Maybe You

We got married five years into our relationship. In my head, I thought it’d be somehow difficult.
It turned out to be the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
I call him my husband whenever I get a chance nowadays. Just because I can.

This is Wren, who loves Sutton.
And this is Sutton, who loves Wren.
It’s all so easy after all.

“Serious is not the right word,” I say. “He makes me laugh so much I don’t think serious is the word that applies here.”
Jordan sends me a curious look. “What would you call it then?”
“Real,” I say softly. “I think it’s getting real.”

This is Sutton, who loves Wren.
This is Wren, who loves Sutton.
It should be so easy.
But it’s not. Not anymore.

But what do you do when your soul hurts? And the only person who could fix you is somewhere out there, but also impossibly out of reach?

Maybe heartbreak is literal. Maybe my heart cracked and shattered inside my chest and now the shards and fragments are stabbing me on the inside whenever I move, and that’s why it hurts so badly. Because it does. It hurts so goddamn badly that I don’t know how to handle it.

“Are you going to undress me, too?”
“A, I don’t swing that way. B, I have a son with your sister, so you and me getting it on would be skirting a bit too close to incest for my comfort. And C, you smell. And I have standards. That was D.”
I point at the door. “Out.”

IT’S interesting how we measure time. We all have our own signposts on the journey that we refer to as we go along.
Mine has always been the fire.
Pre-scars and post-scars.
I figured that was how it was going to stay.
After all, how many truly cataclysmic events does a person get in one lifetime?
And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this isn’t one.
But for now, I measure my days in pre-Sutton and post-Sutton.

This new Wren wants everything.
Especially after Sutton kisses the side of my neck and murmurs, “Be here. With me.” He sounds drunk. Drunk on me.
And then promptly falls asleep.
And I lie awake for a long time.
And love him.
I love him so much it hurts.
And that’s a fucking problem.

“Take me home?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long time. A look I can’t decipher.
He takes my hand.
And he takes me home.