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Swiping your wet face with your sleeve, you blinked and tried to see the television screen through the blur of tears. Your throat was tight, a hot, choked feeling of rising emotion flooding you the longer you watched; when you finally couldn't keep back a sob, it felt almost satisfying to let the wave crash over you.
The spunky, sweet little face of Laika the space dog filled the screen, bringing another crumpled sob out of you as the narrator spoke somberly of her one-way trip into space. You didn't know why you'd picked the documentary to watch while you sat on the living room floor and folded laundry; you knew it would only made you sad, and here you were, crying your eyes out as you stacked Sam’s folded shirts in a neat pile.
Maybe you'd needed a good cry. There was something relieving in expressing this grief for the little Soviet pup who’d trusted the hands that finally took her off the street only to send her some place they knew she wouldn't come back from. You thought of your own puppy, your sweet Rosie, and felt another wave of sadness at the thought of her all alone, waiting for someone to fetch her back home.
When the documentary ended and the credits rolled with another picture of Laika, the caption bearing a memorial to her and all the other animals that had furthered space exploration, you cried like a baby.
“Oh, man,” you said, burying your face in a warm dish towel fresh from the dryer. You laughed a little at your own headlong rush into a bona-fide crying jag. “This was so stupid.”
You went to put on the next recommended documentary, one about the Mars rover Opportunity that you knew would make you cry just as hard, for some reason wanting to keep the weird high of catharsis going for a little longer. You put on another load of laundry while it played, listening to the story of the little rover’s explorations and discoveries, sniffling over your dryer sheets and laundry detergent.
The front door opened just as the movie was telling you that the scientists at NASA played Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” for Oppy in their final transmission. You were in the middle of bawling your eyes out but quickly turned the TV off and dried your face, a little bashful to have Sam find you in such a state by your own doing; you couldn't hide your blotchy face and red eyes, but you tried your best to look presentable and mentally stable as your boyfriend and your puppy came in.
Rosie came in first, padding right into the living room to greet you with her wagging tail and lolling tongue. Her fur was a little damp; it looked like the end of her walk had been a rainy one, but you knew she’d enjoyed it. You didn't even mind her wet paws tramping over your unfolded laundry, scuffing your hands over her fur and kissing her soft head.
“Oh, Rosie,” you said miserably. “I’ll never send you into space. Never. I promise.”
She gave a soft bark as if to agree with you. You buried your face in her fur and felt more tears track down your face, comforted by her warmth and happiness to see you.
You took a deep breath and held Rose's face for a moment. “I look like a mess for your daddy, don't I?”
She licked your face, and you gave a watery laugh.
“Okay, okay,” you said. “You’re right. Let me go wash my face.”
You went to splash cold water on your face, wincing a little at your disheveled, emotional appearance in the mirror, but there was nothing to be done for it. You went to put on a kettle, thinking Sam might like something warm to drink after his chilly, rainy walk.
“Hi, birdie baby.”
You smiled as Sam came up behind you and wrapped his arms around you. You turned your face for a kiss, and he happily obliged.
“How was your walk?” you asked.
“Wet.” He kissed your cheek and drew back to brush his rain-damp curls from his face. “Rosie got into some puddles, so she has a good time. How are you? Feeling any better?”
You'd declined to go on the walk with them, needing some time alone after work to decompress. Before you could tell him you were feeling nice and rested now, though, he saw your face for the first time since he'd come home.
“Have you been crying?” he asked, bewildered and worried. He shifted into panic mode, hovering like a mother hen. “What’s wrong, birdie? What happened?”
You were a little embarrassed to tell him, but you couldn't let him worry.
“Nothing happened,” you said gently. “Nothing’s wrong.”
The kettle whistled, and you moved to take it off the heat. He only watched you as you started to make two cups of tea.
“Why’re you crying, then?” he asked.
You gave a rueful, wobbly smile. “It’s silly, really.”
He came close, then. “It’s not silly if it made you upset, birdie.” He accepted the mug you gave him. “Thank you. Please tell me why you're crying, sweetheart. Let me help.”
You sighed. “I watched a movie,” you said. “Two movies, actually.” Just the thought of Laika and Oppy was enough to make you feel al l twisted up inside again, and you blinked tears away. “It was stupid. I shouldn't have watched them.”
Sam huffed a bemused and mildly concerned laugh, seeming relieved it wasn't anything serious but still sensitive to your obvious emotional distress.
“What kind of movies, honey?”
You buried your face in your hands. “One about Laika, you know, the space dog? And one about Oppy the Mars rover.”
“Aw, birdie.” He pulled you in for a hug. “Made you said, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said pitifully, your head thumping against his chest. “It’s awful, Sam. Both of them being sent up there all alone. Those poor babies.”
He chuckled, and the sound was warm and rumbly in his chest.
“I know it's sad,” he said. “That’s why I would never in a million years watch a movie about either of them. I'd have to check myself into a mental institution, I’d be so torn up about it.”
You took a deep breath and ran your hands over your face, your skin hot and your eyes stinging.
“Yeah. You might have to check me in now that I've watched them.”
Sam breathed a sympathetic laugh, brushing your hair from your face.
“Silly girl,” he said. “If I'd known you were gonna watch sad documentaries while I'm gone, I would have made you come on our walk with us.”
You smiled. He knew you liked to go with him and Rosie for their evening walks around your quiet neighborhood, but you'd been tired and emotionally off-kilter after work today and had needed some time alone. He hadn't complained, had merely given you a kiss before he left, but now he'd come home to find you in tears over something as silly as a space documentary.
“Did it help, at least?” he asked kindly. “Sometimes it's nice to get out a good cry.”
You nodded and leaned into his touch. “It’s weird. But yeah, it helped. I’m glad you're home, though.”
He smiled. “Me too, birdie.” He gave you a smooch on your forehead before he pulled back from you. “I’m gonna get dinner started. Put on something cheerful if you're gonna watch anything else.”
“There was another one that sounded interesting,” you said, leaning against the counter to sip your tea. “It’s called Challenger: The Final Flight.”
“Oh, super,” he said dryly. “The one where the shuttle blows up before it even gets out of the atmosphere. That’ll be uplifting as hell.”
“No, is that really what happened?” you asked. Sam was nothing if not a space history buff, so you had no reason to doubt him, but you almost wanted to watch it.
“You can't watch that one right now, birdie,” he told you. “Not unless you really want to spend the whole rest of the night crying.”
You hummed. “Maybe I do.”
He laughed. “Well, I don't think I do. So let's save that for another night.”
You stayed in the kitchen while he worked, enjoying his company; Rosie padded in and settled under the table with a squeaky toy, chewing on the matted shape that had been so well-loved that you couldn't determine what kind of toy it had been originally.
You cradled your mug and breathed in the fragrant steam, watching Sam move about your kitchen in the familiar, domestic rhythm that always brought you comfort. He set soup to cooking, insisting that you needed something warm and hydrating after all that crying, and worked on it on as the rain pattered gently on the window.
“Bad day at work, birdie?” he asked, chopping up vegetables to go in the dutch oven of simmering broth.
You sighed. “Sort of. Exhausting is the best word for it, I guess. I was just really tired all day.”
He put his hand to your forehead, feeling for fever, and you breathed in the earthy, fresh scent the veggies had given him.
“You’re a little warm, honey,” he said.
You sighed. A fever would explain the hair-trigger emotions you'd battled all day, as well as the fatigue that you couldn't quiet shake. Sam got you some medicine and coaxed you to take it with your tea.
“Why don't you call out for tomorrow?” he suggested. “I’ll stay home too, and we can cuddle in bed all day.”
That did seem awfully nice. It was supposed to rain all night and all day tomorrow, and spending the chilly, rainy day in bed with Sam sounded a lot better than going to work.
“Okay,” you agreed. You texted your boss and set your phone aside, ignoring the messages and emails with the assurance that they'd still be vying for your attention when you were feeling better.
“How was your day?” you asked.
He tapped the wooden spoon against the rim of the dutch oven and leaned against the counter.
“Good,” he said simply. “We got a lot done. Danny had to leave early to do something with Sunny, so we just decided to call it quits when he left. Can't do much without the heartbeat of the band, now can we?”
You smiled. You liked how all the guys valued the others’ unique talents and input into the music, and nobody knew better than them how much each of them contributed to the magic of the band. You remembered that Sam had been working on a new song, and you wanted to know what the boys had thought of it.
“How’d they like your new song?” you asked.
He grinned. “Smash hit, birdie. They loved it. Jake came up with some really cool licks for it, and of course Josh fixed up the parts of the lyrics I wasn't so sure about.”
“Aw, honey, I'm glad. I knew they'd like it.”
You set your mug on the counter and crossed to him, and he knew without you having to say anything that you wanted a hug. He held you close and squeezed you tight, giving a contented little groan as he did.
“I missed you today,” he said. “I’m sorry you had a rough day.” He kissed your nose. “And I'm sorry you made yourself sad watching movies you knew better than to watch.”
You gave a soft laugh. “They were pretty good, actually. Even if they were sad.”
He cradled your face in his hands and kissed you gently.
“I love you, birdie,” he said, tender and amused.
“Even when I make questionable viewing choices?” you teased.
He smiled. “Yep. Even then.”
You lingered in the kitchen with him while dinner cooked, and you sat catty corner to him at the table while you ate, Rose safely between the two of you, dozing at your feet. When you'd tidied up after dinner, you joined him out on the porch to watch the rain while he smoked a cigarette, sipping your next cup of tea that you knew would be a staple of the homespun, gently effective doctoring Sam was planning to give you.
“You want to know something?” he asked.
You snuggled close to him. “Yeah. Tell me.”
He looked up at the hazy sky, his features gentle and tired and thoughtful.
“The first time I learned about Laika,” he said, “I came up with a better ending for her story.”
Your heart tilted. “What was it?”
He let out a slow breath.
“I imagined she got out somehow,” he said softly. “That the man in the moon got her out of that death trap of a spaceship and took her with him. I laid awake in bed all night, looking at the moon through my window, thinking about her running around in the stars, chasing comets, playing with the bears of the Ursa constellations.”
He looked over at you, and for a moment, you saw a much younger Sam and felt the grief and love he’d felt for that little space pup.
He smiled. “I think she's happy, birdie,” he said. “I think she’s okay, somewhere out there.”
You felt the sting of tears again, and he chuckled softly as he cupped your cheek and brushed away the few that fell.
“Aw, honey, I didn't mean to make you cry again,” he said, soft and affectionate.
You gave him a watery smile. “I’m glad you told me that, Sam. It makes it better.” You thought his imagination was a very wonderful and tender place, making up songs and stories and pictures of playful starlight puppies and their kindly moonbeam companions.
“Can Oppy be with them too?” you asked. You wanted her to have a happy ending like the one Sam had imagined for Laika.
He smiled and gave you a gentle kiss. “Sure she can, birdie. They're both running around up there together.”
You wrapped your arms around him and rested against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as the rain fell. Loving Sam was so easy, as natural as breathing, and moments like these had always shown you that love was supposed to be gentle. Before Sam, you hadn't been sure what love was supposed to feel like; with him, you knew in every part of you that love was safe and tender, that it was made of shared sadness and joy, music and laughter and tears and stories that washed over your life as effortlessly as the tide, as steadily as the rain, as gently as the light of the moon.
“What was the song they played for Oppy when she powered off?” he asked. “I feel like I remember them playing a song for her.”
You snuggled closer. “‘I’ll Be Seeing You,’,” you said. “Bille Holiday.”
He rested his head on yours and hummed a little of Oppy's lullaby.
“I’ll find you in the morning sun,” he sang, his voice soft and beautiful and very gentle. “And when the night is new, I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you.”
You hugged him tight.
“I love you, Sam,” you said softly. “Thank you for being so good to me.”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “Sweet birdie,” he said gently. “You're welcome. I love you too.”