“I’msorry.”
Heknew saying I’m sorry never stopped a hand already swinging. It never took awaythe sting of a struck cheek or the feeling in a child’s stomach after the threatswere made. Sorry did nothing. The child looked away from him toward Joye, stillsleeping, a look on her face that mirrored the child’s own frown. It leanedforward and put its hands on her throat.
“Please.No. PLEASE! STOP!”
“Makeme,” it said.
Achild’s dare. Make me. Said in the full realization that he absolutelycould not make it do anything. Not without touching it. And he knew thattouching it was something he absolutely could not do. Not ever.
Noteven to save Joye?
Makeme.
Hetook a single step forward, and stopped. A hollow threat. The child knew it,and its fingers tightened. The image of Joye and the boy astride her blurred astears flooded his eyes. His knees felt week, but he stayed upright andattempted another step.
Makeme.
Hereached out. His hand not held up to push or slap, or even to signal for theboy to stop. He reached out to merely lay his hand on the child’s back. To letit know he was sorry. For not being the person he needed to be, for not beingstrong enough to stay, for everything he had been too weak his entire life toface.
Hewas sorry for burying the boy without ever saying a word of regret for whatthat loss meant.
Butsorry was not enough to heal a single scar.
Itcouldn’t bring back a lost boy.
Itwas worthless.
Forever.
Hetouched the child. A chill spread through his body, raising gooseflesh on hisskin. His breath billowed out again in a cloud of condensation like his spiritescaping. The boy shimmered and Sam’s hand passed through him and settled onJoye’s chest. Her eyes fluttered open, and her frown became a smile. “Hey, you.You’re freezing.”
“Hey,”he said, trying not to sob out loud and failing.
“Areyou okay?”
Samshook his head. She took his hand from her chest and held it up to her mouth.She kissed the palm with which he’d tried to comfort a lost boy, and felt onlyhurt and hate. When he moaned, his breath hitching at the pain of her kiss, shepulled him down to her and held him against her warm, bare skin, and smoothedhis hair, whispering “Shhh,” and “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Eventually,he fell asleep on her chest, listening to her breathing—to her heart beat.
* * *
Inthe morning, Sam awoke alone. He felt the emptiness of his bed gnaw at him andhe placed his hand flat on the mattress, trying to feel the heat of a woman whowasn’t there. Another woman, who wasn’t there. But it was cold. He’d told herhe wasn’t a project, but of course he was. He was a terrible, ruined projectthat had been started and abandoned and restarted and broken a little worseuntil he was a collection of pieces barely held together by a bond that waswearing away. He didn’t blame her for leaving. She’d said she was shit atprojects. And he was an unfixable one.
Heheard the clink of the coffee pot and sat up straight. He jumped out of bed,still in his underwear, and ran into the kitchen where Joye stood pouringherself a cup of coffee, wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxerbriefs. Her hair was a mess and she’d scrubbed her face clean and was radiant. Shesmiled at him and he let out a long sigh.
“Goodmorning,” she said.
“I’mso sorry about last—”
Joyeheld up a finger to silence him. It worked. She took a sip of her coffee beforeasking if he wanted a cup. He nodded, still unsure whether he was allowed tospeak. She grabbed down a mug that read, “Shhh,” at the top, “Almost,” in themiddle, and “Now talk,” at the bottom. Liv’s favorite. She filled it to Shhhand handed it to him.
Leadinghim by his elbow over to the breakfast table, she pulled out his chair andwaited for him to sit before pulling a chair over next to him. She sat andleaned against him while he drank, and didn’t say anything for a long time. Shejust touched him and was there.
Eventually,she broke the silence and said, “I was looking at your pictures.” She noddedtoward the collection of framed photos hanging on the wall. Liv had said shealways wanted them to be together for meals, even if they were apart, so she’dgone on the hunt for photos in shoeboxes and albums and thumb drives. Sheframed them and hung them in a cluttered collage on the wall beside the table.They clashed with the rest of their décor, but somehow she made it work. “Isthat her?” Joye asked, pointing to a shot off to the side of the array of awoman smiling devilishly behind an ice cream cone.
“That’sher. She had a thing for ice cream.” He directed her gaze to another picture ofa child holding a cone. Same smile. Same pose. “That’s her when she was a kid.”
“Andwho’s that?” Joye pointed to one next to it. The boy from the restaurant, fromthe street, and the stall… and the night stared at them from the frame. Theboy’s face was solemn and drawn. He’d been told to stand there and smile, buthe hadn’t wanted to have his picture taken. He didn’t want to smile. A woman’shands gripped his shoulders, holding him in place. They could make him do thatmuch.
“That’sme when I was a kid.”
“He’scute.”
Heswallowed hard. “I don’t like it. I asked Liv not to hang that one up.”
Samhated being that boy, and as soon as he could manage, had made himself intosomeone else. Someone who couldn’t be told what to do, or how to feel. Whocouldn’t be forced to endure things he didn’t agree to. He’d hated that boy forbeing weak. Hated him so much that he killed the thought of him and buried itdeep in the desert of memory, certain there was no way back.
Joyesnuggled up closer, leaning her
