Early Morning Light
You're the one he rushes home to
You're the one he gave his name to
I've never seen his face in the early morning light
You have his mornings, his daytimes
And sometimes I have his nights
-Reba McEntire/Linda Davis, "Does He Love You?"
I roll over in bed and curl my arm around Andrew's waist. He makes a soft murmur, a quiet sound of contentment, and runs his fingertips along my lower back. I love laying here like this with him, just listening to his heartbeat, feeling his breath tickling my cheek, my legs tangled with his. When we lay like this, it feels like nothing else exists, there is nothing outside of this bed, this room, this tiny apartment I keep in Calgary, just so I can have moments like this. When we lay like this, the outside world doesn't exist.
The outside world taints what we have. When he leaves here--which he will, as soon as the sun starts to rise--he's going to go home, to his house in Canmore, to his own life, to the woman he married. I want to hate Krista; I want to despise her. It's impossible, though, when I know she's good to him. I know how much she loves him--almost as much as I do. And he loves her too. So much so it scares me that someday he'll stop doing this, that he'll fall out of love with me. He has her every day, while I'm a continent away, and on occasion, whenever I can get away from Wilkes Barre, he spends a night or two with me.
She gets to hold his hand when they go out at night. She gets to wake up in his arms every morning. She's got his ring encircling her finger, and her initials on his wrist. No matter what, she's the woman who gets to sign her first name with his last. I'm the other woman...the mistress, as it were. I get a few hot, desperate nights here and there. I get the occasional whispered phone call. I can't hold his hand in public...hell, we can't even go out together, let alone engage in public displays of affection.
"What are you worrying about?" he asks softly, rubbing his thumb over the crease in my forehead, then over my furrowed brow.
"Nothing," I reply, snuggling against him, wrapping my arm tighter around him, my hand squeezing his side. "Are you staying a while?"
"A couple hours still," he says. He never says he's staying until morning, because he can never stay here that long. As soon as the sky starts turning a lighter shade of blue, he's getting dressed and looking for his keys. By the time the sun has risen to turn the sky from purple to pale blue, he's long gone, and I'm lying alone in the then cold bed. At least he never leads me into believing he's staying longer.
Just once I want to eat breakfast with him. We used to eat breakfast together, years ago, before I landed in the minors, and before he was traded to the other side of North America. For those few months, I had Andrew like Krista has him now. Even more so. I lived with him at his house in Bridgeville, Pennsylvania. We drove to practices and games together. We roomed together on the road. We were attached at the hip, and we both loved it. Then suddenly, he decided to marry his longtime girlfriend, and things got weird. I still stayed with him--with them--but I had to sleep in the spare room. And even that didn't last long, as I was sent to the minors shortly after the next season started. And then Andrew was traded.
So here we are. Together, but not really. A couple, but only on occasion. In love, but only when it fits our schedules.
"Kris, something's wrong, I can tell..." Andrew says, and I wave him off again, wanting to just savor the moment.
"It's nothing, really. Just team stuff," I lie, ducking my head and burying it against his neck. He shivers and holds me tighter, but only for a moment. He keeps checking the clock, even though he tries to hide it, I know he's getting anxious. "If you want to leave, you don't have to wait until a certain time," I say, and it comes out far more bitter than I planned.
He stills, takes a breath, "What makes you think I want to leave?"
"You're checking the clock. You're practically reaching for your pants so you can pull them back on and leave."
He shifts to lay on his side, facing me, and he stares into my eyes. "Or maybe I was counting how many minutes I would get to be with you. Maybe I was trying to find a way to make a few hours last a little bit longer."
I open my mouth to speak, to apologize, and he continues.
"I don't get to be with you enough. It kills me, and when I check the clock, its not so I can see how soon I can get away, its because I'm hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe time really did stand still while I was inside you. That maybe the universe decided to give us a little more time together. That maybe I've got more time left with you than I realized," he glances away, chewing at his lower lip, and adds in a soft, small voice, "I never want to leave you, Kris."
I can't help it. Call it insecurity, call it masochism, but I play Devil's Advocate against myself, "But you love her too," I murmur, and wait for his response, even though I don't know if I want to hear it.
He sighs, lays his head against the pillow, as if he's very, very tired. "Not in the exact way I love you, but yes. I do. I can't just tell her to leave, Kris. I care for her too much. But that doesn't in any way change or negate my feelings for you. I need you. But I need her too, in another way entirely. Maybe someday, when we aren't a few thousand miles apart, my need for her will wane, because I'll have you again...but maybe not. I just...I don't want to lose you. Or her. I need you both in my life."
I should be stronger than this. I should tell him to decide. But I can't do that. He does need her...and if he's going to need someone other than me, I'd rather it be her than anyone else. I know she's a good person. Frankly...I kind of like her myself, she's too damn nice not to like her. I hate the situation, but its something that has to exist.
He loves her. He also loves me. And he can't bear to part with either of us.
And so we both stay. She and I. She has his every day, and allows me the occasional night with him. And I have to be content with that.
I glance out the window, resigned, and for a moment can't quite believe my eyes. It's light out. The sun has risen enough to peek over the windowsill, and I didn't even notice it. Birds are singing and I can hear the neighborhood starting to wake up. And Andrew is still here with me.
His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, and his lips press to my temple, and I can't quite believe he's still here with me, that I'm actually getting one of his mornings.
"Good morning, Kristopher."
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