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Beth wakes with a start. Around her, the room’s still dark. Rays of moonlight slip in through the gap in the curtains, but they’re barely able to make shapes distinguishable, let alone much else. Groggy with sleep, her first thought is that one of her kids must’ve woken up and is coming downstairs, either in search of a cup of warm milk and a story to lull them back to sleep or to crawl into bed with her, hoping her presence will scare all the nightmares away. This wouldn’t be the first time a creaking floorboard on the staircase would wake her, after all — her body is so attuned to the sound, on the look-out for little kids out of their beds, that she’s awake before they’ve even reached the last step.
On auto-pilot, she turns on the bedside lamp and scooches herself up the bed until she’s sitting propped up on the pillows. It’s only then that she realises her kids can’t be the source of the noise that woke her up — it’s Dean’s weekend with them, so she’d dropped them off at Judith’s house before dinner. After that realisation, another is quick to come — Christopher should be in bed with her.
She turns to check the clock on her bedside table, hoping that maybe it’s later than she’d thought and she’d just slept through the alarm Christopher had insisted she set so they could leave early for their weekend getaway and beat the traffic, as if either one of them could sleep past 6AM anyway — but no, the clock blinks 1:11 back at her, assuring her it’s still the middle of the night.
For a second, all the terrible, business-related things that could have him out of bed flit through her mind. It takes more effort than she’d like to admit to convince herself that it’s probably not business. After all, she reminds herself, Christopher had been the one that decided it was best to ask Mick to take care of things during their trip to the lakes. What would be the point in doing that, if Mick was just going to call him up to solve things, anyway? More importantly, he’d promised her after the last time that he wouldn’t leave without at least telling her again, that she’d never have to wake up in the middle of the night to find him gone, that she wouldn’t be left to wonder where he was until dawn when he came back covered in blood — or, worse, didn’t come back at all — and she believes him, she does.
She tells herself that he probably just got a call from Marcus, who she is achingly aware still wakes up Rhea in the middle of the night begging to call daddy just in case he’s disappeared while he was asleep. Even more mundane, maybe he just woke up thirsty and decided to get himself a glass of water.
Beth adjusts the pillows at her back to get more comfortable, resolved to wait for Christopher to get back to bed — if he’s just talking to Marcus or getting a glass of water, it can’t be that long before he’s back. She tries to catch any sounds that could indicate what he’s doing, the whisper of his voice or the sound of water running, but the house is dead quiet. As the minutes tick by, with no sound being made, she grows restless, the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach growing with every minute. When the clock on her nightstand shows 1:25, she kicks the sheets and comforter off of her and gets out of bed.
Putting on her robe, she leaves the room, intent on checking the house for him, starting first with the kitchen, but quickly stops in her tracks when she notices the soft light coming from the living room. Slowly, she pads over to the foyer, where she has an unobstructed view.
The television is turned on but muted, showing aerial footage of natural scenery. Over the top of the couch, she can make out the back of Christopher's head, back-lit and shadowed.
Her shoulders loosen, a small smile tugging at her lips. Then, a thought crosses her mind, making her smile turn into a full-blown grin.
“Hi,” Beth says, her voice as high and peppy as it can go. She’s sure this time she’s gonna finally scare him. She’s been dreaming of this moment for months, can picture it perfectly in her mind — Christopher’s gonna scramble, confused, maybe even clutch at his chest in fright or, if she’s really lucky, let out a scream. She’ll finally prove to him that anyone would be scared when surprised like that, even him, and he’ll have to stop making fun of her for her reaction when he appears out of nowhere.
But Christopher doesn’t startle, doesn’t even turn around to look at her. Instead, he chuckles, saying, “Hey, mama.”
Beth pouts. “Seriously?”
Christopher only laughs harder, throwing his head back. Beth can’t see his face, but she can picture it perfectly, has had that particular expression memorised since the first time she witnessed it — his smile open and his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Already told ya, you’re gonna have to up your game.”
“Is sneaking up on you in the middle of the night not up enough?”
“Oh, you were sneakin’, were you?” Christopher asks, laughter still clinging to his voice.
“Yes, I was."
“Yeah, darlin’, that didn’t come through. Could hear you stomping down the hallway.”
“I didn’t stomp,” Beth says, affronted.
“Thought it was a herd of elephants for a sec,” he teases, chuckling at his own joke. Even as she thinks that it isn’t all that funny, Beth can’t help but join him.
When the laughter subsides, leaving behind only a smile, Beth steps forward until she can lean against the back of the couch and look down into Christopher’s face. He glows blue, the dim TV light balancing out how the shadows on his face, slightly distorted by the changing shots, throw his bone structure into stark relief. It’s a good look for him, makes him look a little softer around the edges.
Beth wonders if this is what he sees, the times he pops by unannounced only to find her sandwiched between her girls, an animated movie — most often Luca, their latest obsession — playing on the screen. There’s something tender in his eyes when he looks at her in those moments, right before he leans down to kiss her.
She’d always wondered why he did it — it was always a little uncomfortable, straining up to meet him, and she couldn’t imagine bending down to be less so. She understands it now, though, because she can’t fight the temptation to do the same.
It’s a little weird — kissing upside-down always is — but that doesn’t make it any less good — there’s still the swipe of his tongue, his fingers tangling in her hair, the brush of his thumb against her collarbone, warming her from the inside out.
“Hi,” she says again, this time whispered against his lips when they break apart.
He smiles, raising his hand from its place on her neck to cradle her cheek instead. She mimics him, raising her hand from the couch, her thumb coming to swipe over the heart-shaped freckle on his cheek.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing up this late?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he answers matter-of-factly.
Beth hums, hoping he’ll offer more information. Christopher’s problem is usually waking up too early, not falling asleep — that, it seems to her like he can do at the drop of a hat. When a few beats have passed and it’s become clear he won’t speak again, she changes topics, “What are you watching?”
“Just one of those Netflix documentaries ‘bout all the cute animals we’re killing with climate change.”
“Are you sure? Because those subtitles are tiny and you’re not wearing your glasses. Maybe it's actually about how we're saving the cute animals. You should turn on the sound to check, old man,” Beth can’t help but tease.
“Damn, ma, you’re brutal,” he says, an amused tilt to his lips. “See if I ever try not to wake you up again.”
Beth giggles, pleased with herself.
“Well, I’m up now. Why don’t I join you on the couch and then we can find out that's actually about?”
Christopher chuckles before leaning up to kiss her briefly on the lips.
“Nah, 's'ok. You should go back to bed, we have to get up early tomorrow.”
“I won’t be able to fall asleep waiting for you. Better if I just join you,” Beth says with a shrug, before lifting off the couch.
“Elizabeth, you don’t -” Christopher starts, but stops himself with a sigh when she turns on the lights.
It’s when she comes around the couch, ready to sit down next to him, that his reason for not wanting her to join him becomes clear. Peeking up from behind his left shoulder, trapped in place between his shirtless back and the sofa, is the neon orange hot-water bottle she uses on particularly bad cramp days. All the breath rushes out of her lungs as she stops in front of him, stock-still.
For a moment, Beth’s unable to look anywhere else, her eyes locked on the sight. When she finally raises her eyes from his shoulder, she finds Christopher already looking back at her, his face unreadable. Beth can’t stand it — the sight of him like this, what that look might mean — has to look away.
Her eyes focus on the upholstery of the couch, but she doesn’t really see it — it’s like her brain is filled with static, unable to receive more input. All the things she ignored become so clear — Christopher’s wince after catching Marcus’ last throw, the Tylenol she saw him take before they left for their dinner reservation, the way he kept both hands on the steering wheel while driving instead of resting the right on her thigh.
If she didn’t see it before, it’s only because she desperately didn’t want to.
Beth doesn’t know how much time passes before she can focus again. When she tries to swallow, her throat feels dry, her tongue like sandpaper in her mouth. She licks her lips and asks, her voice hoarse, “Is that why you couldn’t sleep?”
He sighs, something deep and tired, before he answers, “Yes.”
She hums in response, at a loss for what else to do. They’ve hashed this out. They’ve screamed and thrown things and fucked it out. She’s held on to him in the quiet hours of the night, her head burrowed into the place where his shoulder meets his neck, and whispered her apologies against his skin. She’s kissed his scars, become so intimately acquainted with the sight of them on his torso that they don’t even faze her anymore, have just become another part of him.
She’s done it all. There’s nothing else to be done. And she’d convinced herself that meant what she’d done was enough. But it’s not, it’s not. Enough would be turning back time. But Beth can’t do that, can’t do anything. And now, finally, she can see their future together, knows exactly how it will all play out — she’ll just have to bear it as this same thing happens, again and again and again, until one day he’ll be so sick at the sight of her that moving to the couch won’t be enough.
Beth stares resolutely ahead, unblinking, willing her eyes to not well up with tears. As the stinging subsides, she takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. It's only then that she can raise her eyes to meet his. “Have you taken Tylenol yet?”
“Still gotta wait another hour,” Christopher says with a shake of his head.
Beth nods sharply. Of course.
A beat passes before she can bring herself to ask, “Is the hot-water bottle helping?” Beth hates the meekness in her voice, the hope in it, the desperate need for the answer to be ‘yes’.
Christopher’s eyes travel over her face, something too soft in them. Her stomach turns.
“No,” he says, an ironic tilt to his lips.
The tone isn’t angry like she would have expected, just… resigned. She thinks she might’ve preferred the anger, because this — this is somehow worse, doesn’t feel like a sucker-punch but like he’s reached into her ribcage, hands squeezing her heart.
Tears well up in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she refuses to let them fall — she’s not the one who gets to cry here.
She remembers the last time she’d been in this situation, earlier on in this thing they still haven’t named, even after telling their kids and trading house-keys and planning vacations together. Christopher’s shoulder had been aching for days with no sign of improvement, so he’d set up another round of physical therapy sessions. He didn’t trust himself to drive when raising his arm more than 10 degrees was excruciating and Mick had been out of town visiting his daughter, so he’d had no choice but to finally put an end to his pain-induced “ghosting” (as Annie had put it) and actually return her calls to tell her she was going to have the pleasure of playing the part of his chauffeur that afternoon, not even bothering with giving her any sort of explanation before hanging up. She remembers sitting in the waiting room of the fancy clinic he went to, tears swimming in her eyes and dread rolling in the pit of her stomach, as she waited for his appointment to be over. She remembers making a bee-line for her laptop once she’d gotten home that day and spending all night researching chronic pain management and the various gadgets people invented with that end-goal in mind. She’d even bought a few of them, on impulse — a couple of boxes of heating patches, a massage gun, a spiky foam mat and, to top off the collection, a wearable heating pad that, according to reviews, somehow singed people’s skin “in a good way”. She’d hidden them away in the linen closet as soon as they’d been delivered, afraid of what Christopher would say if he ever saw them. Now, though, she hopes one of them is the key to helping him, at least until he can take another dose of painkillers.
Beth forces herself to blink back the tears and asks, “Do you wanna try something else for the pain?”
“Didn’t help when we tried it two hours ago, but I’m all for trying again, darlin’,” he says with a wolfish grin.
Beth gives him a weak chuckle. “Something else, then.”
“Yeah, sure,” he says with a nod, his smile quickly fading as he looks away from her.
Beth nods back. “Okay.”
Slowly, she walks to her linen closet and unearths the wearable heating pad from its hiding place. She quickly takes it out of the box and returns to the living room.
Christopher’s eyebrows raise when his eyes land on it. “What the fuck is that?”
“A heating pad,” Beth answers, forcing some pep into her voice.
“Looks like your kid’s cape.”
“A wearable heating pad. It’s supposed to help with pain.”
Christopher hums in acknowledgement. “And you just had that lying around?”
“Yes,” she answers simply.
A pause as he contemplates his options. Then, “A’ight.”
Beth takes the hot-water bottle pressed to his shoulder and throws it to the other end of the couch, careless. She offers her help, but Christopher opts to put on the heating pad by himself. He’s right, it does look like a cape — a very blue, very short, very dorky cape. She catches herself smiling at the sight for a moment, before the reason he’s wearing it crashes down on her again, wiping it from her face.
Thankfully, the remote that controls the heating pad’s temperature is fairly easy to figure out, so it takes less than a minute for them to set it to the highest setting. After that, it’s just a waiting game. With nothing else to do, Beth plops down on the couch beside him, folding her legs underneath her. Absentmindedly, she notices that the TV is now showing close-up shots of polar bears.
After what feels like an eternity, but can’t be more than five minutes, Beth finally turns to look at Christopher and asks, hope clear in her voice, “How does it feel?”
Christopher hums, his eyes closed in bliss. “Good. Real good.”
“That’s good,” Beth replies, a relieved smile on her lips.
He nods. “Where’d you get the cape?”
“Just found it on Amazon one day.”
“Why’d you buy it?”
“Oh, for my back,” Beth says with a flippant wave of her hand. “You know how much my lower back hurts when I’m on my period.”
Christopher opens his eyes and smirks. “Cape doesn’t reach the lower back, though.”
“Which is the reason why I don’t use it. I got the wrong model by accident and the seller didn’t do refunds.”
Christopher bites at his lip and nods.
“Actually,” Beth continues once she’s sure he’s not going to speak, “you can just keep it if you want. It’s useless to me.”
“Yeah?” Christopher asks with a raise of his eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Beth confirms with a smile. “I never use it, I won’t even notice it’s gone.”
His eyes slowly travel over her face, studying every feature, before ultimately settling on her own. Finally, he nods his acceptance. Beth can’t help the way her smile grows.
His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining on her lap for a second before he brings her hand up to his mouth. Her breath stutters as his lips brush over her pulse-point and press a kiss there, his eyes still boring into her own. There’s an emotion written in them that she can’t quite make out, not yet.
“Thank you, darling,” he whispers against her skin. The words feel like forgiveness against her skin, taste like absolution on her tongue. Relief takes root in her gut, chasing away the dread that had made its home there. This hasn’t broken them beyond repair yet.