The space between, p.33
The Space Between, page 33
Andrea
* * *
I grasp the glossy birth certificate, running my hands over the paper, my name printed in block letters. It’s so new that I can still smell the ink and the paper is crisp and unwrinkled.
It’s official.
I’m a mom.
The three-month wait was long and torturous, and nightly I prayed this day would come quickly, but I also prayed that it would never come, because that would mean Reid would be leaving us.
But that was the entire point, wasn’t it?
Reid and I weren’t about a grand love, or an all-consuming romance, it was about Claudia.
He’s done everything he said he would. We’ve lived—really lived—and we’ve stored up so many memories, thousands of photos, a million little stories that the feel of him will never leave me.
When I asked him what he wanted me to tell Claudia when she asked about him, he told me to tell her that he’d loved and he’d lived.
I wish I wasn’t the one that had to tell her, I wish he could tell her himself.
Reid pulls me into his side, tucks his arms around me as I hold the brand new birth certificate.
“I’m a mom,” I say, smiling at him.
We’re cushioned on the couch in the living room, a soft breeze blows through the open window, bringing the scent of autumn leaves and crisp October air. Outside a taxi honks as it passes a car double-parked and I look over to Claudia to make sure the noise didn’t wake her.
But no, she’s still asleep in her swing, a lullaby tinkling across the room.
“You’re a good mom,” Reid says, running his hand over my arm.
I’m trying to be. It’s easy, I think, with Mary, who taught me how to swaddle, bottle, change diapers, and rock to sleep. The only thing she didn’t have to teach me was how to love, that came on its own.
Claudia is mine as much as Reid is mine. They’re both lodged permanently in my heart.
“How does it feel?” I ask, sliding the birth certificate back in its envelope.
He makes a noise, shifts me against him, and I try not to worry about how much weight he’s lost, how I can count his ribs, and see the sharp lines of his collarbone through his shirt. I try not to think about how last week he was too tired to get out of bed three of the seven days. When he’s up, he’s still charming, laughing, and I think he’s doing it for himself—living—but more than anything, I’m coming to believe that he’s doing it for me.
“I’ve never been happier,” he says. “The great Andrea Leighton-Hughes Shilling, mom.”
Then he turns serious eyes on me, takes a strand of my hair and tucks it behind my ear.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” I say suddenly, wanting to hold him to me and demand that he never go.
His hand stills and then he pulls back and gives me a solemn look. “Andrea.”
“Reid,” I say, swallowing.
Across the room Claudia makes a sleep sound and the soft swish of her swing rocking back and forth and the quiet lullaby fills the space.
Reid looks into my eyes, searching my expression. Behind him the autumn light shines through the window, spilling over the three pumpkins on the window seat, two big and one small, and over the caramel apple-scented candles I demanded we buy at the farmers market in Union Square.
He’s in a sweater and comfortable jeans, his hair messy and his stubble golden in the light. His eyes are tired, the hollows under them deep, but there’s a wry light there.
“I have a serious question,” he says, taking my hand.
“Yes?”
My mouth goes dry.
“Would you like cake to celebrate? Chocolate, with mousse, and caramel and…ice cream, mountains of ice cream.” He yawns. “I feel like cake, don’t you? We could have it delivered.”
I nod. There’s a French patisserie down the block that has the exact cake he’s describing. “That sounds perfect.”
“I thought so.”
So we eat chocolate caramel cake and mountains and mountains of ice cream.
60
Andrea
* * *
December is here and with it the last of the leaves have fallen from the gingko tree out front, the flowers in the pots have died, and I’ve strung white twinkling lights on every bare, lonely surface.
It’s late and the night is the clear sparkling dark that you only find in the cold winter months.
Outside the gusty wind rolls through the streets, rattling the Christmas lights against the window, throwing shadows and light across the living room.
I’m tucked against Reid on the couch, his arm wrapped around my shoulder holding me close. I rest my head on his chest, and the steady thump of his heartbeat thrums against my cheek.
Two mugs of hot chocolate filled to the brim with marshmallows sit on the coffee table and let off the sweet scent of creamy Belgian chocolate. My mug is almost empty, Reid’s is still almost full.
I was worried, really worried that he wouldn’t make it to December. The past few weeks were bad. But then a few days ago he had a sudden burst of energy and I think, maybe, just maybe we’ll have a Christmas together.
But just in case we don’t—although I won’t admit it out loud—I told him that since it’s now December I wanted to give him a present.
Yesterday we had a balsam fir delivered, it’s full with green-blue needles and a fresh, woodsy pine tree smell.
We stood it in front of the wide bow window and wrapped it in white lights. Then while Reid watched from the couch with Claudia crawling across the rug trying to grab the strands of twinkling lights, I put an angel on top.
Now we’re wrapped in the warmth of the living room, the blustery cold outside, the lights casting a soft glow, our angel watching over us.
There’s a stack of presents on the coffee table. I wrapped mine in thick gold paper, with a velvet burgundy bow.
There’s a small pile next to it. Reid brought them out, an envelope, a white package with a blue satin bow, and a small box wrapped in sparkling silver paper.
“I’ll go first,” Reid says, and I shift upright, moving out of the comfortable warmth of his arms. He smiles at me, the gentle lights brushing his hair gold and hiding the fatigue lines around his eyes and mouth.
“If you don’t like it, don’t tell me,” he jokes.
“On my honor,” I say, crossing my heart.
I sit with my legs tucked under me and my hands folded in my lap, suddenly nervous.
I’ve never received a Christmas present like this before. Growing up, my dad had personal shoppers choose, wrap, and deliver gifts, and once we were teenagers we flew somewhere warm and were given a lump deposit into our bank account on Christmas Eve.
This is the first time in my life that anyone has actually picked out a present for me themselves.
Reid reaches over to the table, the sleeve of his cashmere sweater softly brushing against my arm. He shaved today, his jaw is smooth, and the soapy scent that I associate with him lingers.
He takes the envelope and the white box and holds them loosely, “So, these two are actually for you to deliver,” he says.
He hands me the envelope first. It’s cream-colored vellum, thick and smooth. I take it in my hand when he holds it out to me.
“I want you to give this to Jace the next time you see him.”
I look quickly at him, and the letter in my hand is suddenly as heavy as the world.
I shake my head, “You’re so sure I’ll see him again?”
A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his eyes. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but I do know that you’ll see him again.”
I’m not so sure. I saw the look on Jace’s face as he was walking away.
But Reid’s watching me like this is important, so I say, “Do you mind me asking what it says?”
He shrugs. “It’s just some unfinished business.”
Ah, that makes sense. Reid has mentioned how much he regrets the way he treated Jace when they were kids, so I think this is an apology.
“I’ll give it to him,” I promise.
Reid lets out a breath that I think he must’ve been holding and says, “By the way, when he meets Claudia, can you tell him to only say good things about me? Like how handsome I was, how charming, how intelligent—”
I scoff and tuck the envelope onto the couch next to me. “How arrogant.”
He grins, then takes the little package with the blue bow. “This one is for Claudia,” he says.
I shake my head. “You can give it to her on—”
He holds up his hand, stopping my protest.
“I want you to keep it for her. It’s recordings. She likes it when I read to her, so I recorded a book for every birthday. It’s all kids’ books, so maybe when she’s older, she won’t like it as much. But I found that I like Goodnight Moon again, and The Runaway Bunny, so maybe she will too. I don’t know. I don’t have advice, or lists for living, and I can’t sing, but I can read. And she can hear my voice and listen to the words when she’s tired, or lonely, or sick, and maybe, even though I’m not here, hearing I Love You This Much will remind her she’s loved.”
I think of Reid, lying in bed, Claudia snuggled on his chest as he reads her a book, his quiet voice rumbling, his head tucked near hers.
I take the package, brushing my hand across the satin bow, and nod. “I’ll give it to her. Every birthday. I promise.”
“Thank you,” he says, squeezing my hand.
Then he takes the silver wrapped package and shifts it nervously in his hands.
“Is this one for me?” I ask.
“If you don’t like it—”
“I won’t tell.”
He smiles and nods. Outside, another gust of wind howls down the street, rattling the lights on the window. They tap and tink against the pane and flicker over the room.
I hold out my hands and he sets the present gently in my palms. Slowly I unwrap the silver paper. I tear a small corner of the paper, it curls up, and I look at Reid smiling.
He nods and there’s a soft gleam in his eyes, the reflection of the Christmas lights in their blue-green depths.
I slowly tear the curled edge, the paper crinkling as I take off another small strip of paper. The anticipation thrums through me, it feels delicious and full. Reid leans closer, his eyes on me as I keep peeling the paper strip by strip.
This is my first real present, and it’s from Reid, so I’m going to enjoy it.
Finally, the edge of a white leather box pokes free.
I look back to Reid. He nods again.
Then I can’t take it anymore. I yank at the paper and tear it free.
I hold a six-inch-long, four-inch-wide, two-inch-high white leather box in my hand.
“What is it?” I ask, rubbing my hands over the smooth leather.
“Open it,” Reid says, laughter in his voice.
So I do.
Inside the box is a necklace.
The chain is delicate links of gold woven together, and at the base, there’s a pendant the size of a penny, but in the shape of a flame. It’s gold with rubies and diamonds sprinkled across it like embers burning bright.
“I know you have lots of jewelry,” Reid says, “But I had this made because I…I didn’t want the fire in your heart to go out again. When I’m gone, don’t let it go out.” He reaches out, touches the flame. “I thought, if you wore this, you’d remember to keep it burning, no matter how cold it gets.”
I stare at the flickering lights winking off the rubies, dancing like a flame, and my heart aches. He’s right. When he came back to New York the flame in my heart had died. He brought it back though, holding the ember in his hand and breathing it back to life.
But what happens when he goes?
I brush my hand over the tiny chips of fire. The metal is cold.
“I’ll always wear it,” I tell him. “I won’t forget.”
He smiles and there’s relief in his eyes as he takes the necklace, brushes my hair aside and clasps it around my neck.
My heart thunders as his hands skim over my neck and collarbone. He’s only inches away, his smell, his heat surrounding me.
“Now yours,” I say, pulling the gold wrapped present from the table and dropping it on his lap.
His eyes crinkle as he picks it up and shakes it, holding it to his ear. There isn’t anything to hear though. It’s as big as an encyclopedia and solid.
Then, unlike me, he doesn’t have any patience. He tears off the burgundy bow, tosses it on the floor, and rips open the wrapping paper, shredding it with abandon.
I suppose that’s the difference between us. I revel in the anticipation and he delights in the doing.
I grin at him, at his smile and the paper flying about him. He holds up the thick leather album and then looks at me, his eyebrows raised.
“Open it,” I say, repeating his words.
So he does.
It’s a handmade memory book. And it isn’t just the past few months, it’s all the pictures I had of us as kids too.
We’re four years old, there at the Met for art class, bright red paint on our smocks. We’re eight, at his infamous birthday party when I tossed his presents in the pool. We’re at my sixteenth birthday, dancing under the ballroom chandelier. We’re seventeen, at a gala, I’m scowling at him, and he’s giving me that sardonic smile, holding out his hand. We’re at the beach dipping Claudia’s toes in the water. We’re in the park, pink cherry blossoms raining around us. We’re eating a mountain of ice cream, and he’s smearing chocolate on my nose.
It goes on, pages and pages, he turns each one carefully, running his fingers over the images.
And I didn’t realize it when I made this album, but I realize it now—I thought I was just putting together a photo album, but I wasn’t, I was telling our story.
And—
“Andrea?” His voice is low, he’s watching me somberly.
“Yes, Reid?”
“Did you go and fall in love with me?”
I give him a helpless look.
That’s what this album is. It’s a love story.
I nod, my throat tight, my lips wobbling. “Yes.”
He gives me a wry smile. “Why’d you go and do that?”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it,” I whisper.
He nods. Then he sets the album on the coffee table, and reaches out and takes my hands.
He’s warm, his hands are strong and comforting. He rubs his thumb gently over the pulse in my wrist, and the only sound is the wind, the lights against the window, and his soft exhale as he runs his fingers over my skin.
I look into his eyes and I see what I should’ve recognized before, what I should’ve known.
“You love me too,” I say.
He gives me a rueful, apologetic smile.
“How long?” I ask brokenly.
He thinks for a moment, his eyes crinkling. “When we were four. You came with your nanny to our weekend French class. You were in a red velvet dress, with a big bow, and your red-gold hair was braided in a crown on your head and I said, ‘Bonjour, Andrea,’ and you said, ‘Au revoir, Reid,’ and…that was it for me.”
“Reid—”
He nods and I feel as if I’m breaking apart, fragmenting like the hundreds of lights on the Christmas tree.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
He shakes his head. “There’s a wide chasm between loving someone and knowing you love someone.”
I take my hand from his, brush my fingers down the smoothness of his jaw, running them over his cheekbones and finally his mouth. He lets out a pained exhale.
How long have I loved him?
How long without realizing it?
“It took me a long time too,” I say, tracing my hand over his bottom lip.
“I realized it when I came back to New York,” he says, “but then, it looked like I was nearly a decade too late. Late to arrive, early to leave,” he says, smiling wryly against my fingers.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper, “I want you to stay.”
I press my fingers into his lip and he nods. “As long as I can.”
Then he reaches up and grasps my hand in his. “I never needed you to love me back. It was enough knowing I loved you. Making you smile and laugh again. But now…Andrea.”
“Yes?” I say, my pulse fluttering beneath his fingers.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”
The air between us turns warm, soft, like candlelight and gold, and then Reid reaches up, and cups my face in his hands.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I love you,” he says.
Then he spans the space between us and brushes his warm mouth over mine. I reach out, lay my hand on his heart, hold on to him as the room spins, like we’ve been lifted in the sky and are dancing, spinning in the blue-green of the northern lights, in the gold of the stars, and the gentle light of the moon.
He traces his tongue over my bottom lip, tasting the memory of chocolate and sugar still lingering there.
He savors my mouth, luxuriates in it, and if I ever wondered what kissing Reid would be like, I should’ve known.
He kisses like he lives.
Fully. Openly. Delightedly.
He drags his fingers through my hair, tugs me closer, and then he pulls on my bottom lip, sucks it, and I feel the echo of it sparkling through my veins, pumping all the way to my heart.
I open to him. He makes a happy, appreciative, rumbling noise that I feel down to my toes.
I bite at his bottom lip, taste him, the heat of him, the flavor of him. I run my hands over his chest, feel the fast beating of his heart, calling to mine. I send my hand under his cashmere sweater, tug it up, and run my hands over the smooth warmth of his skin.
Reid runs his hands down my neck, over my pulse, across the sensitive space between my throat and collarbone.
All the while, we’re kissing.
Tasting.
Living.
Loving.
He sends his tongue into my mouth, exploring me, claiming me, and at the thrust and withdrawal of his tongue, a spark lights and grows, and grows, like a diamond shining in the dark.
