Lullaby

Rowan

"Why do I feel like my parents are splitting up?" I whisper to Riley as I sip the wine and offer it to him. I'm still sitting calmly on his lap, but very still, so as not to cause him any need to move unexpectedly.

He watches me sipping the wine with heavy lidded eyes. He takes the wine from me and swallows heavily. "There's nothing wrong with your reaction. I think it's perfectly natural. This is quite a shock."

"I keep thinking about how they were, when I was growing up. I realize I wasn't seeing them through the right lens," I murmur, taking back the glass from him. There's only one sip left.

He makes that indistinct noise of intimate agreement that I love, and splashes more wine into the glass for me.

I'm thinking of the family stories my parents have told us over and over. The one about how my mom wouldn'tmarry my dad before Street was born, and my dad crawling into the hospital bed with my mom and newborn Street and refusing to get out until she put the ring on and they were married right away, when Street was still tiny.

Another one. My dad tells the story about how miserable my mom was when she was pregnant with us twins. She stayed in the pool because it was the only place she didn't feel like a two-ton elephant, he says. He laughingly jokes that he was trying hard to stay sober and placate her horrible mood. He says that  pool was her palace and his prison. He teases that he would plan jailbreaks gigs with the Skid Marcs guys just to get out of the pool and away from the house.

They make it seem cute, but it wasn't. They leave out the bad part of the story. They leave out the divorce part of the story.

Suddenly I realize with a start that there is an entire second story that the note doesn't allude to. My mom says they reconciled when we were just babies. But she left him again, when Bridge and I were about nine. He'd had a bad drug relapse. Not just booze, but pills too, I think. I think he resisted getting help for a long, long time, even after she kicked him out—maybe half our school year. Finally went to rehab and he was gone another six months before he moved back in.

I guess there were a years' worth of days when she wouldn't let him stay the day. And didn't ask him spend the night. I make a squeaky noise, remembering that I used to ask her if they were going to get divorced. She would never answer the question straight. She would only say that she was not worried about divorcing daddy, she was only working to help daddy get well for us kids and we would see him again soon.

Damn right she wasn't worried about divorcing him. She'd already done that.

"Fuck," I whisper slightly. "I think I'm more...pissed, than shattered, or something. Not pissed...but...I dunno. I just keep thinking how she kicked him out again, you know? When Bridge and I were nine. And she kept telling us to not to worry about them getting divorced. But they were already divorced! I thought our family was safe, that they were definitely getting back together when he got out of rehab, because no one was saying the big D word to us, but now..."

"Now you see the odds of that reconciliation were much different that you believed as a child...and it feels...retroactively scary?" he murmurs.

"Yes, exactly! Retroactively scary." I put my hand up in recognition of his description. I love Riley can help me find the exactly words. "Yes, that's exactly how I feel. Angry and scared at the same time. And it hurts, because I don't want to feel that way. I want to..."

"You want to love them no matter what they've done?" he whispers.

"Yes, but I'm still very very pissed. And scared, for some reason." I whisper. I'm trying to feel around the edges of my emotions, but they are like a fire in the wind, blowing this way and that. "Scared of losing them, even though logically I know they still want to be together, more than ever. I feel..."

"You feel betrayed. Welcome to my world," he says quietly.

We stare at each other. His face is a calm mask, but in his eyes I still see the old hurt.

"Riley...I can't do any more than I'm doing," I whisper. "I'm trying, so hard. All I can do is wait for you to tell me what we are doing here."

He just watches me. It's unnerving. "It's obvious from this note that your mother hopes we may still reconcile. Is...is that your hope? Is that what you are doing here?"

"Honestly?"

"It doesn't work any other way," he says without the slightest hint of a smile.

"I'm here because it feels wrong to be anywhere else right now. Some days I think about how I lost every bit of my will to you, and I don't think I could be with you again," I say, looking at my hands. "But some days I think...no matter how much I shouldn't love you, I always will."

He takes the glass of wine from the counter and gulps more. "Christ. When I said honest, I didn't think you'd go all the way down to brass tacks." He pushes his fingers into my hair, pulling my gaze to meet his. "You are a fearless creature, Rowan del Marco."

I say nothing. I just stare at him, demanding his honesty. His reciprocity.

He takes another long drink of wine, his eyes never leaving mine. "I didn't leave you because I didn't love you anymore. I left you because I couldn't love you well." He puts the wine on the counter, and holds out his hands, gesturing down to the chair. "I don't think I ever knew how. And that hasn't changed. It's only doubled, darling."

I feel the tears spill over. I take his hands in mine and hold them close to my chest so he can feel my beating heart. "You will get better. We could get better, too."

"Possibly," he nods. "But right now..."

I nod, choking off a sob, wiping tears. "Right now it's going to take everything you have, and everything I have, to get you back on your feet. Right now..."

"Is not the time for more half-measures, or more confusion about...control. Yours or mine. Right now I think we need..." he trails off, searching for words that won't upset me.

"Boundaries?" I say unhappily, dropping his hands, taking the glass and drinking, waiting for him to tell me the rules.

He laughs. "Rowan, what boundaries can I possibly erect with you, when I need you to help me bathe and dress and eat and move from place to place? When you have become my everything all over again, except in ways I never imagined? When the only relief from my aches and pains is...this..." He strokes a finger down my inner right forearm, into the center of my palm, then curls our hands together. "Your touch?"

I put the glass down and close my eyes. For so many months I prayed for a moment like this. A moment where Riley was tender instead of angry. A moment where we might start over. A moment where my own doubts about us faded in the bright light of his hope.

"Then touch me. Touch me..." I encourage him...leaning closer, sliding my hands around his neck again, waiting near enough for him to kiss me, lost in his true blue eyes.

He takes my hands from his neck and pulls them into his lap. "I can't. It's too much. I never needed you more than I need you now. I get anxious whenever you leave the room. I think you will decide this is all too much and not return. That's terrifying. "

"I'm not going anywhere," I promise him, blinking against the tears that won't stop.

"You think that because you think I'm going to get better, and then we're going to get better. Rowan, what if I don't get better?" he whispers.

"I don't care—"

"I care."

"You think I couldn't love you even if you had limitations?"

He puts a hand on my cheek. "I think if I have limitations, the terror I feel about you leaving me will never go away. It would put us right back where we started, don't you see? Me scared of losing you."

I want to scream. He's driving me insane. Just when I think we are getting somewhere, making progress, he's throwing up more roadblocks against us. But I try to stay calm. I try to hear what he's telling me.

"Riley...I don't understand what you are saying. Are you trying to tell me that you can forgive my betrayal, but you're not sure if you can be with me if you are confined to this chair?"

He looks thoughtfully into space for a long, long time. "I guess I'm saying...you were the last thing I thought of. That final impact...the terror and the flipping and the noise and the pain and then the stillness. Then you. You and...regret. That's when I knew I had given up too easily, trying to forgive, trying to love you. But some days I still can't believe that you took another man to bed. We had problems but we loved each other. Every day I fought for you. Fought for your career, fought for your health. Fought you, if I had to, but I was fighting for us. And you fucked him and ruined us so...carelessly. How could you be so careless with us, Rowan?"

He's not angry. He's calm. He's really asking. And I still don't have an answer. Not one that is good enough. But if he's asking without screaming or yelling or eviscerating, I suppose he deserves some kind of answer.

"I lost sight of us. We were oceans away and I had total freedom at the same time you had a stranglehold on me. Your constant disapproval had me by the throat. You say you were fighting for us, and I know you think you were. But you were fighting too hard because you were fighting your fears. About my diet pills. About Priscilla overdose. It didn't feel like you were fighting for me or we were fighting for each other. It just felt like you were choking a ghost not even realizing it was me and I...I was fighting to breathe."

He's not just watching me. He's listening. He nods slowly. "The marriage counselors tried to tell me that. I wouldn't hear it. Marley said much the same. Still...I wouldn't fully acknowledge it." He sighs. "I hear you, Rowan. I hear what you are saying and I know...I know it's right. But that part of me that does that to you...I can't fix it right now. It feels like, I have to fix this first." He gestures to his legs. "If I can. I don't know if I can, but I have to give this everything. Forgiveness, growth...all that has to wait. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I understand," I wrap my arms gently around him and lean my head on his shoulder. "You're right. I know you're right, in this. I'm here to help and that's all we'll do, okay? We'll put everything else aside...no expectations..."

"No expectations," he murmurs, cradling me, stroking my back. "That's exactly what I was going to say. Right now we need no expectations. We'll take one day at a time. Just like your parents, but with...different goals...and a different dynamic."

"Okay," I whisper against his throat. I'm crying. I'm trying not to, but it's all just too fucking much. My parents aren't married and Riley and I aren't married and it's all fucked up and this one day at a time thing might work for my parents but it sounds like some kind of frustrating bullshit to me.

We sit quietly for a long moment our arms around each other.

"Rowan...darling..." his voice is very gentle. "I can't do this anymore. Hold you, I mean...my back..."

"Oh!!!!Dammit..." I curse frustration at myself. "I'm so sorry. Here...let me..." I brace my hands on the locked wheels and take all my weight from him, moving away as slowly as possible.

Suddenly Riley seems incredibly exhausted. He looks pale and I realize his hands are shaking slightly. I'm so selfish, driving us to this emotional ledge when he just got home from the hospital. I wipe my eyes and push everything but the practical away.

"The dinner delivery is late," I murmur, looking at my phone. "Shall I call about it, or do you want me to make you a sandwich, or maybe just transfer to the bed and then I can..."

"Yes, bed," he says, then he grimaces and picks at his shirt, smelling it. "But I think...a wipe down first..." he looks unhappy. "Do you mind?"

He couldn't have sweat much at PT because he's by no means disgusting. I sat in his lap for half an hour and definitely wasn't offended by any part of him. Still, I want him to rest comfortably and if he feels unclean, then a bath is in order.

"Well, it's a good opportunity to show you the en suite modifications, I guess." I unlock his wheels and push him to the interior lift that will taken us down a half flight of stairs. Then a ramp to the sunken living room. Then another lift to the lower floor where our...his...bedroom is.

"I'm beginning to hate this house already," he mutters, because instead of thirty seconds, it takes a full three minutes to move from the kitchen to the bedroom.

"Hush. You love this house and this is temporary. Beside, we've got nowhere better to be..." I soothe, as I push him into the bedroom.

"Bloody hell, Row!!!" he shouts at the sight of the hospital bed with the trapeze and siderails. "What the fucking fuck!?!?"

"Your doctor said you need an adjustable bed for at least a couple more months. What the fucking fuck to you, Riley!!! Do you want to get better or not!?!?" I yell back.

"You couldn't have ordered a goddamn Sleep Number Bed instead of this!?!?" he slings a hand.

"That's the next step," I say calmly. "But I fucking know you and you're going to be trying to move around by yourself. You need the rails and the trapeze for support. I'm not having you re-injure yourself, do you fucking hear me!?!?"

"It's too fucking small," he growls.

I pause in pushing his chair to the bathroom. "Really? I didn't get that. At the hospital, I mean. That you felt cramped."

He rubs his face wearily, looking away from the bed. "It's fine."

"If you really feel like it's too small—"

"It's fine," he reiterates. "I'm sorry. You've done so much. Thank you."

Our...his, dammit... shower is huge and the work crew didn't need do anything to the shower except add a portable chair and a handheld shower wand that can be used instead of the dozen other rain jets. My former vanity station is already wheelchair accessible, so I moved all of Riley's stuff there, neatly arranged in my old drawers. But the biggest attraction is the new bathtub I had installed. This modification is permanent, but it's a cool upgrade so I hope he doesn't mind. Instead of the large garden tub, he know has a full height Japanese soak tub that you can walk right into.

I demonstrate by walking in and sitting in the empty tub. He laughs.

"Tell the truth. That's for you, not me."

"Maybe. I did always want a soak tub. Will you let me borrow it?" I ask dragging myself out of it. I'm tired, too, but I can't focus on that now.

He's quiet. "You needn't ask. You know that."

I don't say anything. He follows up with, "Where did you put your things?"

I put them in the one of the two guest bedrooms, but they are all the way across the house, on the opposite side of the kitchen. That feels too far away, for my comfort, since I've been sleeping in the same room with Riley for two weeks now.

"In the guest bedroom," I say lightly.

"You should have bought a Sleep Number," he reiterates.

Suddenly I comprehend why he's so irritated by the hospital bed. He wasn't anticipating the single bed situation. Because he doesn't want me all the way across the house, either.

I huff. Talk about your mixed fucking singles, buddy.

He rolls to the sink and begins filling the basin.

"What are you doing?"

He gestures vaguely at the sink then the cabinet with wash cloths. "I'll just...sponge off."

"Yeah, but..." I gesture to the shower. "Your hair hasn't been washed properly since before the accident. Let's just do a shower together."

"No, it's alright."

"Riley," I say with mild irritation, "I'll...go put on a bathing suit if that will make you more comfortable."

His eyes narrow at my condescending tone. "Don't be daft, darling. It's only you Americans that sexualize nudity," he says with his most arrogant drawl. "I was only thinking of your convenience. There's no need for you to stress all the transfers, when the caregiver will be here in the morning..."

He's so full of arrogant British shit. He's totally bothered by the idea of being naked together with me. But he is bothered, I can tell. Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that we aren't married anymore. Maybe it has to do with how he sees himself right now.

The Row I was little more than a year ago would have stripped down naked right in front of him in response to his obnoxious condescension of my Americanism. His limitations or feelings be damned. Instead, I find myself saying. "Okay. Tell me what help you need..."

Somewhat to my surprise, he does let me undress him to fully naked. Of course it's not the first time, but somehow it seems a little more intimate in the privacy of what used to be our home instead of the hospital. We don't make a big deal, though. I step out while he gives himself a basin bath, and he towels off.  Then,he rolls himself out some ten minutes later, barechested but in sleep pants.

"How did you dress yourself?" I ask in both irritation and amazement.

"My closet has been supplied with a walker," he shrugs. "I can stand, Row—"

"But you shouldn't, not without a spotter. Blake said—"

"I used the goddamn walker, Row..."

I put my hands in front of my face to stop angry words from flying out. I pace around the room. He watches me.

"Alright there, love?" he asks. More smug condescension.

I stalk in front of him. I can't fucking take this. My head is about to explode. The rollercoaster of shit we've been on since we've arrived home is too fucking much. This is the last straw. How the fuck am I supposed to do this? I'm trying to keep him safe, and he won't let me. I can't stand by and watch Riley hurt himself.

I want to scream profanities at him, like the old days in New Zealand. Instead, I breathe. I sink to my knees in front of his chair.

"No, I am not alright, Riley. I'm fucking pissed at you." I whisper. "You can't do this to me, okay? You scare me and I freak out and that's not good."

The smirk fades. He rakes his hands through his wet hair. "I see. You're angry because you're afraid I'll hurt myself, you mean?"

"Yesss," I hiss.

The lips tuck back, but his hand comes to my hair, stroking my long braid. He sighs. "That I do understand. I've been living with that kind of fear for you for a long time. So...I'm sorry. It was a bit dodgy, actually. I almost fell sideways, trying to pull the pants up and sit at the same time. I won't do that again, until I'm stronger."

A weird thing happens. A rush of sensation from my brain. Like a thrill on an amusement park ride. Or that moment you realize you are roaring drunk.

A relief. An ecstasy. A coloring of the mind.

Oh. I get it now.

The way I fear for him right now? It's the way he's feared for me since the moment he knew he loved me. I think I'm invincible when I do drugs, but he does not. Just like he thinks it's perfectly within his right to push his limits now, and I do not.

I kiss his knees. "Ok. Thank you."

He's still stroking my hair.

"Hey, just so you know. I'm not taking any pills anymore," I say casually. "I drink too much—"

"Don't we all?" he drawls.

"Yes. Yes, we do," I laugh shakily. "But I'm not taking any pills. Or anything else. I guess I'm growing up, finally."

"That's very good news," he says, pulling on my braid, forcing my gaze to his. "You are too talented, too unique and too loved to ruin yourself."

Too loved. Does he mean by my family? Or by him?

I'm too exhausted in every way to ponder it more.

I press my face to his knees and push off, rising slowly.

I have never been this exhausted in my life. Not by a gig. Not by a studio session. Not by a fourteen hour shoot.

We make the transfer to his bed—we are practiced now. I trot back to the kitchen to retrieve him some water and his meds...for pain of course. But several other meds that we must keep up with. Steroids, to reduce the inflammation of his back injury. A medication for his bowels. An anti-depressant.

He takes them all without complaint.

"Shit," I sigh.

"What?" he says numbly. He's more tired than I am.

"I'll be right back..." I mutter. I trudge to the mud room, dump out the hospital bags on the floor, retrieve the portable urinal, and slip bonelessly back to his room. He grimaces as I sit the bottle on his nightstand.

"Good call."

"Goodnight," I smile, reaching for him.

He kisses my hand. "Goodnight, darling."

I want to weep at the way darling is back.

But I don't, because I'm just too fucking tired. I kiss his wet, semi-clean mop of hair and I put one foot in front of the other, to sleep in a room that feels foreign. I am a guest in my own home. It's fucking weird.

When I strip and slide into the chilly sheets, I drop in on his room with the smart devices, just to make sure they are working.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," he says with no inflection. He's in pain, I can tell.

"The meds will kick in soon. My fault, you're behind schedule."

"I'm alright," he responds mechanically.

Silence.

"Rowan," he says. "I've been thinking."

"You're always thinking..."

He laughs. "Yes, but..."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'd like to get the guitars out. I mean...if you don't mind."

Oh. Shit.

When I came home from the hospital after I was kidnapped, tortured, stabbed in the hand, and confirmed with permanent nerve damage, Riley had packed away all his guitars and mine. We never talked about it. Before, we played together. Like often, played together. Then the guitars and we never talked about them again.

"Nevermind," he says. "It was just an idea. A bad idea, obviously..."

"No. A good idea. You should play. You...totally should. I can see how that would be...super helpful to you right now."

Silence. Long silence.

"Are you sure?"

No. No, I'm not at all sure.

"Yes. Absolutely."

More silence.

Finally he says, "Alright. Let's have a lullaby, then."

We used to do this. Play music as we drifted to sleep. It wasn't merely one song we played back when we were married. It was meticulously designed playlists. Some were instrumental, for destressing. Some were folksy Americana, for pillow talk. Some were Southern gothic or sexy club music—both types for sex.

I think about what to play. I choose a dozen songs, and discard them. Finally, I pick an old SkidMarcs song from the early nineties. The twang of a dying hair-band-gaining-new-life-in-alt-rock guitar-opening filters through the smart speakers.

I grab the Alexa off the nightstand, so that Riley can hear me in front of the song. "I think my dad wrote this for my mom while they were divorced. Thinking about it now, I realize...the timing seems about right, and the lyrics make sense, for that..."

"Your parents still have the same great love you've always known," he assures me.

"I know," I whimper. "It's just...weird to think of them as real people with...with the same shit we are suffering."

He chuckles. He listens for awhile. "True love is suicide," he murmurs, echoing the sentiment in one of the lyrics.

Nearly suicide, my mind replies automatically.

Riley nearly killed himself on our divorce day. Nothing in my life draws me down to real like that fact. It makes me feel small in this thing we are in. It's not about me. It's not about him. It's about this love that we can't sever. Just like my parents.

Except, I'm not mature and wise like the almighty King and Queen.

I'm reckless. I'm ridiculous. I fuck up constantly.

I cry into my pillow as the song repeats. Riley is not the only one that fears.

This love we are in? I'm terrified because I know...I don't get to fuck up anymore.