The Story Of Us Part 31

I sit down and rub my hands down my thighs. I take in my husband, the tubes, the monitors, the bags of medicine hanging from the pole. After everything we've been through, everything that's happened...

"Are you saying Maverick might never wake up?" I whisper.

"Yes," she says. "I'm saying it's a possibility."

Chapter 50.

Chicago, Illinois One day ago I didn't apply for graduate school, and I certainly didn't apply to Yale. Did they get the wrong address?

I check again. Nope. Has my name on it too.

Did my professor do something?

I open the envelope with the school insignia in the upper left-hand corner and pull out the slip of paper. I skim the first line, blink, and read it again.

Dear Ms. Alieya Tavare, On behalf of the Yale University School of Art, we would like to congratulate you on your preliminary selection into the painting/printmaking graduate program.

I grab for the counter to steady myself. I still have one year of undergraduate. How can they possibly have a spot for me next fall?

Moreover ... me?

I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, clutching the letter and staring at it when Maverick walks in. He drops his bag and falls to his knees in front of me.

"Alieya, are you all right?"

I don't look up. He pushes the paper away and holds my face between his hands, forcing my attention to him. "Are you okay?"

He's probably thinking this is some kind of side-effect of the miscarriage. The doctor warned us of additional bleeding and possible physical complications along with the depression.

I force myself to focus on him. It's still so difficult to look him in the eye. Then I lift the hand that's holding the letter.

"I got this," I say. "It came in the mail today."

Maverick holds my gaze for a moment before he glances at what I'm showing him. His eyes flick back to me, confusion creating lines across his forehead.

"Read it," I say, the words coming out hushed.

I let go once he has it. He skims over the words, and a grin pushes at the corners of his mouth. When he finishes, he's got a full-blown smile directed at me.

"Alieya," he says, half-laughing. "I hope you have no doubts about your talent now. Baby, you did it!"

I shake my head. "I didn't do this."

"Of course you did. Your talent, your hard work, you did this."

I shake my head again. "No, I didn't apply."

The smile falls from his face. "Is that what you're upset about?"

"It doesn't freak you out that someone applied to graduate school for me? Without my consent? Without even talking to me first? They must've set up a fake email address with my name and forged my signature. How did they get my personal information?"

Maverick's shoulders fall. "I thought you'd be happier."

I inhale sharply. "You?"

I flinch when he takes my hands and presses a kiss to them. "You have so much talent, Alieya. You can't waste it. You should be doing something big and wonderful with it."

"You did this?" I repeat.

"I can transfer to the New York office."

"Waste it?" I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"We can get a place in Stamford, Connecticut. It's halfway between New York and the school, one hour by train."

"Big and wonderful?"

"Yale grad. You can do whatever you want, wherever you want. The art galleries in New York, they're exquisite. You'd be among the best in the world there, where you belong."

I blink, staring at him in disbelief. "What if that's not what I want? You didn't even ask me."

"Art isn't what you want? Since when?"

"Since ... since I don't know, okay? Maybe since the rose painting. It's just not in me anymore."

Maverick lets go of my hands. "I bought you all new supplies-paints, brushes, canvases. The living room is an art studio."

"I know."

"You haven't used it at all?"

I glance up at the ceiling to ward off the rising emotion. Then I concentrate on Maverick again. "I go in there, and I see everything all set up, and I have to force my feet to move. And when I get there, I just stand there, staring at the white canvas. I see nothing. Nothing but him. His eyes, his little round face, those tiny toes, and I can't do it. He's right there, in front of me, but at the same time, he's so, so far away." I purse my lips. Swallow and whisper, "And I can't."

Maverick bobs his head. "I thought that if you had something to focus on, then you'd be able to move past it."

His words slice through me. How could he say that? It? Move past it. As if our baby is just an inanimate object in our way.

My cheeks burn. "No, Maverick. You thought that if you could distract me, I'd forget. But I don't want to forget. I never want to forget."

"I'm not asking you to forget, but you need to look ahead instead of what's behind us. Let's give him a name. A memorial. A headstone. Something that might help you get over this hump."

I'm not hearing this. Is he serious?

"It's that easy for you, is it? Carve a name on a slab of granite, and I'll magically be back to how I was before. Like I'm not going to constantly know a piece of me is missing."

"It's a grieving tool, Alieya. And no, this isn't easy for me. This has been so G.o.dd.a.m.n hard." His jaw clenches. "I go to the office and come back to a home where I'm treated like a f.u.c.king stranger. You don't talk to me. You barely look at me, and you recoil when I touch you."

"Yeah, you're right. You go to the office. You go to the office. You go to office. You come home to sleep. There's no one here to talk to. No one to look at. No one to touch."

"I'm doing it for us. I have a shot at making partner someday. The money I'd make would ensure-"

"f.u.c.k the money! I don't care about any of that, Maverick. I never have," I yell.

Red lights up in his eyes. "You want out of this apartment. You b.i.t.c.h about how small it is and the s.h.i.tty location."

"No. I hate this apartment because I'm alone in it!"

"You wanted a cat, I got you a G.o.dd.a.m.n cat! What the f.u.c.k do you want?" he snaps.

"You, Maverick. You're all I've ever wanted."

"I'm here. I've always been here." He stands up. "You haven't."

I curl my legs up to my chest and stare him. "I can't do this anymore, Maverick. I'm done."

He runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, me too. Let's go to bed."

"No, Maverick. I mean I'm done."

"Done?"

I nod, the burn of tears searing my eyes. "With us."

Chapter 51.

Present day 10:09 p.m.

Maverick I can't open my eyes. I can't move. h.e.l.l, I'm not even sure I'm breathing. Every point in my body feels like I'm crushed under a collapsed building.

The last thing I remember is being blinded by some a.s.shole's headlights, and after that I'm blank. Am I still in the car?

I don't know. Dammit.

Alieya. The flowers.

s.h.i.t.

Alieya.

The day comes back in a flood. I got off work early, because I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about our fight. She said she was done with us. What does that even mean? Is she asking for a divorce?

If she is, I won't sign. Life got hard, but I don't give up that easily. I'm a fighter, a lawyer for Christ's sake. Yeah, we're in h.e.l.l. Now it's time to walk through it-together.

When she texted me about dinner, I'd hoped it was to talk. We need to talk. Work through this s.h.i.t like adults.

I should have gone straight home to her. I should have waited to make that appointment with the monument mason until she came around to the idea. All I wanted to know was what our options were. Get a good sense of a timeline and cost.

She accused me of being heartless. Maybe I am. Maybe my heart shattered the night I came home and found her in the bathroom. I've never seen so much blood. Alieya looked like a ghost. When she collapsed, I lost it. I slid across the floor to her and cradled her. I thought she was going to die.

I was a f.u.c.king mess while they had her in surgery. They wouldn't tell me a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing. It's frustrating as h.e.l.l, knowing your wife is in danger and your child is probably gone. And there wasn't a d.a.m.n thing I could do.

That's my job-I fix things. I help serve justice. Plaintiff and defendant; right and wrong; guilty and not guilty.

Black and white.

But I couldn't fix this. There is no justice.

Three units of blood is what they gave her. I brought her home the next day. She slept and cried, and nothing I said made a difference. I lost her that night too.

So I called Finley to get her back. She did what I couldn't. And, again, what kind of justice is that? I couldn't even break through to my own wife.

But last night, last night almost killed me.

I applied to Yale for her back in December. I wanted for her to be successful at what she loved. School of Art at Yale is supposed to be one of the best. I thought she'd be excited.

After the monument appointment, I sent her a fake text and went to Grant Park to think. I sat on a bench and watched water spill over the upper rim of the fountain. Children pointed and cooed, their mothers encouraging their wonder. In the west corner, a man painted the scene, drawing a small crowd of onlookers.

All I could think about was what Alieya said-I haven't been there. She's right. I've been focusing on my career. So much so that I've developed an ulcer and hide a prescription of sleeping pills in the glove compartment of the car. That's never what I wanted, to work myself to death. To miss out on my own life because I'm too busy sorting out everyone else's.

s.h.i.t, Finley stayed with us for a week, and I saw her twice. That's how often I was home. My wife needed me, and I wasn't there.

And then I realized it was our anniversary. Our first one. How had I forgotten?

I'm such an a.s.shole.

I bought her flowers. I should have bought her the whole d.a.m.n world. I have to get to her.

I try to open my eyes. Move an arm. Speak. Nothing happens.

I'm trapped. I can't get to the part where my thoughts translate into action.

That's not acceptable.

I need to wake up. I need to see my wife.