter. “I was so worried.”

“Does Sarah really have a redo on her sleepover? Or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“She does,” he says. “No pizza this time.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that last night?” I ask him.

“I would've loved to, sweetheart,” he breathes into my skin, “but you weren’t in a spot where you wanted to hear it. Would you even have changed your mind if I’d told you?”

“No.”

“Right,” he says and he takes the sweatshirt, still hugged to my stomach, out of my hands to toss across to the couch before pulling me closer still. “Now, do you want to shower or do you want food? What can I do for you to help?” 

Turning in his arms, I push my face into his chest and breathe him in. “I’m fine, baby, thank you,” I tell him on the exhale. “You can head on home if you need to.” 

A small expletive born out of frustration tumbles into my hair and his chest rises against mine. “I don’t give a shit about me, Alison.” His chest falls. “What do you need?” 

#the last of us #get u someone like joel #and alison bc i love her

[darnitdraco]

Tess was not a good fucking person oh my god

#the last of us #pedro pascal

[darnitdraco]

Please read the hell out of this. Today, tomorrow, always. Wyn has a way of making you feel the characters feelings in a way that keeps you from doing anything other than reading about them.

Days of You & Me: January

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC!Alison Murphy Word Count: 7.0k+ Warnings: Descriptions of death/injury (OFC is a nurse). Awkward turtle Joel. Little shit baby brother Tommy. Author's Note: Sitting on my hands has been so so so difficult but I'm so glad that I did. I've been working for a couple of weeks on this story now. If I tag too many people, this won't show up in the tags but such a huge thank you to everybody has encouraged me and proofread and helped me edit. It means so much and I love you so much. Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates (if you want to) for notifications on this story. If you follow the link to the series masterlist, you can access the playlist.

Days of You & Me Masterlist

January 4, 2003:

Only an hour left in this bright light bullshit.

God, maybe two. Maybe more.

Lost count to quitting time somewhere around the third car wreck that made its way through the emergency room doors. Another pileup somewhere on I-71 because Texans can’t drive in the best of weather, and rain really makes a fool out of them.

Freeze the rain and it gets worse. 

So many needless deaths today. Screw the paperwork that comes with it; that’s nothing but typing notes into the computer and calling it a day. I can handle that. It’s when the light goes out behind somebody’s eyes that chips away at my soul. If I didn’t believe in something and a balance, something far bigger than myself, then I would’ve slipped away with all those souls a long time ago, too.

But God, I need a fucking break.

“Murphy,” a voice over my shoulder, “you busy?”

“I don’t know, Andrea, do I look busy?”

“Less busy,” she responds, placing a hand on my shoulder, “and more like hell. How you holding up?”

Let’s see, I’ve only been able to piss once today while simultaneously being on my eighth cup of coffee and the only food I’ve had is half a cinnamon roll so… "Just fantastic, Drea.” Looking up at her and her sympathetic smile, I immediately regret it. “I'm being a bitch, Andrea, I’m real sorry.” 

“No apologies, it’s been a day. That’s why I figured you’d want the handsome gentleman that just came in.” She winks conspiratorially. “No wedding ring.”

A laugh barely passes my lips. Andrea’s the head nurse but she might as well be my mom with the way she’s constantly trying to set me up. Hell, the first time my mother visited and they met, the two of them couldn’t get over what a catch I am. Mom said my accent had changed enough after a decade, I should be pulling the cowboys in left and right. Drea agreed, even brought up my dimples and good humor.

“Depends. Is the handsome gentleman close to death? Because that seems to be the only thing I’m good for today.”

She shakes her head. “He needs stitches, not a grim reaper. Get him sorted and you can head on home, I’ll finish your notes.”

“But—“

She raises her hand to stop me. “Don't argue with me, I’m handing you a hot guy and a break. Go!”

There’s another reason to believe there’s something else calling the shots out there—I have Andrea. And if nobody else hears my prayers, I know she does.

Miller, Joel. The chart is bare bones chicken scratch; a name and height, birthdate, blood pressure, description of injury—gash across nose—and the recommended treatment. 

"This is bullshit, Tommy,” comes a deep, thickly accented voice behind the curtain. “We’ve been here for hours, I need to get home to Sarah.”

So much for no ring on his finger.

The other man—Tommy—says she’ll be alright and that she ordered a pizza. That’s a good fucking idea, actually. But as I pull the curtain back, I start to lose my appetite again.

Gash across nose was not an accurate descriptor. Large gash across nose would be more apt. Hell, it’s split so wide I’m curious how it’s even hanging on. Not quite sure where Andrea got handsome out of that; I can see it, maybe, but maybe she saw a thirty-one year old man without grays and figured that’d be good enough. 

Both men are looking at me like I’m the one with half a nose.

“Finally—“

“—you’re the doctor?” 

“I'm very sorry for your wait, Mr. Miller,” I address the man on the gurney and turn to the other while pulling on my gloves. “And, no, I’m not the doctor. We’re a little bit short handed today so I’m drawing all the straws on stitches. You’re welcome to wait longer,” I continue, turning back to Mr. Miller, “if a doctor is who you pref—“

“NO!” It comes out pretty gruff—a half angry bark—and he attempts to take a deep breath. “No,” he says again. “No, this is fine. Just put my face back together and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Yeah, maybe you’ll do him a favor,” the other man says. “Actually make him good looking for once in his life.”

“Tommy, get the fuck out.” 

“Oh, he’s not bothering me, Mr. Miller.”

“Joel, please,” he says, wincing as I tip his head up to the light. “And he’s sure as shit agitating me. I’m sure you can tune out an asshole or two but I’ve been trying since this one was born so I don’t think you’ll have much luck.”

The other man takes his leave, says he’s gonna go update Sarah, and all tension drops from Joel’s shoulders. I finally see the handsome when he opens his eyes—big and brown, salt water building in the ducts at the corners. Magnetic and kind.

“Have they cleaned this yet, Joel?” 

“No, they put me in here and said somebody would be with me soon.” 

Every time I push his fingers away, they try to come back and I can tell he’s trying to resist temptation to hold himself together—literally—but he is failing. 

“And did you attempt to clean the wound at all?” I ask, finally smacking him across the hand like a toddler.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes out, “it’s a struggle just trying to keep my eyes open right now.” 

Sweetheart. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, that’s just southern hospitality. But ten years in Texas and I’m still not used to it. Never had it light fire in my bones before either, though. “Fair enough,” I tell him, letting go to prepare an irrigation syringe to push the debris out of the wound. “So… did you lose or should I see the other guy?”

He huffs a laugh as I get to work, attempting to pull away when the water hits his nose. “Considering my fight was with a two by four, I think it’s safe to say I lost.” 

“Oh, please tell me it at least snapped in half. An eye for an eye and all that.”

Joel laughs again. “Fuck, I hope not. It’s Brazilian Olivewood, expensive as hell but so’s our client—and so is sitting in this damn cubicle. Let’s not lose me too much money today.”

Wound clear of debris, I put the syringe down and pluck the cotton pad out of the saline solution and start dabbing carefully at the dried blood crusted onto the edges of his broken skin. He keeps wanting to pull away, broad chest rigid and jaw set against the pain. “I can give you a numbing shot,” I tell him casually.

“That'll run me—what? A grand?”

“Round about,” I tell him. “Can you really put a price on comfort?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “Yes, I can. I don’t give a fuck about myself, I’ll take the pain. Now, if Sarah was the one sitting here…” He trails off. We both know how that sentiment would end but it’s almost like he can’t fathom that possibility.

“Well, she is a lucky woman, Mr. Miller.”

“Joel, please” he says. “I’m thirty-five, not the goddamn crypt keeper. As for Sarah, well…” He takes another deep, labored breath. “It feels like she’s more mature than I am most days. Fourteen going on forty-five but I’d break my back to give her the world. Hell, I broke my nose trying to.” 

“Your nose is certainly busted, Joel,” I tell him. “But I think you’ll be okay. I do, however, need you to stop crossing your eyes to look at what I’m doing.”

“Just wanna make sure you’re doing it right.” 

“Maybe you should focus on doing your job right and you wouldn’t have to worry about mine.” 

His eyes meet mine and he smiles, crooked and quiet, and easy silence falls over us as I pull string through skin. 

Back in its proper place, and with most of the blood gone, I take in more of those good looks—a curved nose with full lips, day old stubble growing up to the fine lines of fatigue beneath his eyes and the soft kind of cheeks that smile lines like to call home. If anything, the scar this leaves him with will only serve to make his face more interesting. 

“I'd give you some ibuprofen but that would be another two-fifty,” I tell him as I pull the final stitch through. “I trust you know how to get to the pharmacy.”

“That I do.” His voice is low as he leans towards me. "I'm a rewards member.”

“Great,” I say, stepping back at the shock I feel from his proximity. “Follow the directions on the bottle, keep”—I wave my hand over his nose—“this clean and the stitches will dissolve as it heals. Come back if anything weird starts coming out of it.”

“Weird?”

“Pus, mainly. But if you rip it open with more Olivewood, we can add blood to that list.”

“Jesus, have a little faith in me, you’re starting to sound like my brother.” His eyes follow me as I clean the area around him, making an easier job for the—what did he call it?—cubicle to be turned over for the next occupant. “You're not from here, are you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

His head is shaking when I turn back to him. “Not obvious unless you're looking real close, which I have been.”

“Boston,” I tell him. “Close enough to it anyway.” 

“You don’t sound like it,” he says. “How the hell did you even end up down here?”

Laughing, I tell him I got into UT Austin. “Came for the warmth.” 

“Not the parties?” He asks, shocked.

“Not the partying type.” I let the r drop from partying and he smiles.

Gaze staying fixed to my movements. I can feel nerves creeping in, a free falling kind of anxiety butter fingers are made of and I’m waiting for the tray worth more than my paycheck to fall. 

He grabs his jacket as he stands and nods at me as if tipping some kind of hat. “Thanks for fixing my face, sweetheart.” 

January 9, 2003:

“Morning, Murphy,” Andrea says as she walks in. “Been a while since I saw you darkening my doorstep. Busy day?”

I’ve pulled shifts in pediatrics and cardiology the last few days, covering for their staff shortages wherever I can fit myself in. Neither’s much fun. While I do like that I get a longer amount of time to spend with the patients, build a rapport with them, that only makes the hurt hurt more. Especially pediatrics.

“For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to say yes,” I tell her, looking up from my spot in the nurse’s station. “And I’ve already had to tell one of the doctors to go fuck themselves.”

“What did they do?”

“Found out they’d been putting off admitting a kid with suicidal ideation who’s been waiting all night. Apparently it’s the fourth time this month the kid has been in here but I looked it up and it’s only the second.”

Andrea nods her head. “I would’ve yelled too.”

“I never said I yelled, I said I told him to fuck himself.”

She sits beside me then. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you what happened yesterday then. Or the day before that either.” 

I stare at her, waiting for the stories, but I have to roll my hand in a gesture to get on with it before she starts speaking.

“Remember that hunky guy from Friday?” She asks. “The one whose nose you put back together?”

“Yes?”

“Well, he came in on Monday looking for you, said you told him to come back if anything weird came out of his nose other than blood.”

“Oh god, what color was it?” I ask. 

She laughs. “That's the thing, there was nothing wrong with his nose as far as I could tell, your stitches looked good and his face was clean.”

“Then”—I can feel my face pinch up in confusion—“why was he here?” 

“Oh, he said he wanted to thank the nurse who helped him. When I said I’d pass along the message, he said he’d much rather tell you himself. He asked if you worked Tuesday but I said I didn’t give out schedules and he understood. Still came back though.”

“Came back in a… creepy way?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t get that vibe from him. Actually—I think your mama might owe me some money for being the one to finally find you a man.”

Money? “You made a bet?”

She shrugs. “If he comes back today, maybe I’ll tell you.” 

January 11, 2003:

If Joel Miller showed up on Wednesday, I wasn’t made aware of it.

Same goes for yesterday.

But today, at the end of all the bullshit and the car crashes both coming in and happening all around me, I’m called to the waiting room.

Standing easily at six feet with two half black eyes, Joel worries the brim of a hat in his hands as he looks around nervously. He really is handsome. Not my type but not not my type.

Joel’s the kind of guy I’m attracted to but never the one I end up with.

Or, at least, end up horizontal with.

“You work tomorrow?” The end of his sentence goes up a little higher than I think he meant it to, like he wanted it to come off cool and lost himself along the way.

He told the front desk he was worried about his stitches, just wanted them checked out to make sure he’s keeping up with them alright. Which he is, they’re perfect. His request was bullshit and he apologized for interrupting my day. I didn’t tell him that this interruption was a much needed respite to the chaos behind the doors.

“Why?” I ask, studying the broken blood vessels darkening the bridge of his nose. “Are you planning on losing a finger next? Because I gotta be honest with you, Mr. Miller, short straw or not, that is far out of the scope of my responsibilities.”

He laughs. “No. But I’d like to stop by and maybe take you to lunch.”

Holy shit.

“That's bold, Joel, but I’m off for the next four days so I guess we’ll just have to part with only this between us.” 

“So you’ll be back Wednesday?”

“I don’t give out my work schedule, sir,” I tell him.

Smile lines do form then, lips stretching wide to show a bright smile. “Just tell me what you like in your coffee, I owe it to you after you took such good care of me.”

“Don't worry, your insurance will pay me enough for the official visit you already had but”—my voice drops to a whisper as I lean in—“I’ll never refuse a plain latte with cinnamon on top.”

I shock myself even as I say it.

“Plain latte, cinnamon on top” he repeats, the smile growing wider. “You have a nice weekend, ma’am, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

Handsome. Funny. No ring. Showed up to ask if he could buy me a coffee.

Usually when a man hits on me in here, it’s so crude that I’m not sure I can count what he did as flirting. I watch as he walks out, placing his hat back on his head as soon as he’s beyond the doors, and release the air of cool I had been holding in for so long.  

January 16, 2003:

Maybe Friday didn’t end as well as I thought.

I came back in to learn somebody from one of the car wrecks didn’t make it after all. She seemed like she would but something went wrong in the hours well after surgery.

I question this career choice after news like that; after the days like Friday was when the bad moments outweigh the good ones. Sometimes there’s no balance and the chaos I willingly chose and prepared for all those years ago is just too much. 

There were two wins in my pocket when I walked out those doors. One slipped away in the early hours of Saturday morning and, as the clock pushes forward into the late afternoon, it’s looking more and more like it slipped the other’s mind.

“Hey, Drea,” I say, leaning against the counter of the nurse’s station. “I think I’m gonna go ahead and grab lunch.” 

The older woman nods her head, waving me away. 

Lunchbox already in hand, I push my way out the door and into the outside, grateful that the heavy rains have subsided for the foreseeable future. Even then, the air smells like mud and dead leaves. I’m so busy watching my feet, making sure I don’t slip, that I don’t fully register the boots until I’m colliding face first into another person.

“Looks like I’m just in time,” comes a deep, thickly accented voice.

That second win.

I hate the way I know I’m beaming when I look into his big brown eyes. “It’s not like we had set one.”

Joel nods, eyes darting down to my lunchbox. “You didn’t have much hope though, did you?”

“I was losing it,” I shrug.

“Well”—he holds up a fast-food bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other, nodding to each—“hopefully this makes up for it.”

Eying the bag, I ask, “how’d you know what I’d want?”

“I didn’t. But I’ve never met a girl who didn’t like chicken nuggets and french fries.”

“Congrats, Mr. Miller, you’ve figured women out.” I take the bag and head towards the parking lot before calling back. “You should write a book, you’ll make a killing.” 

“I'm not trying to make a killing, ma’am,” he says, taking two steps to fall right into stride beside me. “You think I want dumbasses like my brother to know how to talk to pretty girls like you?”

Opening the driver’s side door, I tuck myself into the seat and look up at him. “Who said I’m a pretty girl?”

He smiles, “I did.”

“Well, then,” I shake my head, “I guess I get your point.” 

“Am I allowed to sit in your car with you”—he nods to the empty passenger seat—“or would you rather I hand you your coffee and fuck right off?”

Joel’s built tall and broad, shoulders stacked over a straight spine like he’s being held up by a hanger. His face is dropping though, as moments stretch between us, until, finally, he grabs one cup from the holder and hands it over. “I guess I’ll be on my way then—“

“Get your ass in the car, Joel.”

Smile lines again. Deep set parentheses in his cheeks and, this time, I see a dimple that matches my own but this one only pockets his right cheek. He jogs across the front of my car like he’s aware of every single pound he weighs, all but throwing himself into the passenger seat as soon as the door is open. “Did I make myself”—he licks his lips before taking in a deep breath—“incredibly obvious there or what?” 

Shaking my head, I shove another fry into my mouth. “What was supposed to be obvious? Are you flat footed?” I lean into him, examining the smile that’s somehow getting wider. “Is that why you run like that?”

“What's wrong with the way I run?” 

Another fry. “Nothing.”

In the still silence of the small car, the minutes tick by between bites and sips. Usually, new people have me hammering on in nervous nothingness and stuttered speech patterns, tripping over my tongue to find words that don’t make me sound like an idiot. Not Joel.

I feel like I’ve sat in a thousand parking lots sharing silence with him.

“This is strange.” 

Funny he should say that. “What is?” 

Joel breathes deep and tips his cup to his lips again. “Just don’t want you thinking it’s my habit to bring lunch to pretty girls.”

“There you go with that pretty girls again, I guess you really do think I am one.”

“I—yes. I do. This is exactly why I didn’t tell Tommy about this, I’m making myself sound like a goddamn fool.” 

“Maybe just a fool,” I tell him, head resting against the back of my seat. “God doesn't look like he’s damned you yet but”—I reach out and curve my hand beneath his chin, thumb pressing into one cheek while the tips of all my fingers press into the other—“This hasn’t come too far in healing, there’s hope for you yet. Are you keeping it clean?” 

“Doing my best.” Pink tongue darts out against his lips, eyes squinting as he nods in my direction. “Does it really look that bad?”

I shrug. “Looks like shit but that’s to be expected, it’s only been a couple of days. You said you lost a fight to a two by four?” 

Joel nods against my grip. “I'm a carpenter, I-I work in construction.”

“I know what a carpenter is, Joel. You don’t just work in construction.” 

“Right, well… I asked Tommy to hand me a piece of wood, which he was already doing because the dumbass can read my mind, only”—he shakes his head—“he was swinging the goddamn thing at my head like a baseball bat trying to be funny and I turned just as he was swinging and then I met you.”

“With a couple hour wait between.”

“More like three hours,” he corrects me. “But I got a date out of it.”

I let go of him. “This is a date?”

“I'd like it to be. Like I said, I don’t do this—date, talk to girls. Unless it’s the moms at school events. I have a daughter, by the way.” 

“I figured.” I did. “A man wouldn’t say he’d break his back trying to give a little girl the world unless he’s a father or a criminal. I’ve seen enough of the latter to figure you weren’t it. But, Joel, do you even know my name?” 

“Sweetheart”—he pinches my work badge between his thumb and forefinger—“it says Alison right here in big, bold letters.”

Studying him, I nod. “They said you didn’t ask for me by name, though. Said you gave your own and asked for the nurse who fixed you up.”

“I-uh…” He licks his lips and smiles. “I knew it was creepy enough I was showing up to your work to talk to you, I didn’t want to pull out your whole name like we go way back or anything.” 

It goes quiet between us again and he pulls his hand away, focusing instead on the lid of his cup. “Maybe I should’ve taken the hint earlier and—“

“Joel, shut up. You do not strike me as a man who doubts himself.”

There’s a relaxed kind of honesty that drapes across his face, familiar like that silence was before and, God, he beams. Like a politician on a winner’s stage, it goes from ear to ear with a barely there beard, splitting a patch in his mustache. “I am a single father of a teenage girl, I doubt myself all the time. I like to surround myself with people who can call me on my bullshit, though, which you seem to have no trouble doing, and you just so happen to be my type. So, yeah, I’d like this to be a date.” He bites his lip. "But if you want me to fuck off, just say that and I’ll be on my way.” 

I consider him momentarily, study the rise and fall of his chest with the way his breathing seems to have picked up. He doesn’t do this, but neither do I. I don’t date and I certainly don’t entertain the advances of patients. It’s an emergency room, though. If I ruled out dating anybody who could ever possibly walk through those doors for any reason, I’d rule out everybody.

“What's your type?” I ask him.

There’s a small piece of plastic from the lid that he’s managed to twist and pull off and he fights a smile as he drops it into the empty cup. His profile blows me away but it’s the curls I didn’t notice when I had his head in my hands that I’m transfixed on now.

Wetting his lips again, his eyes dance across my face and he shrugs. “Pretty girls.” 

January 24, 2003:

“Why are you apologizing to me?”

There’s no sweetheart on the end of it, Sarah must be in the room. Or close enough by to hear. 

“Because I—fuck.” This week has been a nightmare, today has been a nightmare. I miss him and I don’t even know if I’m allowed to this early in the game. God, I don’t even know if there’s a fucking game. Half after eight and I’m pushing tears from my eyes for the fourth, maybe fifth, time since I left the hospital. “I just waved you away, I was such a bitch.” 

“Hey, hey.” Joel’s voice is raspy in that two beers kind of way I’ve come to know from all our late night conversations. I think that’s what’s finally caught up to me. The late nights, the early mornings—all the death and not enough sleep in-between. A door clicks shut on the other end of the line and he pushes a hard breath out. “You’re being too hard on yourself, you were swamped when I came in.”

“I guess.”

“No, you were. Look, I come by because I like seeing you but I can recognize that your job is hectic and demands your attention first. I’m a grown man, Alison, and I am perfectly fine with being told to fuck off. I thought I’d made that abundantly clear to you.”

“Yeah,” I press my head back into my pillows. “You’re right.” I want to not sound like a fucking moron to him but I’ve got anxiety and cortisol pumping through my veins like stress is the only thing I’ve ever known. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a real one tomorrow?” He asks. I can hear the rough slide of his palm against the grain of his beard. “I think we’ve graduated from lattes and lunch dates.”

There are logistics to that request—clothes to pack, the hope of a quick shower at the hospital after work. God, I have to shave my legs. 

“Feeling real rejected here, sweetheart,” he whispers into the phone. “Did you fall asleep or are you in your head?” 

I can hear his smile through the phone, picture that dimple in his cheek. “That would be nice,” the words come out on a yawn.

“I thought about you all day,” his voice seems to hit an even lower register and heat flushes up my cheeks. “I’m trying to keep my cool with you, not come off over eager, but between seeing you every day and talking to you every night…I’m making some stupid ass mistakes that might land me right back into your emergency room so I want you to know…” Joel trails off and huffs a laugh. “Never mind.” 

“No, finish your thought.”

“I'm trying to not scare you off. Do you have a restaurant you’d like to go to? You said you like Italian food?”

“Everybody likes Italian food, Joel.” 

He laughs. “Okay, sweetheart, you got me there.”

The ache to apologize is creeping back up my throat and I know it’s because of his tone now. If he was gonna scare me away, he would’ve done it by now. “I’ve never really done the dating thing either,” I tell him honestly. “If there are rules to this, I never knew them to even consider they could be broken.”

He laughs, again, on the other end of the line, small and agreeable.

“Joel, I’d be happy just spending time with you, it doesn’t matter what we eat or where we go. That’s why I apologized earli—“ Another yawn. “Mm, that’s why I apologized earlier, I like spending time with you.” 

“I’ll let you get some sleep, sweetheart,” he says, yawning as well. “But I have a question…” 

Nodding against the pillow despite knowing he can’t see, I whisper back, “okay.”

“You like Johnny Cash?” He asks. 

“Ten years in the south, Joel,” I say like it’s obvious, “I think I’d be shot if I said anything but yes.” 

He laughs. “You like nachos?”

“Not to sound like a cool girl, but if I ever deny nachos, I ask that you have me shot.” 

“Perfect,” he breathes out, “I’ll pick you up at the hospital.” 

“I-uh—“ He makes a grunting sound on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Joel.”

Aimlessly, I push myself up to sit again and think over the day and all the things I could’ve done different. It was shit. The kind of life draining busy that leaves me staring aimlessly at the end of it all. I’m not even sure how I got home, that’s how zoned out I was. I kept that bit from Joel, though. It’s only really been a week and he’s already expressed worry about the length of my shifts, how I only drive at night.

He hasn’t even kissed me yet, barely even hugged me. There’s a familiarity and a kindness in the small touches we’ve shared though—lunches traded off with fingers brushing the other’s, him tucking my hair behind my ear, me checking his stitches. 

On Monday, as I stood over him, head in my hands, manipulating his face this way and that, I stumbled and he caught me. Tommy had walked into the space, sawdust kicking up with the wind he let in, and before either of us had registered his presence, he whistled like an old cartoon with his eyes half bugged out. Sudden noises make me jump, increase my heart rate, especially when I’m focused. 

Hands on my hips, he grounded me and it shot fire right through to the pit of my belly. If that was all, then I would’ve been fine after saying goodbye, but it wasn’t. Joel dragged his thumb across a little strip of exposed skin where my shirt had ridden up, back and forth and back again. Breathing properly became difficult after that.

There are no games with him, I learned that so quick. He says he’ll do something and then he does. He said he’d bring me coffee and he did. Says he’ll stop by and he does. Says he’ll pick me up at the hospital tomorrow and I know he will. I feel insane for saying I love it, but I do. Because there’s no guesswork, no overthinking. 

Even so, my nerves are activating already thinking about being near him without obligation to hurry back to, complete with drinks and clean clothes.

I miss his voice as I wash the day from my face, too used to his soft humming soundtracking my nightly routine as he goes through his own.

It’s only been a week and it feels like I’ve had that forever. To think it happened because my boss took pity on me, handing me a bright spot in a bad day. He was that again today, showing up with the bruises on his face starting to fade out into green at the edges and a coffee in hand. I gestured back out the door before I’d even taken a sip, I don’t even think I said hello. Not properly anyway.

Everybody seemed to die on me again today too; codes left and right until my patience and my confidence were both worn so thin that I came close to snapping. Joel would’ve been on the receiving end, it’s why I asked him to go. The new guy—Greg—called me The Angel of Death, said I killed everything including Joel’s mood. That’s why I wanted to apologize, afraid that would’ve been what finally kept him from coming back tomorrow. 

January 25, 2003:

Sometime a little after five, I finally find a moment to sit.

Today’s been…steady. Still busy as shit but if it was dead, the new guy—Greg—would say that’s just something else I had killed. I walked in this morning and the first thing he said to me was a reminder not to suck the life out of the day.

I can’t even get away from him because I’m the one who’s training him.

“I didn’t know you wear glasses, sweetheart.”

Joel’s voice melts all the tension from my shoulders. “What are you doing here?” He’s smiling when I look up and reaches over the counter of the nurse’s station to put a coffee in front of me. “Joel, shouldn’t you be headed home?”

“I should be,” he nods. “See, I got this date tonight I have to get ready for”—he leans against the counter—“and she’s got these big, beautiful hazel eyes.”

“So why aren’t you getting ready for her?” I ask.

“She's also got this incredibly hectic job”—he looks around—“and she left me a voicemail at four this morning so I figured she might need a little pick me up to see her through to the date.”

“Oh, you figured?”

He shrugs. “I’m a boring son of a bitch but I don’t really want her falling asleep on me.”

“That's really smart, actually,” I tell him. “She’s had a rough day—”

“And he looks like he’ll give you a rough night.” 

Joel’s energy shifts beneath those words, as does his gaze to my trainee, and he stands straight with a tall, rigid spine.

Greg clears his throat and rolls his chair closer to mine, sticking his arm out in an attempt to shake Joel’s hand.

Joel looks at me and I know he sees the embarrassment—the exhaustion—in my face and looks back at Greg’s outstretched hand before settling his eyes on the other man’s again. “I thought clowns worked up in pediatrics.” 

The hand withdraws from my peripheral and Joel knocks once against the countertop. “I'll pick you up at seven thirty?”

I’m still nodding when he leaves, heat rushing up my cheeks in boiled, scarlet red. Greg’s trying to apologize and I realize Joel was wrong. When he suggested I could tune out an asshole or two, he was wrong.

He catches the hint after a few minutes, finally fucking off and leaving me alone. First baby nurse I’ve ever been stuck with that I want to feed to the wolves. Or maybe just put on trauma and triage forever. I don’t even know why I’m surprised, he pulled the same shit with a patient earlier as if he got his bedside manner from watching reruns of Scrubs.

The last of the day slips by on autopilot, I even manage to finish the drink while it’s warm this time, and, before I know it, I’m being tagged out and the nerves come back. Which is stupid because he was just here and I felt fine.

But now he’s leaned up against the wall next to the door waiting for me with his hair slicked back and a nice, blue shirt beneath a thick, brown jacket and my anxiety builds back up

Because there are no games here, not yet, but the only time we’ve spent with one another is at my work or his. This is real, no scrubs or the smell of ammonia clinging to me. No sawdust or sweat on him.

“Hi,” I say.

“You took your hair down,” he says, pushing off the wall.

“Does it look bad?” 

He shakes his head. “I never said that, sweetheart.” 

What happened to that quiet comfort I felt? It’s there but it’s dull, muted down as anticipation takes over. He’s told me all this time that I’ve got to tell him when to fuck off, I’m fairly certain he’ll be the one to say that to me.

My hand in his as he leads me to his truck and opens the door, an apology for the construction smell on his lips but all I can smell is his cologne hanging thick in the cab.

Earthy with some kind of spice to it. Fitting for a man like him, like it was custom made for him. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells me, leaning against the open door. “I should’ve said that. I just haven’t seen your hair down, I knew you had curls but…wow, sweetheart.” He leans closer. “I'll try not to trip over my words for the rest of the night.”

“Keep your cool,” I tell him, an attempt to keep mine as well.

A small laugh and he closes the door before jogging over to the driver’s side. Sitting in shared silence with him feels so natural, but driving in it has tension so thick, I’m shocked he can see. 

Again, this isn’t taking a moment to be with each other—get to know each other—in the middle of the day. This is the objective and, from the way he’s tapping his fingers against the wheel, his nerves are meeting up with mine. 

“So… where are you taking us?”

Joel smiles and looks over momentarily, eyes darting back to the road and over again. “I had a plan but”—he scratches at his cheek, facial hair trimmed down back to near nothing—“seeing you in that dress, I’m sitting over here thinking I should throw that straight in the garbage.”

The timbre of his voice dips low when I tell him it’s nothing special. “Alison”—it comes out stern—“I might just be some dumb old man but I wouldn’t have bribed my brother with a bottle of whiskey to watch my child for nothing special.”  

The quiet that follows isn’t exactly comfortable, not with electricity crackling just beneath the surface of my skin.

When he parks, he turns to me. “I can take you somewhere nicer.”

“This seems really nice,” I tell him honestly, taking in the neon and the twinkle lights illuminating all the people spilling out the front door. “It's popular.”

“It's not exactly first date material.”

I pull the latch to the door and begin to step out. “It’s a good thing this isn’t our first date.”  

Music starts at eight.

Some old country cover band that seems to do nothing for the tension set in his jaw. It’s snaking all the way into the tips of his fingers, stiff and heavy against the small of my back as he guides me into my seat before pulling up one adjacent. Mindlessly, I reach across and swipe my thumb along the swell of his cheek—like I’ve done it a million times before—and watch as he leans into my touch. 

Before I can even ask how ordering works, a peppy blonde drops by to take our drink orders.

“Um…” He leans back, caught off guard. "Y’all got Modelo?”

“I can do Modelo,” she responds.

“Perfect, I’ll take one of those.” Joel raps his knuckles against the table and points to me. “Your turn, sweetheart.” 

“May I just have a bourbon on ice?” I ask. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Joel blow out a breath, head shaking with a shit eating grin and, when it's just the menus left in front of us, he leans forward. “You know, pretty girl, I didn’t think you could get hotter but—“

“Joel Miller,” I turn to him, “is that confidence sneaking back into your voice?”  

He laughs. “I feel like we’re doing a pretty good job trading it back and forth.”

In front of everybody, in front of everything, I want to kiss him. Want to slide my fingers into the short, slicked back curls he’s already mussed up and pull him closer until there’s no more space between us.

“I'm still not sure what to make of this,” he goes on. The closeness of his lips to my ear sends shivers down my spine. “I don’t trust easily.”

That weightless, free falling feeling of nerves and excitement returns, lit up bright and burning beneath his fingers as the back of his knuckles stroke the exposed skin where my skirt has ridden up.

“Neither do I.”

“Yet, here you are,” he responds slowly, “with a strange man in a bar.” 

I do it then, not loud or aggressive. Just to get it out of the way, ground myself beneath his touch the way it was when I lost my footing. It feels as natural as the silence, like my last kiss didn’t come five years ago under the mistletoe before being dumped.

Nothing exists around me but him, everything is dull and tuned out—the music, the feedback, the sound of conversation. Hands on his face, his rough palms rest just below my elbows, almost like he’s keeping me in place so I can’t let him go, and he leans into me as I pull him closer.

It isn’t much but it tamps down the nerves, closed lips on closed lips. Then again with half a breath shared between us and again, each time coming together with more ease and familiarity.

Joel’s face is lit up when I do pull away, smile reaching up into his eyes as heat and want trickle down through to my finger tips and the tops of my cheeks. I know he can feel it, can see it. It feels like he’s seen me every day, looking at me as if I’m a regular face in his life’s routine. I feel so similarly about him—that his presence has always been in my life so it’s truthfully nothing new. But it is, he is. 

I bite these feelings back as I press another kiss to the corner of his lips. “Everybody’s a stranger until you give ‘em a chance, Joel.” 

#i will NEVER shut up about them and this #youve done it again #im invested #im obsessed

[darnitdraco]

Days of You & Me: January (PREVIEW)

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC!Alison Murphy Warnings: There's talk about a death in the first few paragraphs but nothing much else. Author's Note: Sitting on my hands is killing me. Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates for new installments. All of the first chapter will be available on Monday, January 16. A big thank you to @darnitdraco and @tauralmie for being my amazing beta readers and to my beautiful sister K who has been advising me with all her TLOU tattoos and books and the script and her love for the story and to my hype-woman @d-savwho is getting the biggest kiss if I ever manage to get my ass back to Ireland.

Days of You & Me Masterlist | Masterlist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

Maybe Friday didn’t end as well as I thought.

I came back in to learn somebody from one of the car wrecks didn’t make it after all. She seemed like she would but something went wrong in the hours well after surgery.

I question this career choice after news like that; after the days like Friday was when the bad moments outweigh the good ones. Sometimes there’s no balance and the chaos I willingly chose and prepared for is just too much. 

There were two wins in my pocket when I walked out those doors. One slipped away in the early hours of Saturday morning and, as the clock pushes forward into the late afternoon, it’s looking more and more like it slipped the other’s mind.

“Hey, Drea,” I say, leaning against the counter of the nurse’s station. “I think I’m gonna go ahead and grab lunch.” 

The older woman nods her head, waving me away. 

Lunchbox already in hand, I push my way out the door and into the outside, grateful that the heavy rains have subsided for the foreseeable future. Even then, the air smells like mud and dead leaves. I’m so busy watching my feet, making sure I don’t slip that I don’t fully register the boots until I’m colliding face first into another person.

“Looks like I’m just in time.” 

I hate the way I know I’m beaming when I look into his big brown eyes. “It’s not like we had set one.”

Joel nods, eyes darting down to my lunchbox. “You didn’t have much hope though, did you?”

“I was losing it,” I shrug.

“Well”—he holds up a fast-food bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other, nodding to each—“hopefully this makes up for it.”

Eying the bag, I ask, “how’d you know what I’d want?”

“I didn’t. But I’ve never met a girl who didn’t like chicken nuggets and french fries.”

“Congrats, Mr. Miller, you’ve figured women out.” I take the bag and head towards the parking lot before calling back. “You should write a book, you’ll make a killing.” 

“I'm not trying to make a killing, ma’am,” he says, taking two steps to fall right into stride beside me. “You think I want dumbasses like my brother to know how to talk to pretty girls like you?”

Opening the driver’s side door, I tuck myself into the seat and look up at him. “Who said I’m a pretty girl?”

He smiles, “I did.”

“Well, then,” I shake my head, “I guess I get your point.” 

“Am I allowed to sit in your car with you”—he nods to the empty passenger seat—“or would you rather I hand you your coffee and fuck right off?”

Joel’s built tall and broad, shoulders stacked over a straight spine like he’s being held up by a hanger. His face is dropping though, as moments stretch between us, until, finally, he grabs one cup from the holder and hands it over. “I guess I’ll be on my way then—“

“Get your ass in the car, Joel.”

Smile lines again. Deep set parentheses in his cheeks and, this time, I see a dimple that matches my own but this one only pockets his right cheek. He jogs across the front of my car like he’s aware of every single pound he weighs, all but throwing himself into the passenger seat as soon as the door is open. “Did I make myself”—he licks his lips before taking in a deep breath—“incredibly obvious there or what?” 

Shaking my head, I shove another fry into my mouth. “What was supposed to be obvious? Are you flat footed?” I lean into him, examining the smile that’s somehow getting wider. “Is that why you run like that?”

“What's wrong with the way I run?” 

Another fry. “Nothing.”

In the still silence of the small car, the minutes tick by between bites and sips. Usually, new people have me hammering on in nervous nothingness and stuttered speech patterns, tripping over my tongue to find words that don’t make me sound like an idiot. Not Joel.

I feel like I’ve sat in a thousand parking lots sharing silence with him.

“This is strange.” 

Funny he should say that. “What is?” 

Joel breathes deep and tips his cup to his lips again. “Just don’t want you thinking it’s my habit to bring lunch to pretty girls.”

“There you go with that pretty girls again, I guess you really do think I am one.”

“I—yes. I do. This is exactly why I didn’t tell Tommy about this, I’m making myself sound like a goddamn fool.” 

“Maybe just a fool,” I tell him, head resting against the back of my seat. “God doesn't look like he’s damned you yet but”—I reach out and curve my hand beneath his chin, thumb pressing into one cheek while the tips of all my fingers press into the other—“This hasn’t come too far in healing, there’s hope for you yet. Are you keeping it clean?” 

“Doing my best.” Pink tongue darts out against his lips, eyes squinting as he nods in my direction. “Does it really look that bad?”

I shrug. “Looks like shit but that’s to be expected, it’s only been a couple of days. You said you lost a fight to a two by four?” 

Joel nods against your grip. “I'm a carpenter, I-I work in construction.”

“I know what a carpenter is, Joel. You don’t just work in construction.” 

“Right, well… I asked Tommy to hand me a piece of wood, which he was already doing because the dumbass can read my mind, only”—he shakes his head—“he was swinging the goddamn thing at my head like a baseball bat trying to be funny and I turned just as he was swinging and then I met you.”

“With a couple hour wait between.”

“More like three hours,” he corrects me. “But I got a date out of it.”

I let go of him. “This is a date?”

#TLOU #when i tell you. #this is all i will be reading im so deadass rn

[darnitdraco]

Thinking about him. And also her. Bisexually

[darnitdraco]

Hey! The paperback of Forget Me Not is LIVE on Amazon 👀

Literally cannot even fathom that this day is real and I have a book out in the world PUBLISHED and available to freaking purchase and read and own and annotate what the frick.

Also, all of you — I don’t even know what to say or where to start but truly truly truly… being a part of this community here on this website changed my life. I wrote a fucking book on this website. You all were here and watching and reading and loving and messaging and I’m just absolutely beyond myself with gratitude for that. 💜 To to any of you that buy a book, know I’m wishing you all the best things in life forever and ever and I’m your cheerleader for life from the bottom of my heart.

— if you go over to Instagram I’m also doing a little give away of a signed copy and a homemade PR box too!

#buy! this! book! buy! this! book! buy! this! book!

[darnitdraco]

I guess they are only pro life when they can control someone’s body. Horrifying.

[darnitdraco]

avril was right life IS like this you fall and you crawl and you break and you take what you get and you turn it into honesty you promised me i’d never find you faking no no no

[darnitdraco]

“Do you think you’re a heartthrob?” “I DON’T think I’m–” “He’s lying!”

[darnitdraco]

#i think that if the ref is being an obvious dick and favoring one team more then I should be allowed to slide tackle their knees out #idk sorry if you’re a ref I guess but like gross

[darnitdraco]

me, masturbating to the thought of us fucking? more likely than you’d think

#👀