Oh, God, how could I not have seen?

That all-consuming thought keeps running through my mind as I drive, the basic physical functions of steering and acceleration taken over by carefully honed instincts. It is a good thing, because I am barely aware of my environment. I am barely aware of anything, except that one thought and a page full of words that is now seared into my mind, imprinted on the nerves of my eyes so that I can see nothing else, not even the other vehicles moving around me. I am aware of them only in the remotest sense: my soul is too consumed for more than this peripheral knowledge.

Oh, God, how could I not have known?

I feel my hands tighten on the wheel and realize I have no power to loosen them, just as I can’t stop trembling, can’t stop the frantic pacing of my heart. I think I am turning, but I don’t know. My mind registers nothing but those words, like marks of fire burned into the whiteness of our surety, covering it with scars that we can’t erase, but only hide with the white-out of denial.

What am I going to tell you, Sam? How can I splinter this first reflection of peace you’ve had in four years? And without shattering it, how can I explain this burning need that twists within me to watch over you tonight? What reason can I offer, that you would believe, for appearing at your door and securing it behind me, for locking myself within your home and you within my soul? How can I protect you without destroying you?

Some small demon of a thought tries to push its way into my mind, but its stronger rival casts it out with barely a touch. The devil is always willing to give up a lesser torment for a deeper one, but never the other way around. I still remember his games from the hot, hellish jungles of Cambodia, where we first met on this level of intimate hatred. Jack learned to play his master’s part well, far better than Donald Lucas ever learned Jack’s.

Oh, God, how could I not have seen that we traced the wrong disciple back to the wrong master?

Now I am pulling up before your beautiful house, the home you bought out of a new wealth of hope to replace the protective custody of the Firehouse. As the engine dies, I just stare at it, at the calm, steady light beaming out through the windows, careless as I once was of the evils that preceded hope out of Pandora’s box. If only hope was strong enough to banish fear, instead of offering her little, fragile protection.

I remember from my childhood being told that perfect love casts out fear, and suddenly I am praying–not to a bottle of scotch, but to the forgotten God of that childhood–that He will enable me to love you perfectly. Because the imperfect love that this imperfect man has felt for you for so long may not be enough to keep fear or Jack away.

My own fear pulls me from my seat and to your door, still uncertain of how I will explain myself but desperate to see you, desperate to feel your breath in the air so I can know you are alive and I am not too late.

Eternal moments stretch across me before I hear your footsteps behind the door and see it open. I can only stare in relief, my body tingling with the release of adrenaline that your presence before me triggers. Oh, thank God. Thank God.

“Bailey?” You stare at me, your sapphire eyes bewildered by the helplessness mine must surely betray to you. “What are you doing here?”

You step back to let me in, and I enter still trembling. A moment passes and you close the door behind me with a soft click. I watch, trying to memorize the youth that returned to your face when we sealed Donald Lucas behind those walls. I know it will disappear again the moment I find my voice. Only when your crystal eyes have once again locked onto mine do I even remember how to speak.

“I just had to see you. I had to know you were all right.” My voice is quiet and low, laced with a filigree of desperation.

Your eyes fill again with a whirlpool of confusion as you study me. “I don’t understand, Bailey. You haven’t done that since–“

I flinch against the words I know to be coming, and you see it. Your eyes penetrate me, reading my mind with needle-like precision, cutting through my thoughts more cleanly than you ever dissected the mind of a killer. The what, but not the how, swirls into your face like a cyclone, dragging with it storm clouds that have been deceptively distant for months.

A sudden fear hoarsens your voice. “Has Lucas escaped?”

“No.” Oh, God, Sam, no. Better for us if he had.

Your face tightens, lines appearing where there should still be none. “Then, what–?”

“I got a letter tonight.” My own voice is coarse, and raw with this admission. “From Jack.”

It takes you only a moment to connect the disjointed thoughts I can barely voice, a moment that ages you so much I want to die. A thousand fragmented emotions flicker through your eyes and I catalogue them all, wanting to remember each stage of this second loss of innocence, so that someday I can reverse it. Jack, not Lucas. You know now, and I see your spirit begin to wither in your eyes.

I can’t watch, but I can’t turn away, so I take the only option that remains. I pull you tight against me. My hands dig into the fabric of the heavy sweater you are wearing. Shaking, your arms slip around me as well. I know this embrace–it is one that we have practiced far too many times. Only this time, we are closer, your hands burrowing under my jacket to tighten around my ribs. Still, it is not close enough. If this damned corporeal form could only pass through stone, I would draw you into me, surround you with myself and there protect you with my life.

Other words I was afraid to say spill out of me. “Let me stay, tonight. I need to know you’re safe, that he can’t get to you.”

A sound escapes you that is half a laugh, half a sob. For a moment, your arms constrict even more around me and I hold my breath to allow your grip the fervor that it needs. Then, you begin to draw back from me. Every nerve shrieks in protest–I can’t protect you so far away.

“I want to see it,” you tell me abruptly, your vocal cords still rough.

Your words surprise me, slamming into me like the front edge of a harsh winter storm. I shiver, suddenly horrified anew by the words on that page. If I give it to you, you will know. You will know, and you may hate me for the twisted slivers of truth in his words.

“Sam, no,” I beg.

“Please, Bailey?” you ask in return, your voice so tired. “I need to know…I need to know what he said.”

I have never been able to resist the pure cobalt blue of your eyes, especially when the cup in them runs over to glimmer crystalline and fragile with a foreshadowing of tears. Overwhelmed, I drop my eyes away from yours and draw the hated letter from within my coat, cursing myself for having brought it with me. I watch as you unfold it and begin to read; I am reading it with you in the expressions on your face.

A strangled gasp lets me know you have reached the place where Jack so accurately predicted my reaction to his revelation. I speak, my voice still numb with my failure. “I called the branch office to dispatch a team the moment I got the letter. By the time they reached Otis, he was long gone. Incredibly, no one in the town even remembered him.”

You read on, and my heart drops a little bit with every line. Please, Sam, don’t cast me out. I need to be here tonight, to protect you from him just as he accused me.

Then you have reached the end. With a forced laugh, you release the page and let it flutter tauntingly to the floor. “I guess Jack doesn’t know us as well as he thought he did,” you try to joke.

God, Sam, don’t you understand? “No,” I correct quietly. “It frightened me because he knows me too well.”

You blink once, your lashes hovering together for just a moment before separating again to reveal those eyes, so unbearably beautiful even in sorrow. Your mouth falls open a little in surprise.

I persist, knowing that I can’t conceal any longer the secret that those bold black words revealed to me an hour ago. If I want to save us both, I must confess my sin. “Everything he said about me in there…is all true. His own skewed but clear perception of the truth.” I hesitate, but when you do not move, hurry to fill the silence. “Except for one thing–my reasons for pursuing Janet.”

A sadness comes into your eyes that surprises me. “And what are your reasons?” you ask, your voice subdued.

“I was trying to convince myself that I could live with you choosing someone else…again. That I could move on with my life instead of always hanging onto the hope that you’d turn around and see me instead someday…” My whole being aches from sole to soul as I lift my eyes to yours, knowing that nothing is hidden in them and hoping you will see me more clearly than you ever have. Hoping that you will see, and not reject me. “I knew I’d been lying to myself when I realized I was halfway here and didn’t even remember leaving my house.”

“Oh, God, Bailey, I didn’t know,” you whisper, and it breaks me. I do not want to hear your apologies, but I can’t walk away. I can’t leave you tonight, even if I have to sleep on your doorstep.

“I love you, Sam.” I have to say it. Even if your next words banish my cherished hope, you have to hear me say it just this once. “I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you. And I never forgave myself for it after you lost Tom.”

Unexpectedly, your hand is in mine and you are smiling. In the wake of this bitter revelation, you are smiling, and some of the years I saw return to your face have dropped away.

“I’m glad,” you say, your voice soft with something I don’t dare try to identify. “Because it’s not a sin that needs to be forgiven.”

I can’t speak, unsure of how to define what you are saying. But you continue.

“And if it is,” your voice drops more and your eyes meet mine in what courage would call a caress. “Then I’m guilty too.”

I can’t breathe. None of my hopes prepared me for this. Hesitant and nervous as a thirteen-year-old, I step towards you again. “Are you sure?” I ask.

You nod, and I bend down to kiss you gently, tentatively. This is too important to risk on passion alone. Our lips meet, and even with this new knowledge your response amazes me. We stand almost merged, almost achieving my dream of protecting you with all of me. We stand in a dream rescued from a nightmare, and I realize that perhaps even our imperfect human love can cast out fear. Or maybe this love I feel for you is perfect, more perfect than I could ever promise or hope to be.

If I could live without breathing, I would never let this kiss end. Instead we both pull back reluctantly, to draw breath for the next one, and hopefully an endless number more. Your hands fall on my chest, your fingertips just brushing the meeting place between my shoulders and my neck, and I shiver with the heat of that light touch.

I promise you I’ll fight for this. I won’t let him steal us from each other. He’s right–I would kill him to keep him away from you. Jack told me that if I wanted to live, I would pray you never chose me, but that he knew I couldn’t do that. I would die for you, but not yet. I want to live for you first. And I won’t let him, or anyone, stop me from doing that.

“I want you to stay,” you finally answer my request of earlier.

I smile. “I will.”

I promise, Sam, I will never leave again.