“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on the glossy pages without reading a word.
“I’m glad you’re baking again,” he says, keeping his voice light. I recognize the tone. It’s the one he uses when I’ve had a stressful day at work, or when our neighbor’s miniature dachshund howls at three in the morning and I threaten to storm over there and tell him exactly what I think he should do with the dog. “You look different, you know?”
“Do I?” I try to sound disinterested. But I’m actually curious. Different how? In a good way? Less depressed, maybe? I wonder what that looks like.
“Tegan?”
“Yeah?” I don’t look up. I can’t look up, because if I do, I know I’ll be back in bed for days. If someone told me you could love and hate a person so completely, at the same time, I would have said no way. But I would have been wrong.
My hate for Gabe drives as deeply into my body as my love for him does. And it’s tearing me in half, like my seat belt almost did when we hit that metal pole.
“Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again.”
“Like what?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means.
“Don’t do that, okay? This is serious.”
I sigh and slam the magazine shut. “Oh, this is serious? Wow, thanks, I didn’t realize that.”
“Stop fucking around, Tegan!” His blue eyes blaze with anger. “Do you even care what would have happened if your mom hadn’t found you? Do you know what that would have done to the people who love you?”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, Gabe. It was an accident.”
“No. No,” he says, voice rising. “An accident is pulling pink sheets that used to be white out of the washing machine because you forgot to double-check if those red socks were mixed in, or adding salt to cookies instead of sugar because they look the—”
“Or hitting black ice and killing our baby?” I shout, shaking with fury. I try to hold eye contact, but my rage makes it hard to focus on his face.
Gabe says nothing, his beautiful eyes filling with sadness. I turn my back and will him to disappear.
The timer starts its incessant beeping, and only then do I notice how glorious the kitchen smells. But instead of feeling comfort, the sweet smell turns my stomach. I choke back a sob and slam on the oven mitts so I can pull out the perfectly browned loaves. Gabe must have understood my wish, because when I turn to put the hot pans on the cooling rack, he’s not in the room anymore.
Alone again, I sit at the island and shove handfuls of the still hot, moist bread into my mouth, barely chewing. The heat ravages my tongue and lips, but I don’t stop until the whole loaf is gone. It turns out a dash of sorrow and a teaspoon of bitterness really will ruin even the best recipe.
Gabe’s right. It doesn’t taste the same.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”
I have the worst stomachache, likely from the loaf of banana bread I gorged on; I’ve been nauseous ever since. But it may also be the argument that’s turning my guts. As much as I hate to admit it, my mom is right when it comes to my stomach. It’s sensitive to nerves and anything too spicy, as well as angry words I wish I could take back.
Gabe sighs at my apology, but doesn’t seem too angry. Though he really should be, after what I said. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
I bite my tongue, because words I don’t want to say are trying to get out.
I did mean it. But that doesn’t change that I probably shouldn’t have said it.
We’re on the couch, watching television. Feeling guilty, and getting no relief from nearly an entire bottle of pink bismuth—the same bottle left over from our wedding day, coincidentally—I flip on a nature show Gabe loves and try to come up with the right words to convey my regret.
The television is muted, but on it a lion stalks a sick antelope that has been separated from its herd. At least I can’t hear the antelope’s screams when it realizes what’s happening, left alone to try and fight off the too fast, too strong lion. I understand how the antelope feels.
“I know Dr. Rakesh thinks I’m depressed,” I say, keeping my eyes on the antelope’s final moments. Solidarity with the abandoned, weak animal. “But I don’t feel depressed exactly. I feel...angry.” I take another swill of the thick, pink liquid and grimace as it coats my throat. “Doesn’t depression come after anger?”
“I can’t remember,” Gabe says. “Isn’t depression at the beginning?”
“No, anger comes before depression. I think. Or is it depression, anger and then acceptance?” I sigh. “I have no fucking idea. But no matter what order they come in, Dr. Rakesh was pretty clear there are no shortcuts.”
“I don’t know about that.” Gabe smiles at me. “You’re one smart cookie. I think if anyone can find a shortcut it would be you.”
“I don’t think I’m that special.”
“That’s your opinion,” Gabe says. “But I know you can do whatever you put your mind to, Teg. I’ve seen you in action, and it’s pretty freakin’ scary when you’re committed. Like that lion.” I look back at the screen, where the lion is tearing apart its prey, and grimace.
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
Gabe smiles wider, one side of his mouth resting higher than the other, where a faint white line is the only remnant from a childhood dog bite that required two-dozen stitches inside his cheek. It’s adorably quirky, his smile.
“The old me might have agreed with you,” I say, tucking my knees up to my chest. I feel cold, but on the inside. No blanket or hot cup of tea can help with that. “But I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m...lost.” I dip my head and let the tears fall onto my pajama bottoms. “And I’m afraid I’m never coming back.”
I close my eyes and feel Gabe’s hand. His fingers intertwine with mine, and his thumb gently tickles my palm. I stay very still so as not to disturb the moment.
“You will make it back, Teg,” Gabe says, his tone gentle. “And I’m going to be here every step of the way. Promise.”
I nod and stay as I am, the sensation of Gabe’s hand pushing away some of the sadness and leaving something in its place. Something I haven’t felt in months—possibility.
“Is this all you’re bringing?” My brother Jason stands in the doorway of the master bedroom holding my backpack. I glance up from the customs forms I’m filling out at the kitchen island.
“Yup,” I say, flipping the page over and working on the back side. “I don’t need
