Loss (Act II), Part Twenty-Five

missclairebelle:

I have been beaten down by my job these last few weeks. When I started to project career anxiety onto writing, wanted to give up on this, delete my blog, and move on, there was a small group who refused to let me.  To them, I need to say thank you: @balfeheughlywed, @holdhertightandsayhername@notevenjokingfic, @sassenachwaffles, and @thefraserwitch. You helped me not walk away. I owe you, particularly for the times that you refused to let me get away with some writing that didn’t feel/sound like me. I owe you, and love you all. xx.


loss: act i and ficlets

Loss: Act II: part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six| part seven| part eight| part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | part thirteen | part fourteen |  part fifteen | part sixteen | part seventeen | part eighteen |  part nineteen | part twenty | part twenty-one | part  twenty-two | part twenty-three | part twenty-four


Loss (Act II)
Part Twenty-Five

It became easy to pretend that our pre-California argument over Tom Christie never happened.  (Tom’s forwardness. Jamie’s reaction. My non-reaction.  The fight that separated us into separate beds, panting  like boxers separated into opposite corners of a ring with protective mouthpieces askance. The iciness of our goodbye.)  When Jamie had left for California, he held back on the things he needed to say.  (His anger ticking like a bomb, his fingertips fluttering against his thigh. The way that I had wanted him to leave; the way I told him as much.)

But then he’d been hurt, and thus started a new kind of worry.

How I spoke to him.  Looked at him.  Turned away from him.  Fled.

Panic consumed me then.  The prospect that our argument would serve as the last page of an unbelievable love story was the pinpoint end of my tunnel vision.  That our stubbornness would be the ending that I wrote for us would haunt me always.  

Later, with Jamie on the mend, we had carefully avoided the subject of Tom Christie.  

With the duskiness of bruises still settling into my husband’s skin and the looming twin threats of surgery and infection, Tom’s vague history with Jamie became a mystery that I did not care enough about to uncover.

The man’s entire existence in my day-to-day work life had thus remained unspoken between my husband and me.

We stayed closed mouth about it as we made it through a full week of work.  

And then a second.

And finally a third.

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