That One Night (That One Series Book 1) (13 page)

The next three days pass without any more incidents. We don’t kiss or dry-hump each other in the kitchen. But there is a kind of intimacy and closeness when we interact, like we both want to put things behind us but don’t know how.

It’s really baffling how complicated things can be. I want to hope and believe that we can make it work, but I don’t know how I can trust him. It’s not even so much that he just left. Yes, that hurts—I won’t lie. What woman wants the man she is in love with to disappear after a night of passion and not be seen again for months? But what is more painful is the fact that he doesn’t open up to me, doesn’t trust me. How can I even consider letting him back in my heart when I can tell he is keeping secrets from me? Secrets that seem to have changed him. He isn’t the cocky daredevil he used to be. He’s more thoughtful that I ever remember him being, and sometimes I catch him lost in thought with a sad look on his face. It’s a look of pain and betrayal.

The girl in me that adores him wants to make him smile and make him feel better, while the woman who still feels hurt and rejected, the woman with the responsibility of raising a child—his child—wants to make sure that whatever he is hiding won’t hurt the innocent boy who is starting to adore his father. I want to get to the bottom of things. I want to know why he left, where he’s been, and I don’t understand why he refuses to give me this one thing. It makes me question everything else he says or does.

I don’t think he would purposely hurt Archer, or me for that matter, but whatever demons are haunting him right now might not give him a choice. I try to make myself believe that he didn’t mean to hurt me when he left me that night with just a note—but it doesn’t change the fact that my heart broke into tiny pieces. Now, I’m confused and torn between the hurt and anger I feel, and the smidge of happiness that is starting to bubble up inside of me. I don’t know how to trust him, I don’t know how to really let him in. Not before I know he’s earned it.

I think both of us need a breather, allowing ourselves the time to digest what’s happened in the past ten days. Not only has Ben come back, but he also became part of mine and Archer’s life, taking on the role of a dad. I can’t help but wonder if it was too much too fast, and I worry that he might be overwhelmed. But for now, he isn’t showing any signs that make me believe that he doubts his decision and role.

He seems like a natural, and when he and Archer are together they both thrive. Ben rarely stops smiling, even when he has to change a smelly diaper or change his shirt for the umpteenth time because Archer spit up on it. Even when Archer keeps him awake at night he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s lost to the wonder that is our little boy, and it’s like he doesn’t want to miss a single moment after having missed so much.

The past nights, whenever Archer stirred or cried, I didn’t have to wait long for Ben to sneak into my room, trying not to wake me, picking Archer up and soothing him, helping him fall back asleep. I pretended to sleep in order to allow him to have those moments undisturbed by the mama bear. I could hear him whispering into our son’s little ear, telling him stories or even reading to him, unsurprisingly the Bob Dylan children’s books I have, being the music lover he is. Sometimes he would even sing to him, his voice barely more than a whisper so he wouldn’t wake me up. But it was eerily beautiful nonetheless.

It’s not any different tonight. Archer has been fussy for two minutes, and like the previous nights I hear the door open and a moment later the small wall light above Archer’s crib is turned on. I smile into the pillow when I hear Ben whisper.

“Hey little man, what’s up? Why are you in such a bad mood, huh?” Archer’s sleeping bag rustles slightly when Ben takes him out of the crib, before sitting down in the armchair. I don’t need to see it to know what’s happening, the ritual is the same as the past nights. “You know Daddy loves you so much. You and your mommy are all that matters to me, little guy.” While I try to keep my breathing even, although his words burn through me like a raging fire, making my heart nearly explode in my chest, Archer starts giggling. I guess Ben is nuzzling his neck. That’s all it needs to send Archer into a giggling fit most times. 

“We have to be quiet, Archer, so we don’t wake Mommy. Want me to sing to you? Yeah?”

I’m curious what he will sing this time. I can’t wait to hear his hoarse voice singing to our son. Archer loves his voice. I love his voice. It’s not a perfect singing voice by any stretch, but damn, if I don’t find it perfect.

In any other situation, I would roll my eyes at the cliché choice of a song, but when he starts to sing Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open” I barely dare to breathe to not disturb him and cause him to stop singing. His voice is loaded with emotion, and he means every word he sings. There is so much love in the way he sings. I may doubt his feelings towards me, but there is no doubt he’d do anything for Archer.

My back is turned to them, which allows me to let the fat tears roll down my face onto the pillow, the beauty of the moment nearly making my heart burst in my chest. 

***

Waking up in the morning, I think back to Ben’s song last night and the thought alone makes my heart squeeze in my chest. I don’t want Ben to feel like an intruder when he comes in to look after Archer at night and so I come up with a plan. Before I head out, I let Ben and the rest know I’ll be home a bit later than usual since I have some things to take care of after work. And then I head out for a busy day.

Classes are interesting. We are discussing the symptoms of psychosis today and it’s highly captivating, yet at the same time scary how little we can control our mind when a mental illness is involved. I can’t even begin to imagine how awful it must be for the patient, or their loved ones. It’s on days like these that I question if I have what it takes to work in this field, or if I’m too emotional.

On my lunch break I text Ben.

Me: How’s everything going?

B: Good. Archer and I are currently fixing Mrs. Murray’s bannister.

Me: I don’t know who Mrs. Murray is, but okay. :)

B: Don’t worry. She’s no competition. She can’t shake her ass like you do. At least not without needing a hip replacement.

I snort laugh at that, causing people in the cafe to turn their heads and give me a puzzled look.

Me: I’m afraid to ask. How do you know? You tried it?

B: Wouldn’t you like to know. ;)

Me: Actually, no. Lol. How is Archer doing? Is he fussy?

B: Right now, no. He’s chewing happily on the pendant, while I’m texting instead of working.

Me: Fine, get back to Mrs. Murray and her hips then. ;)

I chuckle while stuffing my phone back into my purse. Wow, when not in the same room, we can actually talk without stepping onto a minefield. We even manage some innuendos without it being awkward. That’s quite relaxing and enjoyable.

***

Feeling lighthearted, I make my way to the counseling center. When I get in, I can already tell it’ll be a busy day. The closer we get to Christmas, the more cases we have. People fear the holidays and all that comes with it. You have the ones who fear the family drama or seeing some dreaded family members. There are the ones who are alone and don’t know how to cope. Or they just lost someone, lost their job, are overwhelmed, or don’t know how to pay for everything. They all have one thing in common though—Christmas is the worst time of the year for them.

We’re here to listen and offer support where we can. The problems of my first three patients are easily solved. Sometimes when you are in the claws of the monster that is depression or despair, you don’t see the easiest solution—passing them the addresses of thrift stores to be able to buy gifts or figure out housing over the holidays isn’t that taxing. Luckily, we have the connections to make things like that happen.

My third case, however, is not easy to stomach. A young woman, maybe two or three years older than I am, comes into my office. She’s wearing jeans, a loose, beige sweater, her light-brown hair pulled back. Her makeup is flawless, but her puffy bloodshot eyes give away that she isn’t so well put together on the inside.

“Hi, I’m Frankie. How can I help you?”

She’s silent for a moment, just staring into space. She doesn’t respond, so I try again.

“Do you want to tell me your name?”

“Anna.”

“What’s wrong, Anna? What can I do for you?”

She grabs her purse and I’m worried she is about to leave, but instead she dumps two full bottles of Xanax on my desk and then continues staring out the window behind me.

I reach for one of the bottles, and it’s been prescribed about a month ago. The other one is dated two weeks later.

“You haven’t taken any?”

Anna only shakes her head, and a feeling of dread comes over me.

“Were you saving them?”

Instead of an answer she only nods.

“And that’s why you’re here?”

Finally, she looks at me, and what I see in her eyes takes my breath away. The look in her eyes is pure resignation, despair, and emptiness. She’s a hollow shell.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a month—planning it really. I don’t deserve to live. But I couldn’t do it. I failed, I failed them—again.” A sob escapes her, and I know I’m way over my head with this, but I can’t leave her alone. She might take off, and I don’t know what will happen if she does. I suspect it wouldn’t be anything good.

“Why would you think that?”

“I couldn’t help them. I couldn’t save them. And now I can’t even manage to go and be with them.”

Never did I wish more to have my boss at my side, just being the one accompanying him to critical cases and not dealing with one all by myself.

“Do you want to tell me what happened? I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“No one can help me. You can’t bring them back.”

“Who were they?” At my use of the past tense, another ragged sob escapes her, and she starts to furiously wipe her eyes. I pass her a box of tissues and ignore the rules of keeping a professional distance. I get up and sit in the chair next to her, putting my hand on her shoulder.

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath.

“My boyfriend and my baby. They are dead. I couldn’t save them.” She rummages through her purse and pulls out a sheet of paper, handing it to me. Taking the sheet from her, I realize it’s a news article about an accident that happened a month ago. I remember Alex mentioning something about it, but don’t recall the details since I rarely watch the news or read newspapers.

I read the article in my hand. A young father was driving with his baby daughter down a busy street in Cambridge to pick up his girlfriend from her shopping trip. A truck driver ran a red light, falling asleep at the wheel and crashed into the car. It went up in flames, with both occupants dying on impact.

I take a calming breath, in order to not let my emotions take over. Images of Ben and Archer flash in my mind, and I need a moment to focus.

“Anna, did you witness the accident?”

She nods, her body slumped, her hands clutching her sweater. I rack my brain about what to say to her. What do you tell someone who has lost everything that mattered?

I take a deep breath. “You know you couldn’t have helped them. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I could not have gone shopping. I could’ve called five minutes later or earlier. None of this would have happened. But I wanted new shoes to celebrate the anniversary of our first date.” Her voice gets louder with every word. “I should’ve been in the car with them. I should’ve died with them.”

My heart breaks for her. It breaks for her boyfriend and for her baby.

I don’t want to give her the platitudes that I’ve been taught. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. She seems like an intelligent woman that would see right through this shit. Instead, I break every rule in the book that I’ve been taught so far, listening to my gut and my heart.

“Anna, I’m not going to sit here and tell you I know how you feel. I don’t have the slightest idea. No one does. What happened is the worst thing imaginable. I have a little boy and just thinking about something happening to him makes me want to raise hell. I can’t imagine the hell you are going through, and I don’t know how you do it. I can’t even imagine how hard it must be to get up every morning. I also don’t know what to tell you to make it easier for you. I don’t think there is anything that would. But I also don’t think killing yourself is the right way. What would your boyfriend…,” I look down at the newspaper clipping, “Roger say? What would he want?”

I can tell she is fighting the truth. It’s obvious she knows the answer, but doesn’t want to accept it—isn’t able to accept it. I leave her with the question for now, not pushing her to answer me.

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Not really. Every time I close my eyes I see it again. I don’t leave the house much, the traffic noises make me nervous. I don’t know how to go on anymore. I don’t want to go on.”

“Anna. I know you don’t believe it now. And I know you might not even want to at the moment. But there are treatments and ways that you can feel better again. Will this always be painful? Yes, hell yes. But you can learn how to cope and live again. Have you heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”