Tuesday

His lips brush my cheek, beard bristling sharply into the corners of my mouth. He takes another step and he’s gone.

“Have a good day,” he says, moving down the hall. I look up from where the laptop rests on my thighs just as the door shuts behind him. Behind the impression of my boss’ email signature burned into my eyes, his silhouette dissolves through the glass.

“You too,” I respond flatly to the now-empty house. It’s been happening more and more lately – he’s gone before I have the chance to get up, before I can give him anything back.

The car starts.

But it’s fine – things have just gotten so busy.

The diamond on my left hand glints in the early morning sun, catching my eye. He proposed to me at the same place we had our first date – a Shari’s Pie restaurant. Even with the sticky floor, even against my protests, he still got on one knee next to the booth. I sank down beside him right there on that nasty floor and nodded my yes because I couldn’t speak. Crumbs turned to paste under my knees as tears and snot ran off my chin. I had never been a pretty crier. He kissed me anyway.

The complimentary pie we got after was the best cherry pie I’ve ever had in my life. I couldn’t stop clinking my new ring against the plate.

Maybe this weekend we’ll have dinner there again. It would be nice to go back before the wedding this summer.

The engine hums as he backs out of the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The house falls quiet.

I force my eyes back down to the email before that sharp, twisting feeling can settle in my chest. Another campaign with a one-week turnaround time. A different set of metrics to report on. New copy to A/B test.

***

Won’t be home for lunch. New hire they want me to train.

I stare at his text for a moment longer than I need to. Beyond the little screen, on the counter, are two plated ham and cheese sandwiches.

No problem. My fingers fly over the keyboard. See you tonight.

He reads my message.

No response comes.

I wrap his sandwich in a paper towel and put it in the fridge next to the half-empty bottle of wine we started a few days ago but didn’t have the chance to finish. The door seals shut and in front of me, under a magnet, is his handwriting.

I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH!!!!!

His chicken scratch – messy, uneven hieroglyphics I’ve spent the better part of seven years deciphering.

Seven years.

I turn, take my sandwich from the counter, and head back to the little working space I’ve cleared for myself on our dining room table. The plate goes on his D&D books, stacked three high. My fingers brush against one of his blue scrubs as I open the laptop again. Of all of the places to leave his scrubs – the table? I can’t remember how many times we’ve had that conversation.

I sigh. Push his shirt back further.

Graphs on one side of the screen, colorful graphics and fonts on the other.

I take a bite of sandwich, my head pounding anew at the blue light.

A honk outside. Sirens beyond that.

The windows creak against the wind, the trees bowing. Crispy brown leaves take flight down the street.

Maybe this weekend.

***

My phone rings. It’s an unknown number – probably a spam call, or a phishing attempt. There have been so many lately.

I smile to myself. He loves pranking these callers. Any chance he gets, he answers with something goofy. It would make for a good story tonight over dinner – I’d get to hear him laugh and he’d tell me all about the rude customers at work he had to impose “creative solutions” on.

I tap to answer and bring the phone to my ear, still grinning.

“Tony’s Mortuary and Pizzeria, where yesterday’s loss is today’s sauce. What can I get started for you?”

“Is this Ms. Marley?” A gruff voice on the other line – a tone familiar with commanding respect.

I straighten in my chair, the smile leaving my face. “Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “Yes, this is she. Who am I speaking with?”

“This is Deputy Sanderson with the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office. I’m calling about Griffin Porter. Are you somewhere you can talk?”

Goosebumps bloom along my arms.

“Yes, now is a good time – is everything okay?” My phone begins to tremble against my ear.

“Ma’am, Mr. Porter was involved in a serious accident on I-84. He’s been transported to Providence Memorial Hospital – I need you to get there as soon as you can. Is there someone who can drive you?”

***

I’m at the desk before I remember walking through the doors, the edge of the check-in desk cutting into my palms. “Porter – I’m here for Griffin Porter. Is he still in the ER? Or–”

“Ma’am, please, take a breath – are you a relative? I have to check you in before–”

“I’m his fiancée–” My voice breaks. I swipe away the tears blurring my vision. Not now, not now– “Is he okay?”

“Let me get someone to come sit with you. There’s a coffee machine just in the waiting–”

“No, I need Griffin – I have to see Griffin. Is he here?”

The receptionist stands up, her dark floral skirt falling to her ankles. “Please sit down. I’ll find out what’s happening.”

***

My mouth is dry. Legs sore from bouncing.

Blue scrubs blur past. I watch each one like they might stop and look at me. No one does.

The clock ticks. Outside the windows, the sky has gone dark.

Medical equipment beeps through the walls.

Security cameras stare from the corners.

It’s just me. Six hours and no one’s come. I don’t even know if I’m listed as – why hasn’t anyone–

“Ms. Marley?” A woman with a clipboard stands at the door on the other side of reception. I’m on my feet and almost through the doorway when she stops me. “Wait – wait” Her hand, gentle and cold, settles on my forearm. “Before you go in – I need to prepare you for what you’re going to see”

***

The ventilator hisses. He lies motionless on the bed. His heart rate – shallow and erratic on the monitor beside him.

There’s a brace around his neck. His mouth is slack around the tube feeding down his throat.

My fingers hover over the cuts and gashes along his face, his jawline, down his left shoulder – past the leads taped to his chest, the dressings across his abdomen. The diamond glints in the cold fluorescents as my hand lingers. Not touching. I do not touch.

I lean down, past the tangle of cords. Gentle, gentle. His cheek is warm and tastes like Shari’s cherry pie and the too-quick goodbye from this morning and salt as tears stream from my face onto his.

I love you so fucking much, I will myself to say. My mouth opens, the words right there, his name right there. But nothing comes. My words aren’t–

The monitor screams flat and an alarm goes off.

I’m pushed to the side by a sudden surge of scrubs –blue, all of them blue– a pair of hands on my arms, the room shrinking behind me.

Seven years.

There’s still blood on my lips from the scratches on his face. It’s metallic. Tangy. Heavy on my tongue.