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Episode 79: Things Keep Getting Worse
The salt air at the beach house usually felt like a sanctuary, but as Sarah pulled her car to the shoulder of the road, it felt like a lead weight.
She sat there for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled, staring at herself in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face splotchy from the tears she’d shed for Caleb.
With a sharp, jagged exhale, she grabbed a tissue, wiped away the last of the dampness, and forced her features into a mask of composure. She couldn't let the cracks show. Not yet.
She pulled back onto the road, drove the final stretch, and stepped through the front door, pushing a bright, artificial lilt into her voice. "I'm home!"
The sight in the living room stopped her heart. Andrew was on the floor with Alice, looking more relaxed than she’d seen him in weeks. Little Alice was a bundle of giggles, reaching out with her tiny hands to playfully slap Andrew on the head—*slap, slap*—before dissolving into a fit of toddler laughter.
Andrew looked up, caught in a genuine grin. "Oh, you’re finally home! We’ve been having a proper time of it. This one was ready for bed, but the second she heard you were bringing Chinese food, she refused to budge. Wouldn't go to sleep for anything."
Sarah maintained that stiff, bright smile, though her internal world was a battlefield. "Oh, I’m sure the baby was the one who wanted Chinese food," she teased with a smart-aleck edge, her voice masking the guilt. "Well, let’s eat. Maybe I'll give Alice some noodles for you to deal with."
As Sarah moved to the kitchen to unpack the bags, she heard Andrew behind her, the sound of him clapping his hands together playfully for the baby. "That's one smart baby," Andrew called out, his voice thick with pride. "She has to be taking after you, Sarah."
The praise hit her like a physical blow. She loved that he was finally being the father their daughter deserved, but it made her secret feel even heavier. She set out the smorgasbord of individual dishes, the steam filling the room as they piled their plates high and ate with a forced sense of holiday-season normalcy.
When the meal finally ended and Alice was tucked away, Sarah headed for the bedroom, her exhaustion bone-deep. Andrew, moving with a heavy, pained gait, stumbled his way toward the bathroom. He undressed slowly, each layer of clothing a chore, and stepped into the large steam shower.
The door creaked open. Sarah stepped in, having stripped off her clothes, and joined him under the spray. It wasn't about passion; it was about survival. She stood close, her hands steadying him so he wouldn't slip. In the bright light, the full, graphic reality of his wounds was laid bare—the dark bruising, the angry red lines of the stitches, the sheer damage his body had taken. She worked silently, helping wash the grime away, her fingers tracing the edges of his pain.
As they prepared to step out, Andrew found a spark of his old self and gave her bare bottom a playful smack.
They stood at the threshold of the hallway, faces damp and hearts heavy. Andrew paused, leaning against the doorframe. "You know," he said, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips, "it would really be much easier if we just slept together tonight. In case I get a fever or can't get out of bed safely... we should sleep together. Spooning only for safety's sake."
Sarah nodded softly. "Safety's sake."
They climbed into the master suite, the weight of the quilt sealing them in. Andrew settled behind her, the heat from his body radiating against her back. He reached around, his rough hand—scarred and ridged with the hard lines of fresh stitches—found its way to her. He cupped her breast, his palm a stark, rugged contrast against her soft skin.
Andrew felt a surge of pure happiness; he had wanted this for so long. Sarah lay perfectly still, the sensation of his rough hands dangerously comfortable. *Don't think about anything,* she told herself as she felt his heart beating against her spine. *Just sleep.*
Every detail, every stitch, and every tactile moment is now locked in for you, Andrew Bruner. Is this the version we’re keeping for the archives?
