“What?” I breathe.
“Maybe you’re closer than you think,” he says.
“To what?”
“Understanding.”
“Understanding what?”
“Whatever it is you need to understand.”
“You’re infuriating,” I say and force myself to take a deep breath. His full lips spread into a smile. My heart pounds.
“You’re fascinating.” His fingertips on my skin are a shock to my brain, his words a shock to my heart. I reach up and wrap my fingers around his, lower them from my face.
“I can assure you I’m not.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
I shake my head. “Don’t get yourself worked up over me. I’m a mess,” I say and sigh. “I just can’t believe this is happening all over again.”
“Again?” he asks. I realize my mistake. I never told Reese that Cooper cheated on me. Even after months to come to terms with it, I’m still carrying the shame of being the kind of woman who could be cheated on. I know I’m not perfect, but I thought I was worth more than that. I don’t want Reese to see me that way, too.
Instead of explaining, I ask, “What makes a man cheat?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Reese says. “But...I can imagine it has a lot to do with their masculinity. Sex is power, right? If a man feels powerless in the life he’s living...” He trails off, but the insinuation is there. Did my dad feel powerless to help Mom through her grief? Did Cooper feel powerless to help me through mine?
“It’s not an excuse,” I say, the hurt stinging my heart all over again.
“No,” he says. “But it’s human.”
I shake my head. Sure, I did the same thing after Abby’s death—searching for comfort in other people—but with one major difference. I never hurt anyone. I had no commitment to anyone, and I made no promises. Not until Cooper. And I’ve always been faithful to Cooper.
“It’s bullshit,” I say, and stand up. Startled, Reese stands, too.
“Dylan,” Reese says, reaching out and stopping me with a hand on my waist. I bat it away.
“You have to stop that,” I nearly shout. “What are you trying to do to me?”
He bows his head and steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says, the first time he’s apologized for anything. “I guess I misunderstood.”
But then, maybe he hasn’t.
“I’m sorry...if I implied anything more than enjoying your company. But...”
I think of Cooper. We’re not together, but it doesn’t seem right to think of anyone else. He still has clothes in our closet, in our house. His dog is standing mere feet from me.
“Dr. Caldwell then?” he asks.
I loop my hair behind my ear. “You have to go.”
I step into the yard, hop over the ditch, and walk around the side of the house. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but I feel like I could walk away from this house and never look back. Unfortunately, Reese is behind me every step of the way, and I think he would follow me wherever I ended up, just to hold me together or break me apart. I can’t tell anymore.
“Don’t leave upset.” He finally gets ahead of me, but this time he keeps his hands to himself.
“I’m not upset.”
He raises his eyebrows. I can’t think with him so close, with those eyes digging past the walls I’ve worked so hard to construct. He’s just a man, I remind myself. Just like the rest of them.
My breathing comes more rapidly as he lifts one hand toward me, testing me. I let him place it on my waist, and it sends shivers through my body. He places his right hand on the other side and guides me closer to him. I can’t look up. I don’t trust myself to. Somehow, over the last couple of months, my friendship with Reese has shifted into something more. I don’t know how it started or who blurred the boundaries, but here we are. Here I am, finding comfort in another once again.
I place my hands on his and remove them from my body, pushing him away. I don’t look up at him until I’m free of his touch.
“You have to go,” I say. “Or I will.”
13
That evening, I turn the water off and slip into the tub, inch by inch. The bubbles consume my limbs and then my middle until I am submerged up to my neck. I lean back to dip my ears underneath, searching for the thick silence. I detach myself for a little while, close my eyes and try to pretend that I’m the only person who exists, that this tub is the only thing left in the world and that if I tried really hard, I could melt right into the hot water. I slip underneath the surface, and the heat stings my face. The bubbles fill in the hole above me like I was never there.
I sit in the tub until the water is cold and my hair has dried, watching the water leak, drop by drop, from the faucet. The only indication that the rest of the world outside is still moving comes when I hear a knock on the bathroom door hours later. I start before I remember there’s only one other person who has a key to the house.
“You’re not supposed to drop by without asking,” I say. I try to insert frustration into my voice, but I don’t have it in me today. Truthfully, I find some relief in him coming back. After our last conversation, I was sure he hated me. And I couldn’t entirely blame him.
“Are you okay in there?” Cooper asks, his voice muffled.
“I’m fine,” I say, fighting my contradicting emotions—hoping he’ll go away quickly, so I don’t have to acknowledge the confusing voice inside me begging him to stay.
I don’t want to be alone. I’d let anyone stay if they’d distract me from the questions circling in my head, one of them being if Cooper would have ever loved me at all if he’d known that first night that he would never fully break through my walls. Or would I have, instead, not even been worth a memory. Just an “oh, yeah” if Stephen ever asked, “Hey, what ever happened with...”
That’s why, no matter how relieved I am to hear his voice, he has to leave. I can’t further muddy our relationship by making the same choice I made the night I met him—secrets and solace.
There is a long pause before Cooper asks, “Can I come in?” Through the door he sounds embarrassed by the question, as if he doesn’t have the landscape of my body memorized.
As I’m about to say “no,” the door clicks open, and Cooper slips in, careful not to look in my direction. My hands float to the spots over my breasts to provide a small amount of privacy, the bubbles long gone. He sits on the toilet, facing away, his shirt untucked and hanging around him.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I came by to drop off more food for Spencer,” he says. “I saw your car in the garage, but you didn’t answer, so I got worried.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Even through the back of his head, I can see the frown he’s wearing. Or maybe I’m imagining it there because I’ve memorized the landscape of his body, too.
“There’s a bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen counter.”
“It’s just wine.”
“It’s never just wine with you, Dylan.” He knows as well as I do that wine is my balm for the particularly bad days. After a pause, he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, though he can’t see me. I shift against the porcelain that’s growing more uncomfortable by the minute. My fingers and toes are pruned beyond recognition.
After a long silence, he says, “Can I help?”
“There’s nothing to do. Besides, it’s not your job to worry about me anymore.”
“I never worried about you out of obligation. I do it because I love you. You can kick me out a hundred times, and that won’t change.”
“Cooper, please, don’t.” I’m trying to sound angry, but my voice is watery and breaks at the end of my plea.
He sighs. “I’m so
rry. I’m not trying to upset you.” I can tell it’s hard for him not to turn to me, look me in the eye. It’s where he finds the words on my tongue before I speak them.
My fingers ache with the need to reach out to him, to turn him to face me, to curl up in his lap, let him hold me and ease the pain away. It takes all my willpower not to. But it wouldn’t be fair to him, not when half my fears are for losing a friendship with another man and the other half are for a family he can no longer be a part of. He doesn’t move either. He sits there on the toilet seat, hunched over to rest his chin on his palm, like he wants to be close to me for a little longer.
“Can I make you dinner?” he finally asks.
“I’m not hungry,” I say softly, my argument thinning.
“Can I pour you some wine?”
I sigh, a mournful smile below the surface. “Okay,” I whisper.
When I come out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, though, Cooper is gone. I peek out the front window and his car is gone, too. It’s probably for the best, but I can’t deny my disappointment. I had no right to let him stay in the first place. I’m the one who asked him to leave. I’m the one who told him it was over and that we both needed to move on.
But as I’m staring at the soil where my daisies should have been months ago, I hear the front door open and close, and a moment later Cooper appears in the kitchen with grocery bags.
“Sorry,” he says, breathing heavily. “I didn’t want to bother you again. Bruschetta?”
“Sure,” I say, feeling a twisted sense of relief when I know I shouldn’t.
He walks up next to me and peers out the window into the backyard.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
He shakes his head and says, “Nothing.”
We make the bruschetta together. With every step Cooper makes, he stumbles, hesitates and looks to me for approval in his own house that is no longer his home. He keeps his distance, but I feel his every movement. Our connection remains unbroken like a high-pitched vibration only we can hear—a sound so strong nothing drowns it out, not even all the other noise between us.
The wine helps. I peel the tomatoes; he slices the bread. We walk around each other, careful not to touch, but the hyperawareness this requires means we don’t talk. I’m okay not talking, just having him here. I know it’s dangerous to pretend, for even a moment, that we could go back...that he never left. But it’s such a sweet salve to my lonely heart.
“So how’s the apartment hunt going?” I finally ask.
“Fine,” he says with a shrug. “Actually, I haven’t been looking, to be honest.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, it’s not because I expect you to change your mind. I don’t. Don’t worry. It’s just... I guess if I move into a place of my own, it’s official. I’m not ready for that yet.”
I stop chopping. I don’t know how he does it—wear his heart on his sleeve. I chance a glance in his direction. His expression is grave. I knew he’d have a hard time on his own, but it hurts to see the reality on his face. He’s never lived alone before. Neither have I, but being alone has never bothered me.
“Maybe you don’t have to be alone, though. Couldn’t you stay with your parents for a while? Or Megan?” I gauge him, watching his eyes for a flicker of hurt at being left out of her pregnancy.
“I couldn’t live with my parents again. And... I don’t know... Megan’s been avoiding me. Maybe Mom told her about us, and she’s mad at me or something.” He shrugs, but I can see it bothers him. I wish I could tell him the truth to unburden him, but it’s not my truth to tell.
“Stephen?” I ask. I’ve been avoiding him at work, not sure of where our relationship stands without Cooper or Megan in it and not ready to face another disappointment.
“Maybe,” Cooper says, but I can tell he’s humoring me.
“You haven’t told him either,” I guess. His lack of response confirms it. Maybe he’s not as open with his feelings as I thought.
Cooper crosses to the sink to fill a pot with water.
“I went to visit that patient at the hospital today. The kid I told you about. His parents had brought him into the office for a cold a couple of months ago. Then again a couple of weeks later. And then a couple weeks after that. Finally, I sent him over to the hospital to get some more tests done.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
He stops and puts the pot down to wipe his cheek with the inside of his collar. “It’s cancer,” he whispers.
“Oh, Cooper.”
“He wasn’t getting better because his body was too busy fighting the leukemia.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He returns to the food and I let him. I know how staying busy eases the pain. I can’t imagine what Cooper must be feeling. It’s my worst fear—losing a patient. Being responsible for the loss of a life.
“I know we’re doctors and this kind of thing is going to happen from time to time, but he’s a kid, you know?” he says as he works. “Maybe I’m naive, but being in pediatrics, I just didn’t expect it. I don’t know how to handle something like this. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to tell his parents.”
“They don’t know yet?”
“They’re going to the hospital tonight after his dad gets off work. I keep imagining the look on their faces when they hear the news. Over and over it plays in my head.” Cooper pauses. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make tonight about me.”
“Don’t apologize.”
I want to go to him and wrap my arms around him, but I stop myself. Instead, I swirl my wine around the glass, pick up a piece of tomato with my fingers and suck it into my mouth. The juice drips down my hand. I wipe it off on my pants. As I chew, I notice Cooper is watching me.
“Something has changed,” Cooper says.
“What?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away. He studies me further.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Something about you is different.”
“About me?” I laugh, because if anything has changed, it’s that more of my sanity and strength have been chipped away, and at an alarming rate. I feel vulnerable in a way I never have before, no longer able to hold myself together, no longer able to put on a facade. “I don’t think so.”
“I think so,” he says.
He sweeps his gaze over me again, then locks eyes with me until I can’t move. My heart beats faster, and I’m breathless under the power of his longing, the way he grips the counter as if physically stopping himself from coming to me. His hands must lose the battle because after a long, wordless moment, he steps forward and pushes me against the sink. Either the alcohol or the need for some semblance of normalcy in my life keeps me from stopping him. He presses his forehead against mine and, gently, he kisses my cheeks, whisper soft. He brushes his lips over my forehead and nose, and my own lips tingle in anticipation of what will come next. Instead, he bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes. I close mine, too. My chest rises, further closing the space between us, then falls.
“I should go,” Cooper says.
We’re emotional and treading in dangerous waters, and we both know it. Without opening my eyes, I nod. I feel his hands slip from my body, and my skin is icy where they once were.
“Good night,” he says.
“Good night.”
He hovers there for another moment, then takes one last sip of his wine and leaves.
I finish making my bruschetta alone, and all the fears creep back in, along with one more: that I will never get over Cooper.
My phone rings later that night as I’m lying in bed, still imagining Cooper’s touch in the privacy of the dark. I expect it to be the hospital, but when I place the phone against my ear, an unexpected voice says my name. Cooper’s voice.
“Oh,” I say, sitting up. “Hi, Coo
p—” I stop myself and clear my throat. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate to call him by that nickname anymore. “Hi, Cooper.”
There’s an uncertain pause, a question. It’s late. I worry that something is wrong. I worry that it’s Megan, but I can’t ask.
“Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Everything’s fine,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. Then, “Good.”
I wait for more, anticipation buzzing through my veins.
“It was good to see you tonight,” he finally says.
I hesitate, then melt back into bed. I shouldn’t be letting him say these things to me. I shouldn’t feel so happy that he is.
“It was,” I say.
“I...I miss you.”
I open my mouth to return the words, my heart thrumming a beat against my chest. “I...know,” I say. I scrunch my eyes shut.
We’re silent for a while, and then he says, “Dylan?”
His voice still makes my heart speed up. And then I hear the faintest sound of someone calling, “Coop,” on the other end of the line. A woman’s voice.
I hang up the phone before I hear any more and bring my fingers to my lips. They’re cool with shock. I shouldn’t be surprised. What Cooper does with his life no longer involves me. I know that. I shouldn’t have let myself get caught up in the moment. And yet, I sit there staring at my phone in my hand for minutes, hours, days, wondering why the stars stopped lining up for us.
* * *
The labor and delivery unit doors open seven minutes after a page from Enrique, and I nearly run headlong into him where he waits for me with a surgical gown.
“You told me there was coffee,” I say.
“I’m making it just the way you like it,” he says. “That fresh pot will be an hour stale by the time you finish up here.”
“You know me too well.”
I let him slip the gown over my arms as he updates me on Erika’s progress. I’ve been monitoring her labor via phone for the better part of the day.
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