I stare at the ceiling and count the cracks I never noticed before. Then, restless, I turn to my side and study my Love's naked back, my eyes tracing the tiny hairs and freckles speckled about his frame. I notice he hijacked most of the blankets as I feel a chill across my backside sticking out of the other side. I strain to hear the familiar gurgling of the old radiator in the corner of the room, hoping he has put up the heat this time, hearing nothing but his low snores. I edge closer to him, attempting a spooning of sorts to warm up, disappointed when he doesn't curl back toward me.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I started the night out optimistic. We headed out to an old Irish pub that we had wanted to try out for months. There was the promise of Irish music and people-watching, and we both liked a good drink or two, probably more. My Love was in an unusually good mood, not quite as sullen as he had been lately, so I thought maybe, just maybe, he was turning a corner. But, sometimes, I only see what I wish to see.

As expected, the pub was dark and somewhat old-fashioned. Rather than a band, the music consisted of a geriatric but lively duo. Although crowded, we found a table for two tucked in the back and ordered two tall, rich, creamy stouts, a new beer fling we had as of late. We settled into our corner, soaking in the surrounding atmosphere, chatter, and music. We were silent at first as we took it all in, then we both spoke at once, laughed, and said "jinx," leaning back in our seats. He noted the couple pairings he saw at the bar, perplexed but amused by contrasts of appearance, age, and size. I giggled and blushed at his always wicked and funny descriptions. Soon beer glasses were empty, and we waited, somewhat patiently, for the server to return. Finally, he came to take our order, and this time we decided upon a couple of Jameson's old-fashioneds. "Spirits to lift the spirits," my Love said, and I smiled.

After a few more thick and hearty stouts, we felt drunk and silly, and my Love started reciting old jokes and dirty limericks, failing miserably in his attempt at a countryside Irishman accent. I laughed a little too loudly but was pleased he seemed to be letting loose and having some fun. It occurred to me that it had been long since I last saw him laughing and smiling in any sincere way.

At some point, I noticed a change in his expression. I couldn't tell if he was plastered or falling asleep in his seat. At first, positioned with his back confidently straight up in the chair, he suddenly hunched his shoulders and slid down a bit in his seat. Then, he started some sort of an apology, acknowledging he hadn't acted quite right lately and wanted me to know that he could see sadness and disappointment in my eyes and how it had made him feel so shitty. And then, my Love began a dark story. He said he wanted to share something of himself with me, which at first gave me a measure of pleasure, but also fear and apprehension from the tone in which he started. He kept his voice low, and his words were thick and slurred as he spoke of a long time ago when he was just a boy. He described neglect and a dereliction of duty which shocked me a little.

His mother became pregnant in high school, and her one-night stand, his nineteen-year-old father, was pressured into marrying her. A volatile marriage filled with rage, booze, and bruises, they were divorced three years later, and they shipped the boy off to live with his grandparents in Virginia. After that, his parents were not a consistent presence in his life. His father was a drunk, and his mother was always off with her latest boyfriend. He rarely missed them, he said; he barely remembered their faces.

He recounted how he found his six-year-old self all alone in the field near his grandparent's house one hot and humid day in July. He had gone looking for the older boys who were there to play ball or, more often, chasing and hunting rabbits and squirrels. What he now remembered as an old blue Buick pulled alongside the dirt road by the field and summoned him to the car. The man asked if he wanted to see a rabbit he had trapped and planned to bring home for supper. The man looked ordinary, almost like he could be anyone's uncle from town or maybe even his grandfather's shop, wearing a well-worn plaid shirt and faded red baseball hat. He smiled broadly and seemed friendly and pleased to see the boy. Excited but nervous, the boy gingerly went to the car to see this rabbit. The man kept the rabbit in a sack in the back seat and told the boy he should climb into the back to get a good look. When the boy got into the back seat, he opened the bag, saw the prized rabbit, and squealed with delight. Then, the man closed the door, unnoticed by the boy. But then, the boy heard the engine start back up and felt the car lurch forward. Terrified, he cried for the man to let him out.

The boy had no sense of how long he had been gone, and he had no idea if his grandparents even noticed he was missing. He was found five miles away on the side of a dirt road by a family who knew his grandparents from church. When he returned home, his grandparents asked him how he had found himself on the side of that road so far from the house. The boy didn't possess the words to describe what had happened, but his memories and feelings of fear and shame remained. There were no calls to the police, and his grandparents didn't push him to talk. He felt abandoned in that car, just as he had felt abandoned every time his parents fleetingly came in and out of his life. But he just buried the memory and carried on. Over time, he learned to protect himself from others in the world, believing he could count on no one but himself.

As he finished his story, I brushed the side of my Love's face as I reached across the table, using my other hand to touch and stroke his knee. I gazed steadily into his eyes and thanked him for sharing his truth with me. He looked at me for a long time, staring into my eyes, and declared himself broken and not good enough for me. He insisted he couldn't be loved or helped by anyone. This man I love so much said that he didn't know how to love deeply and when he gets too close, he detaches, pulling away for fear of loss and abandonment; it's just what he does. He pleaded with me to run away fast and said I deserved better than he could ever offer. He said I fell in love with someone who wasn't truly him. I refused to believe him. I didn't want to hear what he said. I couldn't leave him, especially not now, determined that I could be the one to change his mind about who he had become. I told him he was more than all that stuff from his past and that he could love and be loved if he opened up and allowed it to be so.

Still drunk, I pulled out my phone to summon an Uber. We rode in complete silence, a silence so loud that it pained my ears and heart. He had edged his way over to one side of the car and seemingly recoiled from my reach and touch. As we stumbled through his door and into his bedroom, I helped him undress. We went to bed with not a single spoken word between us. And then I heard him begin to snore, grateful that he would sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I lie in bed and replay my Love's story and warning until I cannot fall asleep. I heard what my Love had to say, and I understood his story and how it still impacts him. But did he mean to break up with me, or were these just drunken rambling emotions that cheap whisky and strong beer bring? First, I consider all the signals I have received from him lately. I think back to a recent morning in the kitchen when he stiffened and let out an almost inaudible sigh as I wrapped my arms around his waist as he washed the dishes. At the time, I shrugged it off, believing I had just caught him off guard. Then, I consider the recent long silences after my short texts telling him I love him or think of him, remembering back to the time he responded quickly with flowery and poetic language that made me burn with desire. And I remember seductive and intimate texts he initiated in the wee hours of the night, causing me to blush and warm in the dark of my room. I can't pinpoint exactly when the shift occurred, but things are different now. We only see each other once a week, and our conversations are less intimate and lengthy. He says "love ya" instead of "love you, babe," and it's like a fist to my gut. Was the love we shared real or just something I wished for myself, or is something broken inside of me too? 

And then I know. My Love revealed himself and asked me to believe him. I stare up at the ceiling, seeing, feeling, and counting the cracks.

Margo Griffin has worked in public education for over thirty years and is the mother of two amazing daughters and to the best rescue dog ever, Harley. Some of my Margo's work has appeared in places such as, Bending Genres, Twin Pies Literary, The Dillydoun Review and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin.