His
hand hovered above her door. He studied the thick white paint. The brushstrokes
were still visible, evidence of too much paint and too little time spent
applying it. He wondered if the paint had taken too long to dry. If it
had
remained tacky and easily damaged longer than it would have if everything
had been done properly. He breathed deeply, inhaling slowly and exhaling
in a steady stream, and knocked. He knew she was home; he could hear the
television through the door.
The door opened slowly, letting out a thin band of cold air and television chatter. She smiled at him and dragged her fingers through her hair, scraping it back into a loose twist. "Harm, hey," she stepped back to let him in, "what are you doing here?"
He grinned. "I was in the neighborhood?" he suggested. The air in her apartment was thin and cold, an adjustment from the humidity that fogged her windows. A crumpled blanket was lying on the couch and the television was still too loud. Shadows, passing cars, changing scenes on the tv, flickered over her walls and furniture. "Cold in here."
She shrugged. "I wanted to use a blanket." She adjusted the thermostat on the wall and folded up the afghan. Leaning against the arm of her sofa, she asked, "Seriously, what brings you by?"
"Hello to you, too."
She rolled her eyes. "I said hey." She smiled a little and seemed to remember all of her manners at once. "Do you want to sit down? Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Yes, to the first. No, to the second." He perched on the edge of her couch and looked up at her. "We need to talk."
"Oh." She slid onto a cushion. "Nothing good ever starts with that phrase. About what?" Her hair slipped out of its twist and brushed over her cheek. "I thought we had everything pretty much covered."
He stared at the floor, studying the patterns in the carpet. "About us," he said in a rush.
"I thought we had everything pretty much covered," she repeated. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and concentrated on the line where the ceiling and wall met. "Maybe we could do this another night? I'm kind of tired."
"Mac- it's not even ten o'clock."
"It's been a long day," she sighed the words out, but she reached for the remote and turned off the television. The silence that followed the too loud program swamped the room. She sighed again and turned to face him. "What's up?"
"I came by to see if I could persuade you to change your mind about vacation." He wove his fingers together and tightened them until bone pressed against bone. "What do you say?"
Her breath fluttered her bangs. "I really don't think it's..."
"Wait," he interrupted, raising a hand. "Just answer this. Is it because of Clay?"
She shook her head. "No," she said softly, letting the word fall between them. "Not really."
"Okay," he nodded. He glanced around the room and nodded again. "Okay."
"Harm...it's just..." she started again, then stopped. "It's a lot of things."
He took a deep breath and let it slip between his teeth in a hiss. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up, pacing away from the couch. "The thing is," he said as he walked away. A clock ticked, its staccato rhythm providing cadence for his steps. He listened to the seconds slip by them and sighed in frustration. "The thing is, Mac," he started again. He paced back to her and crouched before her. He covered her hands with his and studied them as she circled his thumb with her fingers. "The thing is, I love you."
Her eyes widened and she stared at him. She opened her mouth, but he continued, "I love you," he repeated, "but I can't keep trying to prove it to you and fall short every time. I don't know what else to do and it's exhausting me."
" But," she said.
"No, wait, let me finish." He tugged on their hands a little and she nodded. "I can't live like this, though. I shouldn't have to." He glanced down at their hands. His soft exhalations fluttered over her skin. "You shouldn't have to either."
"Harm, all I..."
"I'm not done." She raised an eyebrow and he said, "In for a penny. So this is it. This is my last attempt because I can't keep coming back." He leaned back until he rested on his heels and studied her. She was blinking rapidly and he could hear her breathing in short gasps. Her head was angled away from him, tilted so he could only see the curve of her face and the shadow of her eyelashes. His fingers flexed around hers, loosening and fanning over her skin. He knew, because it was impossible not to know, that not everything that had happened between them was her fault. But he also knew this: that time and silence had formed fissures on the surface of their relationship and waiting for them to mend on their own was almost as pointless as wishing for all the missed opportunities back. And he also knew this: that swallowing the words had only increased their pressure, adding more cracks and deepening the ones that already existed.
"Mac," he called her name softly, "can you look at me?"
" No," she shook her head and bit her lip. She tried to pull her hands free, but he held on.
"Fine," he sighed. "I'm sorry for all the things I did wrong. I'm sorry that it took this long to tell you this." She nodded, but still wouldn't look at him. "We're going the second week of August. If you change your mind," he stood up, freeing his hands, "let me know."
She nodded again, and splayed her fingers over her knees. "Okay."
"Alright," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," she said softly.
He started to walk away, leaving her on the couch, and her hand reached out to cuff his wrist. "Wait," she said, looking up at him. "Just so you know, all you ever had to do," she paused and blinked. "All you ever had to do was say the words."
"Would you have believed me?"
She let go of his wrist. "I don't know," she said after a minute. "I would have wanted to." She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "It doesn't matter now."
"Why doesn't it?" He hated asking the question. She still hadn't answered him. Not the way he wanted her to and he was trapped in her too cold and too silent apartment waiting for an explanation he didn't want to hear. "Honestly. Is it because of Clay?"
"No," she whispered. She coughed lightly and shook her head. "It's because of me." She breathed the words into her knees, trapping them in the triangle of her body and he almost missed them. "I can't give you what you want," she said. "Hell, I can't give me what I want."
"What is that?"
"A family," she answered. "And I can't give it to you."
He sat down on the couch again and she turned to face him. "This isn't self-pity." She hitched a shoulder. "It's not all self-pity. It's a medical fact. You want a family and you aren't going to get that with me."
"It depends," he said, "on your definition of a family."
She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes. Shaking her head, she opened her eyes again. "It's too much."
"Too much now or too much forever?" He brushed a strand of hair back from her eyes.
"Right now."
He pushed himself off the couch again and she stood, too. "I guess I better get going."
She nodded and clasped her hands in front of her. Biting her lip, she waited until he was at the door before calling, "Harm? Thank you."
"I'll
see you tomorrow?" She smiled and he nodded. "Good night."
He closed the door on her good-night. In the hallway, he studied her closed
door again. There were no fingers prints on it. Nothing had nicked it
and ruined the paint. He heard the lock turn and the safety bar slip into
place. With a last glance at the too thick paint, he turned and walked
away.