Points, Counterpoints of Light
The first time it happens, you know it has to be a coincidence. A strange one, but also an awesome one. If all of life was filled with such awesome coincidences, you’re pretty sure the world would be a much happier place. That’s not a definite, of course, but you really suspect that you might be right.
It was an oddly warm winter’s night, the first time it happened. He’d taken you on the passenger ferry out to one of the little coastal islands, and on the way back, the sky unexpectedly lit up above them. He tries to tell you that he’d arranged it, but you both know he’s lying, but you don’t care. Not really, not even a little, not even at all.
It was a perfect night, the perfect end to a perfect Christmas. You never expected the day to turn out this way, on a boat with your boyfriend, but there’s no other way you can imagine it now. For one fanciful, fleeting moment, you even let your mind whisper that it is your first Christmas together – the first of many.
“This was a nice day,” you say quietly as you walk hand in hand to the front of the boat together, enjoying the warm December air with its hint of chill, “I’m glad we did this.”
“And you aren’t sorry that you didn’t go up with your parents to see your brother and his family?” he asks you worriedly, for about the five hundredth time that day. You think it is cute, how he’s so worried and solicitous about your feelings.
“No, I’m not at all,” you retort instantly, eyes twinkling as you look over at a troupe of traveling actors, something you thought had died with the invention of movies, “I’ve found suitable replacement company. And you’re not so bad either.”
He throws a mock glare your way before dropping the pretense and laughing with you. “I had fun. This was – I don’t know, you’re the one that’s good with words, what was it?”
You laugh at that, unable to hold it in at his earnest expression. You know he’s being serious, and you love that about him, but the sight of his gently furrowed brow is too much and the giggles escape. “Oh, Nathan,” you can’t help but smile widely at him, “It was everything I wanted it to be. How’s that?”
His mouth opens and closes a few times before relaxing into a grin that matches yours. “Yeah, that’s more like it,” he laughs, perhaps the most genuinely happy that you’ve ever seen of him. You figure if this is what you have to build on with him, then life with Nathan is going to be pretty sweet.
“It’s gorgeous out here,” you sigh more to yourself than to him even as you take deep breaths of the cool, salty air, “I really hope I never forget this moment.”
He grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly. When he turns towards you, it’s like you’ve been conditioned with some sort of Pavlovian response to it - you turn to face him, immediately looping your arms around his neck. Just like that; you apparently need no other prompting. Not that you mind, though; you just think it is funny that the girl who never needed a boy has developed completely automatic responses to the one boy she’d have never in a million years dreamt she’d end up with. It’s one of those things where your mother might laugh at the irony of it all.
You can see the city lights twinkling as the ferry courses slowly around a corner, and Nathan points out some of the sights to you. You could tell him that you know them all, that your daddy used to do the exact same thing for you and Taylor when you were little, but you don’t. Because it’s sweet and he’s funny and you just plain love to hear his voice.
When the boat slows down, he’s talking so animatedly that he doesn’t even realize it. Honestly, you fleetingly wonder how many times Dan dropped him on the head as a baby because the boat drifts to a complete stop, but he doesn’t notice until the voice comes over the boat’s loudspeaker.
“This is your captain speaking,” the booming voice announces, “We’re stopping here briefly. There is a fireworks display out here tonight, and we thought you all might want to see it. Actually, we really would prefer not to be slammed into by one of the pleasure yachts that are cruising around while their captain watches the fireworks, but the benefits are twofold.”
Nathan grins down at you, winking like he had something to do with it. You laugh with him, glad that you’d already decided to take a stroll out here as you got spots on the railing as the rest of the passengers pored out to fight over the crappier spots behind you.
“How good am I?” Nathan grins, pulling you closer against his side.
“It’s probably a shot for a movie or something,” you whisper back, unable to care that there are people around you, people watching as you cuddle into his side, your hands slipping into the back pockets of his jeans for warmth. He raises his eyebrows at you, surprised at the new and public intimacy, but you just shrug, surprising him further.
“This is, ah, new,” he chokes out, nearly jumping out of his skin when you squeeze a little. The fact that no one is watching the two of you as the fireworks begin to light up the night gives you a brazenness you don’t normally possess, and your hands keep up their roaming of Nathan’s lovely rear area.
“I can’t believe we’re getting a fireworks show,” you whisper reverently as the sky erupts in brilliant flashes of red and green and white. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Yeah, beautiful,” he agrees, and when you realize his attention is focused solely on you, you blush to the tips of your toes with pleasure. He kisses you at the grand finale of the fireworks, a stunning crescendo of kisses and exploding points of light and touches and color.
And you think that maybe, maybe, life doesn’t get better than this moment.
~*~
When it happens again, it feels right. Like it should happen, like all the perfect moments in your life would be punctuated in this way. At least your perfect moments together.
It isn’t a big show this time, one that stops ferry boats and seemingly time. This is just the two of you, in your parents’ backyard, and a handful of sparklers. It’s easy and relaxing and fun and even a little sexy. You write words with the sparklers, trying to explain to him that it is just a trick of the eye that makes it seem like the letters are still there even after the sparks emanating from your little stick are gone.
“You are quite the little brainiac,” he teases you, and you roll your eyes.
“Well,” you admit, “I don’t know if that’s definitely true or not. But I know that there are similar phenomena!”
You laugh together, and he pulls you down onto his lap. “I love you,” he whispers in your ear before paying what you know has to be the sweetest form of homage to your neck by attaching his lips to your skin. You know that he loves you. Every second that you spend with him you can feel it, radiating off him like this hot, passionate wave. You’ve heard all that ‘love is gentle’ BS, but you like the passion, the somewhat stormy emotion that he invokes in you.
The funny thing about it is that you have figured out that you do the opposite for him. Where he provokes hot emotion in you, you do the opposite for him. You provide him with a calm, steadying presence that you know he’s probably always lacked in his life. It’s maybe something that other people would say is destined to crash and burn, but you believe otherwise.
You marvel at yourself as his hands travel up under your shirt and then back down to trace the seam of your jeans up the inside of your legs. It isn’t like you’d have ever dreamt you’d be doing this with Nathan Scott, but the fact that he’s got you so open to him that you’d be doing it with him in the backyard of your parents’ house – while they were inside – is practically unimaginable, at least for you.
“I love you, too,” you say, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile against your collarbone. You twist yourself in his arms so that you can straddle his lap, smiling down at him. His hands still on your hips, anchoring you against him.
“Can we stay like this forever?” he asks huskily, pupils dilating when you get the nerve to grind your hips down against him.
“Maybe not quite like this,” you grin, fighting the urge to let your eyes roll back into your head, “But something similar, how’s that?”
He tugs the collar of your shirt down, exposing more skin for him to kiss and suck. “That’s fine with me.” He lets his head fall back against the cushion of the chair. “I know it’s sappy, but I could stay in this moment with you forever.”
“Is that from a song?” you ask suspiciously.
He grins up at you, shrugging. “It could be. Hey, do you think that could work? I could get more chicks if I went around quoting song lyrics to them?”
“Hey!” you exclaim, smacking him lightly on the chest, “You better keep your song lyrics to yourself, buddy!”
“Aw, you know my song lyrics are reserved for you,” he assures you, “In fact, all of me is.” To make his oh, so subtle point, he thrusts up against you, reminding you – as if you’d forget – just how much of himself he’s willing, ready, and able to offer to you exactly.
You lower yourself against him so you are now flush against him. “I want all of you,” you admit in a low whisper, suddenly embarrassed to have this conversation with your parents thirty yards away and possibly watching from one of the darkened windows upstairs. Hey, there isn’t much you can put past them. They live for torturing their children, and you’re one of them.
His face is such a mixture of emotions that you can’t even really begin to sort it out. “I want you, too, baby. But you know we don’t have to rush this, push this. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
You look down at him, wondering if he really gets what his words promise, wonders what he’d say if he knew. You hate that you have these moments of insecurity, but sometimes you wonder if this is more for you than him. You never feel it for long, usually because he does something so sweet or wonderful that you can’t help but forget about it, but it can creep. Doubt is insidious like that.
“What if I think I’m ready now?” you surprise yourself by asking, biting your lip to stifle a moan when his fingers dip beneath the low-rise waistband of your jeans. All thoughts fly out of your head as his fingers tease ever lower.
“’Think’ doesn’t sound quite the same as ‘are’,” he reasons, his hands stilling on you, but not moving back, which you find to be something of a relief.
“What if I know I am?” you persist, hoping that your eyes convey the love and desire and need you feel for him.
“I – I – I really, really would like that, Hales, but…you want to wait until you’re married. I can respect that.”
“But I – “ you begin to protest, but he cuts you off by pressing his lips to yours, urgency flowing between you.
“I can wait,” he assures you, never taking his lips off yours, and you’re pretty sure you could die at the sexiness of it all. Actually, you don’t think you ever knew what sexy even was until this very moment.
He removes his hands from your pants, turning you over with seemingly no effort at all, and settling you back against his chest. You know that neither of you are unaware of the uncomfortably unabated arousal yourselves and the other are feeling, but you both let it go, relaxing into him.
You pick up the sparklers off the small table beside the recliner, lighting two and handing him one. “Your turn to write,” you tell him, smiling to yourself when he writes ‘I love you’.
Perfect.
~*~
The third time it happens, it isn’t nearly as perfect of a night, but it does feature the most impressive pyrotechnic display. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He’s so mad at you that you don’t think he can see straight, and you’re so hurt and guilt-ridden that you know you can’t.
It’s the Fourth, just a few weeks after you got back to town, and he still is so icy cold towards you that it hurts to breathe. Sometimes you wonder if you’re even still alive, the breaths that you manage to suck in are so cold and painful and dreadfully shallow that it doesn’t feel like you will be for a lot longer.
There isn’t raging hostility coming from him. Oh, no, that would, in your opinion, be a big step up from the Thaw of the Century he’s working now. He’s only in town for the weekend, back from his basketball camp – a fact that he’d tried to hide desperately from you. Dumb luck had you overhearing a conversation between his mother and Karen, and if it wasn’t enough that Nathan was willing to hide his return from you, the cut slashed a little deeper knowing they would, too.
Now here you both were, standing on opposite ends of the River Court, him too angry to bridge the gap between and you too scared. You imagine with bittersweet realization that this could be a scene out of a romantic comedy – the camera positioned in line with the center of the court, panned back far enough to catch both of you in its picture. When the fireworks start up, your knees buckle and you want to cry or vomit or both, but you hold onto the thought that the fireworks have just added to the whole romantic comedy feel of it.
There is no one else there that night; they’re all across the river watching from the designated areas. You think that’s sort of ridiculous, but who are you to complain when this is the longest you’ve been within 100 yards of Nathan in almost a month?
You prepare yourself to stand there all night, facing him and waiting to see if he’ll approach you. It doesn’t seem right that all the balls are in his court, but you have so much guilt and fear that you are completely willing to play things his way. To let him dictate the rules of your engagements seems fitting, even fair.
Giving up as the fireworks display launched from the middle of the river goes on elaborately, you turn away from him, watching the show with bleak eyes. You can feel his gaze on you, but for once, you don’t turn your pleading eyes on him, begging him for things he’s clearly not disposed to give you.
You know when he leaves, even before the display is over, and you feel a little guilty about intruding on his spot here, even though you didn’t know he’d be here. Still, you feel bad that you drove him away, not that he had a particularly strong attachment to being patriotic that you were aware of, anyway.
It seems bad that you feel sorry for yourself, but how do you help something like that? When you see that he is completely out of sight, you let the tears fall, blurring the already soft and fuzzy edges of the exploding shapes. It breaks your heart to think that he can’t even nod at you, or wave to you, or anything.
You finally sit down, leaning your back up against the pole of the basketball hoop as you try to figure out what you’ll do next. You almost laugh at that, wondering when that became the big question. You haven’t even started your senior year of high school yet, and you’re separated from your husband who won’t look at you, and you still have no clue what to do next.
A shadow falls over you, blocking the light from the already dim street light fairly effectively, and you jump to your feet, fraught with nerves over the intrusion.
“Haley.” One word, one voice, and everything in you seems to shatter into a million fragments, eerily reminiscent of those fireworks you were just watching.
“N-Nathan,” you stutter out, face flushing over your complete lack of anything resembling suaveness or calmness.
“I – hey,” he trips out, just as awkwardly, giving you the tiniest boost of confidence.
“Hey,” you repeat to him softly, arms wrapped around your middle to ward off the chill, but also as a defensive posturing against whatever harsh words he might (probably) have for you. “How’s camp?”
“Tiring,” he answers, seeming to be relieved at the relatively impersonal question, “I think I’m learning a lot, though.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” you smile, even though you doubt it reaches your eyes. You’re shaking slightly from the nerves, but you don’t even care. All that matters is that he’s here, and you’re talking. It’s probably the least personal or productive conversation you could have, but at least it’s talking. There isn’t even yelling involved, yet. You’re sure that thought will jinx you horribly.
“Look, I don’t exactly know what to say,” he tells you, looking as puzzled by all of this as you feel, “I just didn’t want to leave you here, crying.”
You gape at him, unsure what to say. “Don’t pity me,” you finally settle on warning him, even though there are a million other things flying through your head, clamoring to be let out. “I don’t want you to feel sorry or obligated to me.”
“Then what do you want?” he asks you crisply, almost primly, which is something that you have a damned hard time reconciling with the red-hot Nathan you’ve always been so used to. You changed him, you made him into this.
“The same thing I’ve always wanted, you! I want you, I want you back. I want you here, now – I want you to remember that you love me, and that what we have is worth fighting for, not forgetting. I just…want you,” you finish tiredly, worn out from the emotional burst that accompanies the release of those words.
“There’s a lot to get past,” he says, sounding just as tired as you do, “A lot of things have happened between us.”
“I know!” you exclaim, suddenly furious that he seems to think that you live in some bubble where you have no clue where things stand, how they are. “I know that there are a million and one things to talk about, and a billion and one apologies to make! But Nathan, don’t you get it? I want to talk about those things and make those apologies. It’s just, you have to give me the chance. I can’t do it without that.”
He looks away, crushing all of your hopes with one little cut of the eyes. “I don’t know if I have anything left to give you,” he says in a way that makes you feel like you’re a thief who has stolen everything from him, even his soul. You hadn’t thought that was how it played out, but maybe you were wrong; maybe you had stolen everything from him.
“I didn’t mean for it to be this way,” you tell him, knowing that he probably won’t hear you now, “I love you. You – you don’t have to believe me, I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t. It’s the truth, though. I always loved you, there was never even a second when I didn’t. Not even half a second.”
He nods, looking out over at the flashy display. You can hear, you realize for the first time, the muted oohs and aahs of appreciation from the crowd across the river. It’s like reality is seeping in, and a few seconds later, all of this – him being here in front of you mostly – will be washed away, swept out to sea with the river.
“It’s not an issue of love,” he says gruffly, and you fling yourself into his arms, unable to help yourself. Because if he can acknowledge that, then there’s hope. And hope, that’s something you can build on, something to believe in. It’s a point of light that won’t dissipate and fade away immediately. You can grab it, and almost feel it. It’s…real, in a good way.
You cry against his neck, and the hug is woefully one-sided until you finally feel his arms slide around you, his hand rubbing soothing circles over your back. You cry harder and harder, letting everything out. The fear, the sadness, the loss, the grief, the angst. It’s all there, and it all comes out.
“This isn’t – I didn’t mean – “
“I know,” you sob against his neck, refusing to let go even when he tries to ease out of your grasp, “It’s just, that’s better than anything you’ve said to me in months now.”
He nods, relaxing the tiniest amount. He leaves not long after that, but that’s okay. You might not have said everything, and he said very little, but in the end, you said and heard enough of what mattered that you were able to be okay with it. Things weren’t perfect, but they could’ve been worse.
~*~
After the third time, you didn’t really expect that fireworks would come into things again. That wasn’t exactly the most positive connotation for them for either of you, even though it could’ve been infinitely worse, and you’re both grateful it wasn’t.
“Okay, seriously, Nathan, why are we stopping?” you ask for the hundredth time, although there is a new note of exasperation mixed in with the impatience and excitement. “I thought we were supposed to be at the airport by 9! Are you sure we have time to stop?”
He laughs at you, his arm tightening as you lean into his side. “Hales, I promise this is going to be worth the detour. And I even promise it won’t affect us getting on that plane, either.” You nod grudgingly, willing to play along with the surprise, even though all you really want is to get to the airport in time for your trip to London. Hey, international travel can be a bitch from what you hear. “Okay, good. Just a little further, anyway.”
“I’m holding you to that!” you laugh, poking him in the ribs playfully. He nips at your shoulder, and you admonish him to keep his eyes on the road, not realizing that he’s already parked the car. “What – um, Nathan?”
“Yeah, babe?” he asks, fighting to keep the smile off his face as you stare at him like he’s a complete halfwit.
“We’re…back here.” You know that was about the most useless thing in the world to say, but oh, well, what can you do? “I mean, what are we doing back here?”
His grin widens, and if he didn’t already own all of your heart, you would’ve given him more of it right then and there. “Hold your horses,” he laughs, helping you out of the car. He picks you up around the waist, twirling you around until you’re both laughing. “Come on,” he says, setting you down to take your hand, “You got to come see this!”
Obediently, and not just a little curious, you let him tug you along, laughing as you try and keep the skirt of your gown off the grass and dirt that you’re walking on. “What have you done?”
“This,” he grins proudly, and with a flourish of his hands, fireworks begin shooting off into the still light sky. You gape at the lights flashing in the sky before turning your astonished gaze on him.
“How – when – oh, my gosh,” you breathe in a near-whisper, unable to formulate sentences or even words at full volume.
“It just seemed like we needed them,” he shrugs, like it is no big deal, even though you both know otherwise, “Like this day would somehow be incomplete without them.”
“Yeah.” It’s a simple agreement, but you mean it with everything that you are. Now that they’re here, in front of you, there is no way you could imagine this day without them. It’s just….perfect. The perfect end to a really, really wonderful and amazing day. You figure if you keep making memories like this, then you can forget all about the last time you two stood together with fireworks erupting around you.
~*~
You lose count at some point of how many times this happens, but you also realize that it doesn’t matter if it is coincidence or intentional, whenever fireworks go off, it is amazing.
“It’s kind of cold out here,” you whisper in his ear, trying not to appear too anxious to leave. You know you should be willing to stand out here all night if that’s what it takes, but all the same, your nice, warm, soft bed seems to be beckoning you, calling you to it.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he agrees, stepping closer behind you and pulling you into his arms, “I’m sorry, baby, we won’t be our here too much longer.”
You fight off the sigh that threatens to spill out, not wanting to make him feel bad about keeping you out here. God, it’s not like it is his fault that the school planned a nighttime celebration to commemorate the university’s first NCAA basketball title in a decade. Thanks in large part to your husband.
So you cheer with the rest of them, even though you’d much rather be having a private celebration – in a warmer location, of course – with your husband. In all honesty, it is exciting and fun and you’re as proud of Nathan and the rest of the team as anyone else, but you do know how much better a private celebration would be.
He starts kissing your neck, heated little kisses that make your breath catch and have your knees threatening to give out from under you. They don’t of course, but you’re pretty sure he’d catch you if they did. He’s always been there to catch you, and all you hope is that one day, you can return that favor for him. Well, if he needs it.
“Scott, my man!” one of his adoring fans yells – yes, yells, despite his extremely and uncomfortably close proximity – as he approaches, “You RULE!”
Nathan chuckles at that, extending a hand to shake the fan’s. “Thanks, man, I appreciate that,” Nathan grins easily, “Your support means a lot to the team.”
You’d roll your eyes, if you knew he didn’t actually mean that. Sometimes it surprises you how much your husband has grown up in the six years that you’ve known him. He says what he means now, and doesn’t bullshit people when he doesn’t have to. He’s kind and smart and funny, but he’s maintained enough of that edge that you don’t always get to win your few and far between fights. Not that you don’t pout until he gives in at least a little.
The fireworks start exploding in the crisp air of very early spring just as the two of you are walking towards your car, that same old beater Honda you’ve had for what seems like forever. You’ve talked a million times about getting something more reliable, whined until you were blue in the face about how horrid it would be if it broke down when you were alone in it, but he still refuses to part with it for sentimental reasons.
As if you could love him any more.
“At our fiftieth anniversary party, we are going to have the biggest private fireworks display ever,” he announces, swinging your arm along with his, “We’ll knock everyone’s socks off.”
“Who is everyone?” you laugh at his enthusiasm, relishing the idea of what he’s described. In a dream world, that’s exactly how this will all turn out. Except maybe instead of fifty, it’ll be at your 75th. That’s more impressive, and when you get married at 16, you up your chances of making it that long!
“Oh, the kids, grandkids, maybe even a few great grandkids,” he says so seriously that you can almost imagine it happening around you.
“Kids, huh? How many?” you ask, your head dropping to rest on his shoulder as you both lean against the car, pausing to watch the gigantic celebratory display.
“As many as you can stand,” he grins, wrenching his gaze away from the pyrotechnics to wink at you, “What are you thinking? Don’t tell me only one – it’s lonely to grow up an only child.”
“Just to play devil’s advocate, it’s not any easier to grow up the sixth of six children, either,” you remind him laughingly. With him, you don’t care if you have six or six hundred, you just want to have them. “And when?”
He grins, moving to stand in front of you, directly between your legs. “Well, I was thinking we could start tonight.”
You gape at him, unable to determine if he’s serious or not. It seems logical that he must be kidding, so you decide to roll with that. “Oh, well, I have a test in the morning,” you tease back, “So I don’t know if tonight is really good for me.”
“Ha ha ha,” he groans, rolling his eyes at you even as he moves closer in the predatory way that you so love and sooo get off on, “Aren’t you just Miss Jokes?”
“That’s Mrs. Jokes to you,” you grin tartly, laughing when he grips you by the upper thigh, lifting you against him. Instinct has you wrapping your legs around his waist and locking your arms around his neck.
“Touché,” he grins, nuzzling your neck with his lips. “I love you, Hales.”
“I love you, too.”
And there are fireworks behind your eyelids as his hands roam over your body and yours over his, but they aren’t the memory of what is exploding high above you in the sky – no, you’re sure it’s your mind exploding from pleasure overload.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
~*~
At one point, you wonder if this whole thing isn’t getting tedious. Like, could people just celebrate a holiday without some sort of fireworks show? Was that really necessary on say, Halloween? You’d bitch about the commercialism of it all, about how all holidays seemed to be owned by generic Hallmark, but you sort of secretly like it. It has become one of your ‘things’, fireworks.
When Nathan failed to be drafted, you anticipated that at some point, he’d blow into fireworks of the metaphorical variety. You were wrong, though. He settled into his post-basketball life rather nicely, or at least a lot better than any previous Scott male ever did. You were really proud of him as he began working towards his MBA.
You start singing again, mostly in small coffee shops and bars with only your acoustic guitar or an onsite piano for accompaniment. It’s the happiest you’ve been singing since old what’s his name rolled into town to fill your eyes with stars and your ears with promises of stardom. It is fun, and a nice way to fill the afternoons that have Nathan camping out at a library, studying. Who knew he’d be the one to stay in school for a second degree?
You teach first grade, lucky to have got on at one of the elementary schools in the town Nathan’s school is in. You did your student teachings at this school, too, and they tell you over and over again that you should look elsewhere, not hire on where you student taught, but Nathan is here, it’s a job, and that’s somehow all you care about.
Opportunity knocks again with the music, and this time it is Nathan who answers and shoves you out the door with it. A new EP for a television show caught a set of Beatles’ songs that you did on a whim one Friday night, and he caught up to you and Nathan in the parking lot. He offers you an awful lot of money to record a few tracks for the pilot episode of his show, and Nathan bullies you into taking it.
You have this natural fear of anything resembling success with your music and you don’t want to fly to LA to record the tracks, but logically you know this is different. This isn’t you leaving in a huff after a fight with Nathan, and this isn’t him giving you an ultimatum to force your hand. This is the two of you, like the reasonable, mature adults that you are, talking things over and deciding what is best for you. And being the poor college student he is and the poorly paid teacher you are, going to LA for a long weekend to get paid to sing, well, that wasn’t something you could or should conceivably say ‘no’ to.
You arrive back in town on the Fourth, which neatly falls on a Monday. Nathan is there at the airport, waiting for you with open arms, which you promptly run into. He’s sweet and brings you flowers, and it’s all you can do not to jump him right there next to the baggage claim carousel. You laugh aloud at the imagined response of Homeland Security.
“Where are we watching the fireworks from?” you ask as he lugs your suitcase out to the car.
“Is that all you care about?” he asks point blank, “I mean, you just got back from LA. You recorded songs that will be used on a TV show, Hales. You – you’re okay being back here?”
You’ve never heard this type of insecurity in his voice before. You’ve never seen him this nervous, and it breaks your heart that you haven’t been able to convince him that you’d never leave, that nothing could ever take you away from him again.
“I couldn’t be happier to be back!” you exclaim sunnily, knowing that he wouldn’t appreciate talking about this right now, “I missed you so much, and I missed our apartment, and I even missed that damn cat of yours.” You throw him a sideways look, pleased to see him visibly relax. “I really did miss you most of all.”
He takes your hand in his free one, squeezing gently. “I know, baby.”
“Okay, then,” you grin, relieved to see he means, believes it. “So, I was thinking we stay home tonight, watch the PBS broadcast of the 4th festivities at the Capitol.”
“You want to stay in?” he says doubtfully, “It’s like a hundred degrees, we don’t have A/C, and our unit is in the sun until it is down. That might kind of suck, baby.”
You sigh, knowing he’s right. “Oh! We could splurge, get one of those portable A/C’s! They aren’t that expensive anymore, and Nathan, it’s only July! We’re going to need it this summer, and since we’ve got a little extra money now, let’s do it!"
He laughs at your joy at the spontaneity of it all, shrugging. “Hey, if that’s how you want to spend your money, it’s fine by me.”
You freeze in your steps, staring at him. “It’s not just my money,” you say slowly, looking him in the eye, “If you didn’t want me to – “
“No, Haley, I didn’t mean that at all,” he’s quick to jump in, “It’s just this is something big, something special, and if you had a way you wanted to spend it, then you should do that. Not worry about loans or rent or anything. I – I’m past all that, I love that you’re talented and people see that.”
You blush, his words pleasing you in a way that makes you realize how much you needed to hear them. “Thank you. That means a lot, Nathan.”
“It’s all true,” he promises sweetly, and you beam up at him as you resume your walk to the car.
As suggested, you stop and pick out an A/C unit together, taking it home to squabble playfully over the best places to set it up. It takes longer to figure out where it should go than it does to get it up and running. By the time you finish, it is getting late, so you switch the TV on and cuddle next to him on the couch, since it isn’t so hot that you have to avoid doing that anymore.
“This was a good idea,” he comments as you watch the fireworks explode over the nation’s capitol. “I’m glad we stayed in for this.”
“Me, too,” you agree, tightening your hold on him. You’re sitting against the arm of the couch, one leg resting against the back, the other flat on the floor. He’s between your legs, half reclined, his head on your chest. His fingers are tracing light, squiggly patterns over the bare skin of your legs, and yours are doing the same on his bare chest.
He feels good against you, warm and strong, and you let yourself briefly wish you could stay like this forever. Wrapped around each other on the couch you bought together at a yard sale, watching some Italian soprano sing ‘God Bless America’ while red, white, and blue fireworks explode over her shoulder, you know this is what you’ll want for the rest of your life.
~*~
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, ONE!” the crowd around you exclaims, confetti erupting around you, kids waving sparklers and begging their parents to hurry up and set off the real fireworks, “Happy New Year!”
You’re standing off in a corner by yourself, cringing as the beleaguered parents agree, and the small, legal fireworks begin to whistle and pop. You didn’t even want to be here - you don’t want to be anywhere. But Nathan’s genius work holds a New Year’s party rather than a Christmas party, and he insisted that he bring both you and the baby.
The baby. You hear her crying, you know her name, but you don’t know what to say or do with her. This baby that you had wanted so bad before and during your pregnancy is now a mystery to you, a thing separate and different and strange now that she’s no longer in you. You know that Nathan is growing frustrated by your disconnect, and you understand somewhere deep inside your tired mind that he’s right, but you can’t seem to swim through to fog to figure out what you’re supposed to be doing.
“Haley, what are you doing here, sweetie?” he asks you. It barely penetrates that he called you ‘sweetie’: he certainly never called you that before, and you get the impression you’re being patronized now. Not that you have the will to care.
“Just waiting,” you reply in a whispered mumbled.
”Waiting for what?” he asks, frowning slightly and regarding you as if you’re a puzzle he’s supposed to solve.
You look up at him, noticing that he’s got Molly in his arms. “Waiting to go home.”
“Haley,” he sighs, and you note with a dispassion that has become par for the course in the last couple of weeks that he is starting to get irritated with you. Or maybe that he is irritated with you. Maybe you’re just noticing what has always been there. “Here, hold Mol,” he orders you, and you comply, reaching your arms out to awkwardly take the baby. He looks nervous, but tells you he is going to get your coats and will have the valet bring the car around.
Molly starts crying almost the second he disappears out the door across the room. You stare at her blankly, awkwardly patting her on the back and bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet in a feeble – and probably futile – attempt to calm her down. Some part of your brain recognizes that it was stupid to bring her here, that you knew better and you wonder why Nathan didn’t. You wonder why you didn’t tell him that babies shouldn’t be out so late when they are only three weeks old.
And then you wonder why you even care, and you set her down on your chair when you stand up to get a better look at the fireworks exploding out the window. She’s still crying – you hear her! – but it doesn’t penetrate that you should care.
By the time Nathan gets back, she’s wailing her head off, but you’ve pretty much ceased to hear her. You don’t even completely notice the weird looks you’re getting, or that Nathan’s elderly secretary is behind you, tending to your daughter when you fail to do it yourself. You do, however, notice that Nathan is pissed as Hell at you, but either you don’t really care or it doesn’t hit home how bad it is.
“What the Hell is the matter with you?” he hisses at you as he practically drags you to the car. Oddly enough, your first thought, rather than coming up with a suitable response to the question, is that you think you’ll fall if he keeps dragging you like this.
“I’m tired,” you say absently, looking back at the fireworks that are still being shot off every couple of minutes.
“You’re always tired,” he mutters angrily, glaring at me, “You’re always tired, and you don’t even seem to give half a shit about our daughter.”
You look away, no argument available to argue that, even though you know it isn’t true. It feels true sometimes, and you’re sure it seems true to other people, but it couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.
Tears well in your eyes, and you aren’t even sure where they came from. Heaving a sigh, Nathan shifts Molly to one side, and wraps his free arm around you. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean that. I know you love her.”
You just sob harder, breaking down right there in the cold January air, in a party dress from the maternity section that you got when you first found out you were pregnant, and a screaming infant in tow. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you cry, unable to help yourself, “I just can’t do anything.”
“Okay, shh, baby, we’re going to fix this,” Nathan promises you, and you manage to let yourself believe it, even as you tune the baby out and focus on the fireworks.
~*~
“Molly, put your brother down!” Nathan yells, growling in frustration as she ignores him, half-carrying, half-dragging Michael across the yard. You smile at the scene in front of you, even as you try and maneuver around Maddy, your three year old, as she clings to your leg. And no one even wants to get you started on your obscenely big belly, pregnant with your third daughter, much to Nathan’s feigned disappointment. He couldn’t be more thrilled that they were on their third daughter, even though you weren’t so sure he’d feel that way in a few years when all of the estrogen was in full force.
“She’s never going to listen,” you warn him teasingly of your oldest child, now six, “She’s too stubborn. Her father’s daughter.”
“I doubt that,” he mutters, “Molly! Get over here now!”
“I love it when you get all tough Daddy,” you whisper, trying to coax a smile out of him, “It’s hot.”
He glares at you, waiting impatiently as Molly finally sets Michael down, making her way slowly and solemnly towards you. “You’re not helping,” he whispers to you as Molly approaches, her head hanging down and her daddy-melting pout affixed on her face. “She needs to learn to listen when we call her, even if she is mad at us.”
“I agree,” you tell him, rubbing your hand over his back even as you bend down to pick up Madeleine, “She’ll get over it anyway. She got over Michael, didn’t she?”
“Oh, yeah, carting him around like he’s her new Cabbage Patch Doll is really ‘getting over it’,” he groans, kissing Maddy first and then you on the cheek. “She’s acting out, Haley!”
You sigh, leaning against him heavily. “She just wants the attention,” you point out quietly, “Once she realizes that we won’t be completely monopolized by the new baby, then she’ll get over it. Besides, she’s just playing with him. And he doesn’t seem all that bothered by it, does he?”
“I hate it when you’re right,” he mutters as she walks up to him, “But she still needs to listen.” You nod, and he looks down at her. “Molly, when me or your Mommy tell you to stop doing something, what do you do?”
“I dunno,” she shrugs petulantly, her lower lip sticking out even further.
“Molly,” you say warningly.
“Fine, I listen,” she frowns, glaring at you and then Nathan. “But why can’t I carry Mikey? He likes it, and he doesn’t cry!”
“Mol, he’s too heavy for you to be carrying around everywhere, kiddo,” you cut in, trying to diffuse the tension between your equally strong-willed husband and child, “We don’t want you to hurt yourself, or him. Okay?”
“But I like it!” she protests, tears welling in her eyes. You know immediately that Nathan won’t stand up against the tears, and you begin to smirk inwardly, knowing you have teasing ammo for later.
“Sorry, Mol, but when I say stop, I mean stop,” Nathan says, holding firm against the puppy dog eyes for a change. You smile widely at him, winking when you catch his eye. He rolls his in return. “Listen, I know you love your brother and sister, but you have to be careful with them since they’re so little, okay?”
“Okay,” she agrees grudgingly, still glaring at the two of you. Little diva, that one. Brightening, she looks at the two of you with pleading eyes. “Can we have fireworks now, please Daddy, please, please, please!”
He looks over at you, and you shrug your consent. You figure that at least they’ll get to bed on time if you start them now. “Let’s do it,” you smile at her, laughing when her countenance immediately changes, and she twirls in an excited circle before throwing herself at Nathan’s legs.
“Well, that’s one way to put a smile back on her face,” he laughs wryly, shaking his head.
You take turns lighting off the fireworks so that you can each have your time with the kids. Maddy screams at the first crack of sound, and Michael tries to worm out of the grasp of whoever has him because he wants to touch them. Molly is enthralled by them, which is fitting, since you’re ninety percent sure she was conceived on the balcony of your small, first post-college apartment with the neighbors shooting off fireworks in the parking lot of the complex.
Your neighbors across the street start shooting theirs off at about the time you guys finish, so Nathan holds Maddy and Michael, while Molly sits between all of you. It’s cozy and fun, and once Maddy stops screaming, actually enjoyable.
You’ve had good times and bad times, obviously not all revolving around fireworks displays, but these are some of the ones that stick out. Some of the ones you’ll remember, even the ones you wish you wouldn’t. They’re good, they’re bad, and they’re all yours, and you treasure them.
The End
