I Fell In: A mostly true story about lust, redemption, and true love.

by Tiffany Winters

  I sat up, my spine tingling. "Are you sure he's not just busy, or out of town or something?"

  Leo let out a weak chuckle. "He's not much of a traveler, and he's never taken so long to call me back. Plus, he's been...down. I just want to make sure he's OK."

  "All right, heading over now." I grabbed my keys, cradling the phone between my cheek and shoulder. "I'll text when I get there so you know it's all good." I hurried outside, trying to ignore the pang in my gut and instead attempted to brighten my voice. "He's probably just got a new girlfriend and he's too busy fucking to check his phone."

  Leo's laugh was shaky but stronger this time. "You're probably right. Shit, I hope I'm not sending you into something you'll never be able to un-see."

  I smiled as I slid into my car. If he could be optimistic, so could I. "You'll know. Just open your window and listen for the scream. I'm sure it'll be loud enough."

  "Thanks, Jess. I gotta get back to the studio, but keep me in the loop. I can read texts between recordings."

  Fifteen minutes later, I walked up a set of weathered cement steps, noting Tru's equally worn out truck in the driveway. The weedy yard made the place feel deserted. My optimism shriveled up, now as thin as the mist flowing low over the grass, and the silence was deafening. No small creatures scurried around. No birds perched on branches overhead. Could I even expect birds to be around midwinter? I'd never thought about it, but I yearned for some sign of life.

  I knocked, and knocked again. My knuckles were heavy against the wood, muted by the blood pounding in my ears as the seconds ticked by.

  "Truman? It's Jessa." The sound of my own voice was foreign to me, shaky and thick.

  As I narrowed my eyes at a side window, wondering whether it was big enough for me to haul my ass through it, the lock clicked and the door creaked open. Truman's squinting, bloodshot eyes were all I saw before he turned and walked toward the kitchen, leaving the door ajar in reluctant invitation.

  The sense of stillness, of time frozen in a moment that wasn't all that great, was worse as I walked in. The blinds were drawn, and the air was stale. I coughed and left the front door where it was, hoping the damp morning air might cleanse the room of the gazillion dust particles that had to be filling my lungs. As dead as everything seemed outside, it being the middle of winter, the unkempt yard and empty trees were still more alive with energy than Truman's house.

  I followed him into the kitchen and watched as he grabbed a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. He moved slowly, barely acknowledging my presence. Gone were the gregarious smiles, the warm, too-long hugs, the twinkling eyes and winks. I actually missed his awkward greetings.

  "Hi." I leaned against the doorframe, my knees weak with worry even as I attempted nonchalance.

  Didn't matter. Tru only grunted at me while he moved around the kitchen.

  "Leo called me. He's worried because you haven't picked up. Standing here, watching you shuffle around like an old man, now I am too."

  I watched his profile, hoped he'd turn to me, grin, and make some smartass remark about me chasing after him and how inappropriate that was for a married woman. Instead he kept his eyes on his mug as he reached into the fridge for milk. He took his time, doctoring his coffee before looking at me over the rim as he took a sip, his eyes darting away quickly.

  "Don't mean to worry you, darlin'. Not having a good month. I'll give Leo a call. You can take off."

  I braced against the sting of his dismissal while he walked past me down the hall and into his bedroom. Despite his obvious verbal nudge out the door, I followed him. He crawled into bed looking like someone who'd just worked an eighteen-hour day. Yet he set his mug on the night stand with care. That small gesture, that little show of strength, gave me hope. Some serial crime show played on the TV. He propped himself up on a pillow and turned his eyes toward the screen, ignoring me.

  He was clearly suffering. He had to be, because the man in front of me wasn't any version of Truman I'd ever known. This time, I wouldn't walk away. Not without trying to help.

  I sat on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me, Tru. What's going on?"

  He turned his gaze to mine. I had to stifle a gasp at his sunken cheeks. Dark circles rimmed what were normally lively, beautiful eyes. Today there was no humor there. No spark at all. It was hard to find the man I knew in that face.

  Of course he caught my reaction. There was no way to hide my shock. He shifted his gaze back to the TV. "Like I said, not feeling great these days. Meds aren't working. Got no energy, and I feel like shit. Burning through my savings to pay rent."

  I looked around for signs that someone, anyone, was checking in on him. "Has your girlfriend been over lately? What's her name...Melinda?"

  "Michelle. Nope. Broke up with me a few weeks ago."

  I reached out for his hand but he pulled away. My jaw dropped even as I tried to hide my disbelief. Truman Miller had never turned down an opportunity to be touched by me in his entire life.

  Not once.

  I rallied and settled in. Depression clearly had its hook in him. I needed to find the right words to help pull him out of this hole. I searched my mind for all of the things I knew about the disease. Changes in appetite and sleep patterns. Disengagement. Irritability. Lethargy. Suicidal thoughts. I shuddered at the last one.

  "I'm sorry, Tru. Seems like maybe the worst possible time for a breakup. It must've been really hard. But you have to fight through this, whatever it is...Things will get better, like they always have." Damn, that lump in my throat was back. He'd always been able to pull such strong emotions from me. "I'm here. I won't leave you."

  Since we'd reconnected, I'd never reciprocated any of his affection, not really. He'd told me he loved me at least a dozen times, and I'd stayed silent. At the moment my reasons seemed petty and selfish. He'd been reaching out to me, repeatedly, for connection. I'd been worried about giving him the wrong idea.

  Maybe he had gotten the wrong idea. Did he know how much I cared?

  I'd spent over a year trying to figure out how to love him and be happily married at the same time, and I'd mostly failed. Instead of having an honest conversation about limits, I'd taken the easy way out, smiling at him or laughing when he'd expressed his feelings. Ignoring them when he'd written all of those messages. Ignoring my own reaction to him, as well.

  His face reflected a sadness that had hollowed him out, eaten a hole until it seemed there weren't any feelings left. A sunken gaze that looked around the room but saw nothing. Muscles that were atrophying from lack of use. How hard it must've been for him to put himself out there as I stayed silent, month after month. I wasn't just anyone. It would've mattered to him if I'd returned the sentiment. He was lonelier than I'd known. The unkempt yard, the drawn blinds...This house screamed of the isolation of its inhabitant. Tru needed me to rally for him, and this time I wasn't going to let him down.

  "Honey, I have to ask. Are you thinking about it?" I didn't need to be more specific. Suicide was the dark cloud hanging around him, making it hard to see anything clearly.

  He looked at me, his expression blank. "Yeah darlin', I think about it. I've thought about it before now, too. I always found a reason not to do it, though. I guess this time I'm coming up a little short. But if you're worried, I don't have any plans to off myself."

  I wanted to feel relieved, if only I could imagine the word yet wasn't on the tip of his tongue. "I'm glad to hear it." I took a deep breath. He needed more from me. For the first time since we'd reconnected, I wanted to give it to him. "Please don't change your mind about that, Tru. I can't imagine how hard this feels for you, but Grace, Sawyer, your mom, your friends—they love you...I love you..."

  Fear gripped me. We'd been broken up for decades; still, I couldn't imagine a world without Truman Miller. It was inconceivable.

  He didn't answer. My anxiety grew as the minutes clicked on. God, why did I have men in my life who loved long silences? I prayed that when he finally spoke
, his words would bring the kind of elation I'd felt when Nick surprised me by telling me he'd missed me, instead of saying he was leaving me. Looking at Truman, I wasn't sure this conversation would have the same happy ending.

  I reached over and gripped his hand firmly, pulling it toward me and interlacing our fingers. He let me, but there was no tension in his grasp. His muscles were limp as he kept his eyes on the TV. I bit my lip to keep from tearing up.

  I stared at our entwined fingers, willing him to squeeze mine, to give me some sign he was still with me. I don't know how long we sat together, except it was dark outside when I finally felt his fingers move, his hand tightening around mine even as his face stayed glued to the television.

  I looked at him then, a smile tugging at my lips. Tru sighed. It was a deep, sad sound, but I knew he was in there somewhere. I lay next to him and rested my cheek on his chest, keeping our hands together between us. As time passed, my eyes drifted closed, and I began to relax.

  "I'm trying, honey. I am. But I'm so tired."

  My eyes snapped open at the sound of his whispered voice, broken in a way that seared through me. I looped my arm over his stomach and pulled him closer.

  ***

  Nick tilted his head to look down at me, his body tense under my cheek as we lie together in bed. "Seriously?" His skeptical expression told me he wasn't buying it.

  I nodded. "He's just not bouncing back like I thought he would."

  I snuggled into the crook of my husband's neck, inhaling his sandalwood and lime scent. I'd returned home the day before, but I jumped every time my phone rang or dinged with a text message. I was tired. I missed Nick, but more than that, I was afraid.

  "I need to go back next weekend. I don't feel like he's out of the danger zone yet."

  I shivered. Tru had shown signs of returning to some semblance of himself, only to slide again into the lethargy of his depression. I went with him to appointments, got his prescriptions, encouraged him to keep a written schedule of his meds and how he was feeling so we could report back to his doctor, but so far I'd seen little improvement.

  His transformation was startling. Gone was the Tru I knew. There was no joking, no winking and teasing. As uncomfortable as his innuendos had made me, I missed them. Their absence was a constant reminder my Truman was lost, and I was trying desperately to help him find his way back.

  My head rose, then fell with Nick's heavy exhale. "Babe. You've been down there every weekend for a month. What the fuck is so wrong with this guy, he can't find people in his own town to help out?"

  I propped myself up on an elbow.

  He pulled his arm out from where it had been wrapped around my ribs, folding it behind his head. "I get that he's sinking, but why the hell are you the one who's supposed to fix his shit? Where's his sister, what's her name? Gail? And what about his mom?"

  "His sister's name is Grace. She's bipolar, and she finally found a job working for people who understand her issues. But, it's her third job in as many months, and she's a step away from food stamps. She can't take time off to go to his appointments with him. Aside from all that, Tru doesn't want her to know he's struggling. He said he thinks it'll freak her out enough to push her into another episode, and she can't afford it. His mom lives an hour away, and his brother's a serious stoner. Tru doesn't want to have anything to do with him."

  Nick rolled his eyes. "Sounds like a lot of reasons for the guy to keep you around. I don't like it. We need to spend time together, Jess. I'm not cool with you going down there when you should be here."

  I fell back on the pillow, my gaze toward the ceiling. "I'm sorry, baby. I don't know what to do. I wouldn't go if I didn't think this was literally life or death for him. He's not thinking straight. He doesn't take care of himself. I don't think he even can right now, he's so deep in that hole. But he's on a new med, and I have high hopes it'll be what he needs so I can stop worrying about it."

  I curled toward him, resting a hand on his chest. "I'm trying to get him to let people in, but he's proud. Leo's the only one he'd talk to about any of this, and he's on tour for the next eight weeks. Truman's been the protector of his family since forever. He doesn't want them to see him this way."

  Nick's eyes narrowed, his tone dripping with cynicism. "He's trying to get in your fucking pants, sweetness."

  I shook my head to disagree, while fighting the surge of adrenaline his words evoked. I couldn't fathom that he could be right. Truman had been flirty in the past, but no more. "This isn't a ploy. He's really sick."

  Nick rolled out of bed and stood looking down at me. "You can't deny it's awfully coincidental, when he has another episode," he made quotes with his fingers, "that you're right there, dropping everything, taking time off work and hanging out with him all day. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here staring at the walls instead of my wife. It's bullshit."

  He lifted the hem of his t-shirt to scratch his chest, giving me a glimpse of his lean, toned abs. I licked my bottom lip as I imagined tracing a line with my tongue down his chest and stomach. God, when was the last time we'd had sex?

  He paused, mid-scratch, his eyes settling on my face as a matching look of longing darkened his expression. I wanted him to take me hard, to claim me by yanking me up onto my knees and demanding I take him into my mouth. Visions of sucking him off as he gripped my hair, tugging on it to control my movements, made me wet.

  I sat there pleading with my eyes, silently asking him for what we both needed. He stared at me for a moment before his expression shuttered again. Seeing it, I sagged back against the pillows.

  "I need a drink."

  He'd wait until I was asleep to come to bed, like he had every time we'd come close to fucking over the past month. I crossed my arms over my chest. As the fabric of my tank top teased my sensitive nipples, I was reminded of how much was changing, had changed.

  I rolled over and turned off the light on my nightstand. I should've walked down the hall and confronted him, made him talk to me about what was going on, but I was exhausted. I closed my eyes and willed my overheated body to sleep. Was I losing Nick? I couldn't give him a baby, had punished him horribly after the miscarriage—even though it wasn't his fault—and right when we were getting back on track, I began seeing my suicidal ex-boyfriend on a regular basis. How much could one man take?

  My husband was my priority, absolutely. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do everything possible to save Truman. No matter how many times I'd tried to explain, Nick still didn't understand. Giving up on Truman and risking him doing the unthinkable...it would change me, perhaps into someone neither Nick nor I recognized.

  An impossible choice...my marriage or Tru's life.

  I felt it before I could put a name to the sensation. The long-lost tingle that started at the base of my spine, slithering its way up to the top of my head before an ominous sense of danger assaulted me. It had never been fight or flight with me. For me, there was only one choice; stay where I was and disappear inside myself until the storm passed.

  My response was automatic. I burrowed under the sheets, the deep breathing exercises coming back to me as if it hadn't been twenty years since the worst year of my life. I breathed and I waited, like I had back then. Waited for the panic attack to stop.

  ***

  "Truman? You home?"

  I'd left Nick at home, again, so I could check on Truman, again. I pushed through the door, leaving it open as the familiar stale smell assaulted my senses. I walked through his house, opening blinds and windows to let in fresh air as I made my way toward his bedroom. I knew I'd find him there. It's where he always was.

  At the door to his room, I took in his sleeping form. He was on his stomach, one leg cocked to the side, his broad back naked. The sheet was pulled down to his hips, revealing the waistband of his boxer briefs. The sight of him so exposed didn't shock me anymore. I'd seen him shuffling around in his underwear countless times over the last couple of months. Not that the man had ever been shy a day in his l
ife, but this was different. He didn't care anymore. He was slipping away, right in front of my eyes.

  I heard him inhale and turned to watch his chest expand, ribs visible under his skin. He'd told me the need for sleep was part of depression for him. I'd done some research of my own since then and knew oversleeping was likely making his symptoms worse.

  Sitting next to him on the edge of his bed, I ran my hand over the warm contour of his shoulder. "Truman, it's me. Wake up."

  He mumbled something, pushed my hand away, and began snoring again.

  "Wake up, Tru. I didn't drive two hours to watch you sleep." I shoved him harder and

  pulled the blankets off of him before I lowered myself to the bed again, my hip against his, and began rubbing his back. After a few moments he moaned.

  "Jessa." His voice was raspy as he rolled over and rubbed his face.

  I smiled, remembering how much I'd loved waking up with him in the mornings. That voice had the same effect on me today as it did then. The difference now was I always wondered which of these moments might be my last with him. My stomach clenched.

  "Have you eaten anything today?" I wanted to ask him if he'd eaten anything since I'd last seen him a week ago, he was so pale and listless.

  He sat up and yawned. "I don't know." He looked around his room as though he was surprised to be there. Was he confused about where he was, or surprised he was still waking up at all? I shook the thought from my head and pointed toward the kitchen.

  "I brought some groceries. I'm going to put them away and make you a grilled cheese sandwich. Sound OK?"

  His grunt was the only response. I'd read that depressed people often had a hard time with food, either eating too much or not at all. For Tru it was the latter. His appetite now was non-existent, and his lack of enthusiasm about a grilled cheese—his favorite—said a lot.

  "Get up, take a shower, brush your teeth, and meet me in the kitchen when you're done."

  He nodded when I expected him to arch an eyebrow at my bossy tone. I would've given anything to hear him argue with me, tell me to stop ordering him around, that he wasn't a child. Instead, he walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on.