Page 37 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

Every day, we wake up and go for a walk in the woods. When we get back, I shower and get ready for class while he makes us breakfast. It’s my favorite thing he does for me. Monday through Friday, I drive down the mountain for my classes at the local community college while he holes up in his office, working at the house. Then, when I get home, I make dinner for both of us.

We don’t watch TV together, or hang out in the evenings, or go out to eat, but every night, he slips into my bed so we can sleep.

We only cuddle occasionally, like on days that are particularly rough for him. Sometimes. I rub his back for a bit, then wake up later to his body wrapped around mine. I like it, but I never count on it happening again. Because everything about being with Alex feels fleeting and temporary. Like each time he does something could be the last time.

I never know what his mood will be for the day until we’re in it, but I’ve learned to read him. When he wants space, when he needs comfort, when he wants to talk. It’s still rare, but he’s starting to talk to me more. Mostly, on our morning walks, when we sit on the boulder, that’s like our safe space. Our secret world.

Those early morning hours, still dark, looking out over silent waters and frosted trees, are for us. He’ll tell me things about his mom or dad or even Constantine, a man whom Alex looks up to like the father he never had.

One day, he told me the story about how his sister was…conceivedand how he ended up living with his dad in Arizona. The rest of the day was hard after that. He was quiet and brooding. But when I went to bed that night, it was the first time he didn’t even attempt to sleep in his own room.

He came with me to bed, even brushing his teeth beside me in the bathroom. And when we crawled beneath the covers, he didn’t hesitate to pull me into him.

But that hasn’t happened since. It’s almost a week later, and he’s back to sneaking into my bedroom and leaving me alone.

Before Alex comes to my bed at night, I spend a lot of time thinking, mostly about Blanks. I wonder where he is or what he’s doing. I wonder if he wonders about me. And then I end up berating myself because I know he doesn’t.

Alex doesn’t bring him up, and I don’t ask. We’ve created a very quiet, insulated life for ourselves together. It’s comfortable and companionable, but I wouldn’t say either one of us is blissfully happy. In fact, that’s not the goal here. I’m sure of it.

After a month of visiting our spot for morning chats, he still hasn’t brought up Jess even once, which tells me it’s still too painful. I’m not exactly eager to hear about it anyway.

There isn’t some overt burning desire between us, at least not one we’re acknowledging, but that doesn’t mean I’m not slightly jealous.

I’m jealous of who Alex could be when he isn’t likethis. When he isn’t damaged and bleeding out for someone else, who is he then?

Does he smile? Real smiles? Does he laugh, big booming laughs? Does he talk? Does he ask questions? Is he avid about living?

I want to know that man, but instead, I’ve been given this other version of him. And that’s fine. I have a feeling most people wouldn’t put up with his highs and lows, but I can manage. I can be soft and helpful when he needs me, then give him space like it doesn’t bother me. I can do those things for him because I know it’s what I’ve always wanted someone to do for me.

The funny thing is, Alex shares more with me than I do with him. Sometimes, we’ll be sitting at our spot for so long that it’llbe on the tip of my tongue to say it, but inevitably, he’ll beat me to the punch. Like yesterday, I almost gave in, but then he started talking about Georgia, his mom.

He doesn’t call her mom; he calls her by her first name, and I think it’s the most interesting thing, the way he talks about her. Like she’s a saint or something. And not like she abandoned him just as much as his father neglected or tortured him. I always end up mad when he talks about his mom or dad.

I’m madforhim. Maybe he got tired of being mad a long time ago, but not me. I’ll be so angry sometimes that I have to go cry in the shower. Otherwise, I won’t be able to shake it for the rest of the day.

Then I’ll step out of the shower, get dressed, and go have the waffles or French toast or whatever ridiculous breakfast my husband has made for me that day. And I’ll be grateful for him.

No matter how broken he is, he still finds ways to take care of me and show affection in his own way. Maybe affection isn’t the right word.Appreciation.That’s more accurate.

Like how he checks the air pressure in my tires three times a week. Or how he makes me coffee to-go every day so I don’t have to stop. In his own way, he cares.

It’s quiet. And I like it. More than I should, so I try to temper my feelings and distract myself by thinking about something else. Anything else. The “else” is always Blanks. Or Caleb, as I find myself thinking more lately.

If I think aboutCaleb, it’s because I’m dreaming. Daydreaming about a life where men like him are into girls like me. Caleb would have watched me come apart on a fucking bathtub and not been able to keep his hands off me. He would have fucked me against the tile wall, making me scream obscenities.

The back door opening has me exhaling, cleansing the thoughts away.

As I turn to look, Alex walks in, hanging his keys next to mine in the mudroom. We were domesticated like that now.

He walks into the kitchen where I’m cooking and immediately picks up a piece of bread I just finished slicing.

“Hey,” I say, giving him a smile. A gesture that he returns, warming me. “How is everyone?”

“Good,” he says, still smiling. I love it. He seems almost…different.

Trying to soak up every second ofthisAlex, I keep asking.

“What’s his name? How big?”