Free In the Distance There Is Light by Harper Bliss Page B

remember the code for the alarm, but I manage to punch it in, anyway—it’s the numbers that make up Ian’s birthday: 17061981.
    Oh shit , his birthday is in less than three weeks. The sudden realization makes me stand with my hands against the door for a minute, catching my breath.
    I’m too drunk to do this gracefully, I think, when I head up the stairs to Dolores’ room—our room. I don’t always use the guest bathroom anymore, but tonight I do. I shed my clothes, leaving them in an untidy pile on the bathroom floor, and only bother to put on my pajama top. It’s getting warmer. We’ll have to switch on the air conditioning in the bedroom soon. I forego brushing my teeth and tip-toe to the bedroom.
    The TV is still on, but paused on the Netflix home screen, casting a sleeping Dolores in a gaudy sort of light. I’m glad for the illumination so I don’t wake her with my stumbling in the dark at this ungodly hour. I’m not sure whether I’m glad she managed to go to sleep without me, but then, when I take a closer look at her peaceful sleeping face, I am. A warm glow spreads through me at the sight of her. Then I see the bottle of Ambien on her night stand. I can guess where she got that.
    Figuring I no longer have to be ultra-quiet, I walk to my side of the bed, sit on the edge and switch off the TV. The Ambien must have knocked her out really well, because Dolores is lying in the middle of the bed and, despite it being a generous king-size, she’s not leaving me a lot of room. But I didn’t come back here for a lot of space in bed. In fact, I rushed over here in a taxi in the middle of the night because I wanted the opposite.
    Dolores is lying on her back and I sidle up to her, wrapping an arm around her middle. Her tank top has ridden up and my arm is on her bare, warm skin. I put my head in the crook of her shoulder, enveloping her as much as I can. Then extreme fatigue hits me right on the head, and I nod off in minutes—minutes of sweet bliss for having someone to come home to, someone who warmed up the bed for me.
    * * *
    I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but my head is pounding like someone has taken a hammer to it. I’m lying in a puddle of my own sweat, which is no wonder because Dolores is perched half on top of me. It’s only when I come to a little more that I realize one of her hands is tucked underneath my pajama top, her hot palm on my belly. It’s a touch so intimate—so foreign to me by now—that I break out into even more of a hot flash.
    I want to get out from underneath Dolores. Her breath is in my ear. Her hand rises and falls with my own breath, quickening as my pulse picks up speed. What is this? I truly ask myself for the first time. What are we doing here? What am I still doing here? I can really only begin my life again once I move out of Dolores’ house, but the mere thought of it frightens me to such an extent that I find her hand underneath my top, and clasp it in mine.
    I turn to look at Dolores. Early light is already coming through the blinds and I can make out her wrinkles, a freckle next to her nose, an unevenness underneath her temple.
    I have the rest of my life to learn to be alone again. There’s no way I’m leaving Dolores’ house. How would I cope with the same sheer panic that gripped me when I walked into Jeremy’s guest room, or the prospect of waking up alone and wanting Ian beside me so much it physically hurts. Where would I even go?
    The bottle of Ambien looks very tempting, but the alarm clock on Dolores’ side of the bed shows six already. I consider sleeping it off, just taking a day off from this grief, but I don’t want to disturb Dolores by moving. Her closeness calms me, even takes the sting off that pulsating headache at the back of my skull. Glancing at her relaxed features relaxes me in turn.
    I bring an arm to her back and pull her a little closer. I lie like this for a long time, trying to focus on my breath, and on the feel of