Of Happiness (26 page)

It starts slowly, just the right corner of my mouth lifting. Then it overtakes me—giggles that develop into full-fledged laughter. It spills over to Harris and then the four of us are laughing (me more gingerly than the others), because if we didn’t, we’d most likely be crying.

T
he next several hours were a blur of drowsiness interrupted by the poking and prodding from a doctor while a very anxious Harris looked on, and being gently shaken awake to answer questions from the police. After we gave our statements (each twice), the detectives were satisfied. Just as Harris promised, one of the officers told him that Claire’s involvement would be kept under wraps. For the time being, she was still sedated, and when she woke would most likely be sent to a psychiatric hospital for further evaluation.

Now it’s the morning and Harris pushes me in a wheelchair to the hospital exit. As the nurse instructed, Sean and Luke left last night after a short visit, but not before dropping off some essentials: change of clothes for Harris, two brushes (of the tooth and hair variety), underwear (the second time in recent weeks that someone other than me rifled through my unmentionables), shoes for us both, a pair of my sweatpants, and a loose, comfortable T-shirt. Even though I was thrilled to talk with my friends, I was unable to be much company; sleep was a relentless caller.

It wouldn’t be hard for me to walk, but my ribs are still tender, despite the pain medication, and it makes me sleepy, so I’m grateful for Harris overtaking the situation, demanding that he push me outside and not a nurse. Of course when we exit through the automatic doors, his boxy SUV idles directly in front of the hospital doors.

After we thank the nurse, Harris lifts me effortlessly, opening the platinum car door with one hand and settling me into the front passenger seat.

“How did your car get here?” He was with me all night, no time to pick it up.

“Luke.”  He taps a finger on my nose, closes the door, and circles the front of the car, climbing into the driver’s seat.

The drive to the apartment is less than five minutes and happens in silence. Not tense, just comfortable. Actually, Harris appears somewhat content. On the opposite side of the car, my stomach tumbles with nerves, and my hands get sweatier and sweatier as we draw closer to home. Bursts of yesterday’s trauma flash before my eyes as he pulls to a stop. Harris races around the car to my side, not allowing the valet to help me out. Again, carefully, he cradles me against his chest.

When we’re just outside the elevator, I fall apart. Sobs wrack my body, trembles overtaking from where I’m held against Harris’ chest.

“Baby, baby, what did I do? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know if I can go back inside,” I whimper against his neck, a crippling anguish washing through me. “It’s like the ghosts of what happened are waiting for us and I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to face them.”

“You are more than strong enough. And in the event that you need to borrow some of my strength, I’m here with you all the way,” he whispers into my ear as I battle against the all-encompassing emotions.

We stay like that for a few solid minutes until I’m able to center myself. Harris tightens his hold on me, easing a section of my tension. I take a shuddering breath. “Okay, let’s go.”

When we’re in the elevator, he begins talking rapidly. “Do you want to go to a hotel? We can. I’ll sell this place, put it on the market tomorrow if that’s what you want. You’ll never have to walk through these walls again.”

He takes a step into the foyer when the elevator doors whisk open. “I—no, we don’t need to do that,” I stammer. “Will you put me down, please?”

Gently he sets me on my feet. I tangle our hands together. “Let’s do this.”  

“Are you sure?”

“As long as you’re with me,” I say hoarsely, throat scratchy from the onslaught of tears.

With unending patience for my hesitancy, Harris matches my slow pace into the apartment. There are no remnants from yesterday’s struggles, no pillow out of place in the living room. In fact, it’s no different than any other time I’ve entered the apartment.

He pauses next to the piano, wrapping an arm around my shoulders gently, so not to cause me additional pain, and pulls me against his steadfast body. “Everything’s cleaned. The furniture outside donated to Goodwill. You won’t have to see any of it again.”

My body sags in relief, Harris holding me in place. That little change removes some small pieces of the invisible albatross wrapped around me.

He glances down at his watch. “Eleanor will be here soon. We’re having breakfast with your family.”

The notation of Sarah, Greg, and Dad as my family sends some relief coursing through my chest. “My family,” I repeat softly to myself.

“That includes Luke and Sean.” Guiding me through the apartment and into the master bath, he adjusts the knobs of the shower.

“May I help you in the shower?” He gestures to my still trembling body.

“Please,” I whisper almost helplessly.

Turning smoothly back to me, he lifts my T-shirt over my head, cursing when he observes the smattering of bruises along my side. He falls to his knees, then grabs one of my hands and places it on his shoulder, so I can maintain my balance. First he removes my flip-flops, tossing them aside. Next, he grips my pants at the elastic waist. He drags the remainder of my clothing off my legs, leaving them in a heap. Before rising to his feet, he stares up at me, full of tender emotion. In another time and place, this second would be charged with provocative tension. But right now, in this sliver of time, the energy between us overflows with love.

Harris breaks his hold with a slight smile. Pushing off the ground, he pops into a standing position and quickly removes his clothing. Then he helps me into the steamy stall.

His movements are unhurried in the shower. Since all of my belongings were moved here, that includes body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. He foregoes the loofa; he drops a dollop of the lavender-flavored soap on his hands. With slick hands, he caresses my body from behind my ears, down the column of my neck, across the slope of my shoulders, skirting down my sides, all the way to my toes, rubbing this thumb between each of them. When he’s on his feet again, he massages the wash across my chest, again lacking sexual intention. The strong, steady pressure of his hands as he works the shampoo and conditioner into my hair has a rejuvenating effect, wiping away the invisible, bitter film throughout my body.

When he’s finished, he palms my cheeks, staring into my eyes. “That won’t erase what happened, but it’s a start.” 

“Thank you,” I mutter through a lump in my throat. While he washes himself, I sit on the shower bench, leaning my head on the marble wall as I wait. Suddenly, I’m tired all over again.

He rushes through the remainder of his routine and then turns off the warm water. I follow him outside of the stall and move to stand on the plush bathmat outside the glass door. I yelp as the air conditioning hits my wet skin. In a second, he engulfs my shivering body in a long, cream-colored towel, taking painstaking care to squeeze the excess water out of my hair, drying every damp segment of my body. When he’s finished, I drag a comb through my tangles and hobble over to the door, removing one of the hanging robes and wrapping my body in it.

“Is there time for a nap before everyone comes over?”

“Baby, you sleep, and when you wake up, you wake up.”

“I’m too tired to dry my hair,” I tell him sleepily. With a hand pressing between my shoulder blades, he takes me to the bed—our bed—peels back the covers, and settles me under the lush duvet. “But your sheets,” I say halfheartedly as my head sinks into the pillow.

“They can be changed.” 

I hardly hear him speak; soon I’m fast asleep.

The smell of sizzling bacon greets me when I wake. There’s also the clattering of plates and the murmur of voices. Shucking the blanket off, I stumble back into the bathroom, greeted by a tornado of messy hair and the indentation of a pillow on my cheek. I make quick work of drying my still-damp hair, pulling it into a messy bun on top of my head. I give my teeth a quick brush, then move gingerly into the closet, so I can dress in equally comfortable clothes as from the trip home from the hospital.

I shove my feet into a pair of slippers, then make my way out to the dining room. When I enter the space, everyone immediately quiets. They’re seated around the table, eating. Eleanor made a spread, dressing the kitchen breakfast bar.

“Hi.” I awkwardly wave. The gesture breaks the worried mood and elicits a chorus of smiles and even a chuckle from Sean.

Harris rises at the same time as Sarah. She’s seated closer to me and beats him to my side, wrapping me in an embrace. Stars of pain ricochet down my side.

“You’re all right,” she gasps from over my shoulder.

“Too tight!” I squeak. Instantly her grip relaxes.

“Sorry! I’m an idiot,” she mumbles.

We walk over to the table where there’s a seat next to Harris left available for me. On the way to my spot, where Harris waits with his hand on the back of the chair, Dad moves to his feet. I halt next to him, eyes flooding with tears when I can instantly deduce his fear. With closed eyes, he sweeps a kiss across my forehead. The relief is palpable in his gesture, no need for words.

Harris pushes in the back of my chair when I drop into it. “What can I get you to eat?”

“Fruit and toast, please.”

“Can you please eat more than that?” Sarah demands.

Mirroring my family’s expressions, a grin stretches across my face. “You won’t let up, not even on the sickly?”

“Get her bacon, and jam for that toast. She needs tea, too,” Sarah declares.

A few moments later, Harris places a plate piled high with food in front of me. As he moves back to his seat, he bends down to touch his lips to my hair, murmuring in a voice that only I can hear, “I love you.”

And just like that, we’re enjoying a breakfast with a little less tension than before. I sit between Harris and my dad, and I’ve never felt more protected, more loved by the people surrounding me. A cup of steaming tea appears in front of me, then there’s a hand on my shoulder, pulling me away from the conversation. Eleanor gives me a soft, genuine smile.

“I’m glad you’re home, dear.”

Reaching up, I cover her hand with mine, squeezing lightly. “Me too.”

“Before you came in, we were talking about wedding venues and bridesmaid dress colors,” Sean tells me from the seat directly across from mine. “I told Sarah that mint isn’t your color, but you’d look great in red.”

I shoot a look to Harris, who shrugs with a content expression, wedding talk not bothering him. He winks at me, lips twisting toward a crooked grin.

“You know, for a replacement friend, Sean’s not so bad,” Sarah comments.

“He’s not a replacement,” I say between popping berries into my mouth. “Sean and Luke are additions to this family.” I steal Harris words. Underneath the table, his hand covers my knee, applying a gentle pressure. I drop my non-utensil-wielding hand under the table to place it over Harris’.

There’s a sniffle, Luke dabbing at his eyes with his napkin.

“You broke him!” Sean crows.

“What?” several of us ask.

“This one never cries; you did it!” Sean casually drapes an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders, and shakes him playfully.

“It’s a beautiful sentiment,” Luke mutters.

 I settle into the chair back, watching the conversation continue without me. Sean and Luke tease each other. Greg watches Sarah with adoring eyes, not bothering to hide his devotion. Dad observes the scene with a bemused smile, but his posture remains relaxed. It thrills me that he’s fitting into my life this way.

And Harris? My eyes find his, and we share a smile. He’s just right.