the life we were so sure we’d create together.
For the first time, I find myself wondering if I’ve traded all those things away without realizing it. Maybe it’s too late to find my way back to the kind of life I thought I would have. Finally, I drift off into an uneasy sleep.
Six
W hen I wake up the next morning, I know instantly that I’m back in my old apartment again, back in the strange, overly bright world I can’t explain. I gasp, close my eyes, and murmur a small prayer of thanks, even though this might just mean I’m losing my mind. When I crack my eyes open again, the sunlight is catching a few particles of dust in the air. I turn my head slightly to find Patrick lying next to me.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just study him as his chest rises and falls. I don’t know I’m crying until my vision gets blurry. As I sit up to wipe away my tears, Patrick stirs and rolls toward me.
“Good morning, Katielee,” he says, and it’s still his voice, his green eyes with the crinkles at the corners, his wide smile with the slightly crooked bottom row of teeth.
I’m too overwhelmed by a rush of gratitude to say anything.
I lie back down and nestle against Patrick as he puts his arm around me. I stroke his hair, noting a solid sprinkling of gray strands that weren’t there before. I marvel at the passage of time, the way the years can change a person.
“I would have loved to see you grow old,” I murmur, running my hand down his still-solid chest. The color-saturated roomflickers a bit, and my heart skips a beat. I remind myself to play along, to do my best to believe I belong here. After all, maybe I do. Why else would it all feel so familiar to me?
Patrick laughs, and I can feel the sound reverberating through his body. “Don’t I look old now?” he asks.
I can’t even joke back, because my breath is caught in my throat. He pulls me closer and kisses me gently, threading his fingers through my hair. His stubble is scratchy and his lips are warm, but it’s not until I feel his tongue against mine that I begin to sob again.
“Kate?” he asks with concern, letting go. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, not wanting to pull us out of the moment. So instead, I say, “So, our . . . daughter?” I don’t know how to ask about her without destroying the fabric of this world, so I let the words hang there.
Patrick touches my cheek and gives me a strange look. “Hannah? What about her?”
Something bursts open inside of me. “Hannah,” I murmur. “What a beautiful name.”
Patrick looks at me with concern. “You’re being weird again.”
The room fades a little, and I rush to add, “I was just thinking how lucky we are, that’s all.”
He smiles. “Oh, I’m pretty positive I’m the luckiest man in the world. Now come on, weirdo, let’s get moving.”
He gets out of bed, but for a second, I can’t move. His statement—the idea that he’s lucky—stabs me right through the heart. In fact, he never got to experience any of this: fatherhood, the approach of middle age, the comfort of waking up beside someone you love after years and years together. It all makes me feel profoundly sad.
Patrick is filling the coffeepot at the sink when I finally get out of bed and head into this kitchen. I come up behind him andpress my cheek against his bare back. I breathe in deeply, wishing I could just hit the pause button and stay here forever.
“I’m sorry I’m acting so off,” I say as he turns off the faucet. “I don’t know how to explain what’s going on with me. I just feel like . . . It feels like you’ve been gone a long time.”
He sets the coffeepot on the counter and turns, pulling me into his arms. “I’m always here, honey,” he says. “I’ve always been right here. But you’ve got to stop acting like you don’t belong here or something. You’re scaring me a bit.”
“I’m sorry. I do belong here.” As I say the words, I find myself fervently clinging
For the first time, I find myself wondering if I’ve traded all those things away without realizing it. Maybe it’s too late to find my way back to the kind of life I thought I would have. Finally, I drift off into an uneasy sleep.
Six
W hen I wake up the next morning, I know instantly that I’m back in my old apartment again, back in the strange, overly bright world I can’t explain. I gasp, close my eyes, and murmur a small prayer of thanks, even though this might just mean I’m losing my mind. When I crack my eyes open again, the sunlight is catching a few particles of dust in the air. I turn my head slightly to find Patrick lying next to me.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just study him as his chest rises and falls. I don’t know I’m crying until my vision gets blurry. As I sit up to wipe away my tears, Patrick stirs and rolls toward me.
“Good morning, Katielee,” he says, and it’s still his voice, his green eyes with the crinkles at the corners, his wide smile with the slightly crooked bottom row of teeth.
I’m too overwhelmed by a rush of gratitude to say anything.
I lie back down and nestle against Patrick as he puts his arm around me. I stroke his hair, noting a solid sprinkling of gray strands that weren’t there before. I marvel at the passage of time, the way the years can change a person.
“I would have loved to see you grow old,” I murmur, running my hand down his still-solid chest. The color-saturated roomflickers a bit, and my heart skips a beat. I remind myself to play along, to do my best to believe I belong here. After all, maybe I do. Why else would it all feel so familiar to me?
Patrick laughs, and I can feel the sound reverberating through his body. “Don’t I look old now?” he asks.
I can’t even joke back, because my breath is caught in my throat. He pulls me closer and kisses me gently, threading his fingers through my hair. His stubble is scratchy and his lips are warm, but it’s not until I feel his tongue against mine that I begin to sob again.
“Kate?” he asks with concern, letting go. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, not wanting to pull us out of the moment. So instead, I say, “So, our . . . daughter?” I don’t know how to ask about her without destroying the fabric of this world, so I let the words hang there.
Patrick touches my cheek and gives me a strange look. “Hannah? What about her?”
Something bursts open inside of me. “Hannah,” I murmur. “What a beautiful name.”
Patrick looks at me with concern. “You’re being weird again.”
The room fades a little, and I rush to add, “I was just thinking how lucky we are, that’s all.”
He smiles. “Oh, I’m pretty positive I’m the luckiest man in the world. Now come on, weirdo, let’s get moving.”
He gets out of bed, but for a second, I can’t move. His statement—the idea that he’s lucky—stabs me right through the heart. In fact, he never got to experience any of this: fatherhood, the approach of middle age, the comfort of waking up beside someone you love after years and years together. It all makes me feel profoundly sad.
Patrick is filling the coffeepot at the sink when I finally get out of bed and head into this kitchen. I come up behind him andpress my cheek against his bare back. I breathe in deeply, wishing I could just hit the pause button and stay here forever.
“I’m sorry I’m acting so off,” I say as he turns off the faucet. “I don’t know how to explain what’s going on with me. I just feel like . . . It feels like you’ve been gone a long time.”
He sets the coffeepot on the counter and turns, pulling me into his arms. “I’m always here, honey,” he says. “I’ve always been right here. But you’ve got to stop acting like you don’t belong here or something. You’re scaring me a bit.”
“I’m sorry. I do belong here.” As I say the words, I find myself fervently clinging
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