Giving Up for You

by L. M. Carr

  Shortly after, my eyelids grow heavy and my dream continues. Adam and I are walking through the park, holding hands, smiling lovingly at one another. He rubs small circles on my protruding belly before bending at the waist to kiss it. His sweet words tell our baby girl that she is loved beyond words. I smile at him as he stands and kisses me chastely. The kiss deepens as his hands pull me close and roam all over my wanton body. He lowers me to a bed of green leaves and soft grass and removes the straps from my sundress, nipping and tasting my neck and shoulders. The thin dress is tossed aside carelessly and he lowers himself so that he’s kneeling between my bent knees. “You are beautiful. You are mine. This,” he says as his hand traces the faint lines over my swollen belly, “is mine, too. Thank you for this.” When he enters me, I am filled beyond capacity. I wrap my legs around his waist as he sinks in further, moving slowly to give me time to accept him. He makes sweet love to me and I cry out, calling his name when he sends me over the edge with an incredible orgasm.

  “Mia!” he calls my name, frantically. I don’t remember this part of the dream. “Mia!” He raises his voice even louder. I struggle to rouse from this dream when I realize that someone is really calling me. The clock tells me it’s after one in the morning and someone is shouting my name. It’s not just any someone, it’s him.

  I reach over, turn on the small bedside lamp, scramble out of bed and run to the window, throwing it open hard enough to make the frame shake and the window rattle. “What are you doing? It’s one o’clock in the morning! What do you want now?” I ask with a whispered yell.

  He mumbles to himself and staggers a bit when he misses the single step up to the patio. “Stupid motherfucker. Selfish bastard.” Angry words are uttered by this otherwise lovely mouth. “I need you.” He looks small and fragile as he tilts his head back so that he can see me and my heart aches when I see his face illuminated by the garage light. He looks like a broken man. It’s the same face I saw when he sat at his desk that Sunday afternoon, the day he left me all those months ago. “I need you so fucking much. Please.”

  He needs me? He doesn’t need me! He left me! Shit! I don’t know what to do. The emotional, sometimes irrational, part of me wants to sprint downstairs and kiss him, but the sensible part of me reminds me of what he did and tells me to close the window, go back to bed and just leave him standing there. I know what I should do, but I love him. I love him.

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right down.” I glance over at the Longos’ windows, hoping that he hasn’t woken them up with this scene. I grab my robe and give Brady an exasperated look. I’m sure if he could talk he’d say, “Don’t look at me!”

  Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the screen door and step back to allow him room to come in. I notice my neighbor’s back porch light is now on. I’m not sure which one of my nosy neighbors is peering out of a window to see what’s going on.

  The smell of alcohol seeps through his pores when he staggers into the kitchen. I wonder how much he’s had to drink and hope to God that he didn’t drive. He’s a slobbering mess.

  Only my thin robe separates my bare back from the door that I lean against as I watch him carefully. A loud, nasty burp erupts from him before he mumbles, “Excuse me” and rests his forehead on the island. I wait to see what I should do.

  After waiting for what seems like an eternity, I walk past him and reach into the cabinet to get some Motrin. I fill a glass of water and set the two orange pills before him. “Take these. You’re going to feel like shit in the morning.”

  He moans. “It doesn’t matter. I feel like shit every day.”

  He feels like shit every day? This is news to me. I feel like I’m in an alternate universe where things aren’t always what they seem. I’ve wondered often if he ever thinks about me or misses me. I was pretty damn sure that what we had was special; I thought it was the real deal.

  “I can’t imagine why you’d say that. You got exactly what you wanted. You did this to yourself.”

  Wide, blood-shot eyes fly up to look at me. “I had to . . . I had to leave.” His words make me think he was forced to leave, but he’s a grown man who made his own choice. He lowers his face so that his cheek is pressed against the wooden surface, looking directly at me with sad, glassy eyes. I can only imagine how I must look to him. Judging by the stench of alcohol, he’s probably seeing two of me in blurred vision.

  My heart beats faster as I wonder if I’m really going to get a drunken confession about why he broke my heart. His departure was so sudden; it left my head spinning. Maybe if I knew what happened, I could put things into perspective, I could understand and gain some closure. God, please don’t let him pass out before I get some answers.

  “I had to save you,” he slurs. “I had to save you . . . from me.”

  What the hell is he talking about? Save me from him? I want to take the few steps to close the distance between us and smack him into sobriety. He’s not making any sense. “It was my fault, you know. It was all my fault.”

  “Drink your water and take the Motrin,” I command, pushing the water closer to his hand.

  He raises his head just enough to open his mouth, take a drink and swallow the medicine. “It will still hurt tomorrow.”

  No doubt his head will hurt in the morning. He’s probably consumed his body weight in scotch.

  “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.” He smiles drunkenly at me and he blinks lazily. If I weren’t so confused by the situation and his words, I might think it’s comical. But it isn’t funny. Not remotely.

  “How did you get here?”

  He looks around the room like he’s forgotten where he is, his forehead creasing with confusion.

  “You’re completely wasted! Did you drive here?”

  “Hmmm . . .” He nods and then shakes his head from side to side. “I think someone called a cab. I don’t know. I don’t remember,” he whispers the slurred words.

  “You need to go home. Do you want me to call a cab?”

  “I am home.”

  My body stiffens immediately at his words. “No. You’re not!” I struggle to say the words because just being near him feels like home. “Who can I call for you?” Please God, let there be someone to call. I don’t care that it’s now almost two in the morning, I’ll call Mike if I have to.

  “Please let me stay. With you.” At that moment, he looks like a sad, little boy not a thirty two year old man.

  Yes, please. Stay with me forever. Right and wrong wage a war inside of me.

  “No, I can’t do that.” Yes, I can! I can because I want to.

  “But I need you. I need you, Mia.”

  “Stop saying that! You don’t need me! You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying. You won’t remember this in the morning.” I glance around the kitchen for my phone before I remember that I left it charging upstairs when I ran down to open the door.

  “You’re right . . . I am drunk, but I still know what I need. I need you. We’re a family.”

  “You have a family and you didn’t need me when you left.” Shit! I blurt out the words before my brain to mouth filter has a chance to work.

  It’s his turn to stiffen, standing tall in front of me. His glassy eyes look at me with a look that can only be described as longing. “I have always needed you. I think I always will. Please let me stay.”

  For all the reasons that I shouldn’t let him stay, one simple fact remains. I love him.

  I must enjoy torture because I know my heart will break all over again when he’s gone. The pain will be unbearable, but I want to feel something.

  I raise my hand, extending it to him. “Come on. You can sleep on the couch.”

  Electricity shoots through my hand into my arm and throughout my body when his fingers slide into mine. “I love holding your hand.”

  Everything that I’ve worked so hard to bury, all the feelings, all the thoughts resurface immediately, sending shivers through me. My eyes close briefly as I ask God why thi
s is happening. Haven’t I been through enough already? Can’t I just get on with my life without his teasing words that thrill me yet destroy me further?

  He trudges slowly behind me, bumping into the door frame. He slows down and looks at the white painted trim. “I remember these.” His free hand touches the marks my father made when I was young to measure my growth. “I love these.”

  I remove his shoes and adjust the pillows so he can sleep comfortably. “Lie back.” I tap the pillow, encouraging him to rest his head. One might think that I should treat him cruelly, but with that one weekend aside, he was never unkind to me. My hands ball into fists as I resist the urge to run my fingers through his hair even though it’s much shorter now. I long to feel the smoothness of his skin against my lips. It’s almost too much to bear. He’s so close and yet so far away. He reaches for my face, raising his chin to meet my lips. “I love your lips.”

  Centimeters separate us, but I can’t do it. What I wouldn’t give to feel his lips on mine. I pull away and he frowns.

  “Will you lie with me?”

  I expect to see a smile or even a smirk, some indication of humor, but he’s completely serious. He is completely serious like it’s a normal thing to request. Long gone are the days of absolute freedom to touch each other and let our lips meet, allowing our tongues to dance rhythmically. Long gone are those days of pure love between us.

  Pushing him down gently, I pull the blanket over his long body and watch as he curls into a fetal position, looking up at me with eyelids that become heavy while the blinking of his brown eyes becomes slower. “Please stay.”

  Across from him, on my father’s favorite reclining chair, I sit and stare at him as he falls asleep. His eyes flutter open for just a moment as he sighs deeply and murmurs, “I love you.”

  ***

  BRADY’S ROUGH TONGUE licks my fingers that dangle over the armrest of the chair I’m sleeping on. I curl into myself, crossing my arms, yawning and turning my head. I keep my eyes closed, hoping that if I continue to ignore him, he’ll leave me alone for a little longer. He doesn’t. I snap my head in his direction and shoot him a dirty look. “Bad Brady,” I mutter. He cocks his big head slightly, probably wondering what he’s done wrong. It’s not his fault I’m exhausted. He just wants to go outside.

  I reach down to push the lever to sit upright when I spot my unexpected guest asleep on the couch. The blanket is crumpled on the floor beside him. Brady gives me a low “hurry up” bark and I slowly ease my way up and into the kitchen, opening the door as he runs out into the yard. My head falls against the window pane and I wait. Deciding that I’d rather not get up again, I leave the door open slightly so Brady can get back into the house.

  After going to the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I tiptoe back into the living room and settle back on the recliner. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that he would be here, sleeping just a few feet away from me. What I wouldn’t give to crawl up beside him and nuzzle against his neck.

  As if our baby knows that her parents are together in the same room, she moves in me. I feel a small flutter in my belly, making me gasp which in turn causes him to stir. Holy shit! I think our daughter is happy! It’s the first time I’ve felt her move. I remember the first time Lily moved; I thought I had gas or indigestion. My palm rests flat against the lower right side of my belly and I wait for her to move again. Quietly, I begin to hum the familiar lullaby, hoping the sound of my voice will elicit more movement.

  My eyes snap up when I hear his raspy voice. “What are you doing?”

  I pull my hand away quickly and tighten the sash of my robe. “Nothing.” The defense rings out in my voice. I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

  “What were you singing just now?” He scrubs his face with his hands. Technically, I wasn’t singing, I was humming. I know it’s a minor technicality, but right now, I’ll take it. “I wasn’t singing. I think maybe you’re still drunk.”

  His eyes slowly close and he falls back to sleep. I sit and wait for her to move again, but she doesn’t.

  For the next hour, I sit and watch him sleep. My emotions are on a pendulum, swinging from compassion to anger and back again. I make myself a cup of coffee and close the kitchen door. Brady is comfortably resting on the rug by the window.

  The silent conversation going on inside my head comes to a halt when he speaks.

  “Holy shit. Who the hell let me drink that much?” His legs swing to the side of the couch as he sits up and leans his elbows against his knees. “How the hell did I get here?”

  I’m offended. He makes it sound like I kidnapped him and made him come here against his will. Asshole! Words elude me.

  “Mia?”

  Silence.

  “How did I get here last night?”

  “That’s a great question,” I snap. “You showed up here after one o’clock in the morning, completely wasted. You were being loud and annoying, asking to come in.” I lace my voice with disdain. “I didn’t want to wake up the whole damn neighborhood so I let you in. You’re obnoxious when you’re drunk, you know that?”

  “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came here.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “You know where it is.” I can’t help the bitchiness that comes out of my mouth.

  He rises slowly, testing his stability before walking through the kitchen to the bathroom. I dash upstairs and throw on a pair of yoga pants and a long t-shirt, pulling my hair into a ponytail.

  I find him in the kitchen just standing there, looking at his phone seemingly deep in thought.

  “Did we?” he asks hesitantly.

  “Did we what?” I snort in disbelief.

  His pointed glare suggests that he wants to know if we had sex. “You think that you can waltz back into my life and fuck me? Did you hit your head on something last night?” Maybe it’s my own guilt for wishing that he’d fuck me or the fact that he would probably do it again without thinking twice about leaving. “I’m not one of your whores.”

  “Mia, I’m sorry,” he offers quietly. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I must’ve been dreaming. I don’t remember last night.”

  He doesn’t remember last night? Well, let me remind you, my friend.

  “I’ll tell you what happened. You got drunk, came here and then proceeded to . . .”

  “To what?” he prompts carefully, almost like he’s afraid to hear the rest.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” I shake my head.

  “Mia, what did I do? Did I say something? Did I hurt you?”

  I stand firm and lift my chin. “You can’t.”

  “I can’t what?”

  “Hurt me anymore,” I whisper. I want to sound steadfast even if I don’t feel it.

  I brush past him as I make way into the living room and begin the task of tidying up, starting with the discarded blanket. I adjust the throw pillows and pick up the coffee cup. I’m not sure why he’s still here. I’ve made my point pretty clear.

  My arm is tugged back and my body comes to a stop before he turns me around to face him. The feel of his fingers on my skin revives something deep in me. “What? What do you want from me?”

  “I need you.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I grit through my teeth.

  “Because it’s true.”

  I shut my eyes and shake my head from side to side. I desperately need to wake up from this dream; it’s too real. There’s no doubt it’s going to leave me even more broken-hearted when I awake.

  “Please, talk to me.” He steps just close enough for me to inhale his scent. The stench of alcohol is replaced with the sweet smell of mint. “Mia.” My skin prickles when his hand takes hold of mine. “Please. Let me touch you.” The slight feel of his thumb grazing my knuckles sets me on fire.

  I have to pull my lips in together to refrain from screaming out loud. It is pure torture. His touch is gentle, familiar and I love it, yet I want to
step away and not be drawn into deceit. I am weak when I am near him, and he knows it.

  “Don’t!” I close my eyes as my chin quivers, a sign of the turmoil raging deep within me. “Please, don’t.” I step back but his hands are quicker and he keeps his hand clasped with mine. His fingers circle my palms.

  “Mia, please. Don’t pull away. I know what my touch does to you. Yours does the same to me.”

  My tense body slowly relaxes. “Why are you doing this to me? Are you trying to push me over the edge? Because let me tell you, I was almost there. I was at the edge when you left and I won’t ever be that person again. I have too much to live for now.”

  “Shhh. I know.” He lifts our joined hands and kisses each knuckle slowly before pulling me close to kiss my forehead. He knows? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I swear to God I will kill Mike if he told him about this baby. Why couldn’t he just keep his big mouth shut? It’s not his damn business.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here. I’ve accepted the fact that you were gone. I’ve moved on.” I don’t know why I lie to him; I’ve never accepted either one, and my heart is just started to beat again.

  “I couldn’t stay away from you. I thought I could. I need you.”

  The intensity of his stare bewilders me. He needs me? He didn’t seem to need me a few months ago when he left.

  “Why now? Why come back to me now?” I ask with a skeptical tone.

  “You’re all I’ve thought about since the day you walked out of our house that Sunday afternoon.” I don’t miss the use of the word our.

  “I didn’t walk out! You’re the one who left! Why exactly did you leave? You never gave me a reason. You just said we were done and that was it. Are you going to tell me now after all these months?”

  “Yes . . . no . . . it’s a long story. I still have doubts, but what I know is that I can’t do this without you.” I don’t really understand how “long” of a story it can possibly be. The idea of marrying me sent him running to a bar so he could drink himself into oblivion and fuck someone else. How damn difficult is that to understand? I don’t care what he has to say or what Mike told him, I’ll do this without him if I have to. I don’t want to, but I will.