Chapter 142  The Return

Chapter 142  The Return

Lisa's POV 

Day three. Three days since I left that letter at Leo's hotel. Three days of silence. Three days of waking up alone and going to bed alone and living in this strange in-between of hope and acceptance.

I've stopped checking my phone every five minutes. Stopped jumping at every sound, thinking it might be him at the door. Stopped holding my breath waiting for a text that may never come.

Instead, I've come across something quite unexpected: peace.

Not happiness – not yet. But it's also a quiet knowledge that I've done all I can. I've been honest, vulnerable, accountable. I gave him space and time and a way back. Now it's up to him.
And if he doesn't come back? I'm going to make it, I bile break but I'll make it.

Because I've come to realize that – just like writing, just like making art – my worth isn't dependent upon who is loving me. I’m enough on my own.

It’s a weird feeling, this peace. After weeks of anxiety and panic and frantic pleading, there’s something mildly liberating about giving up power. About recognizing that Some Things That I Just Can’t Control Are My Things To Own. 

I shower. Put on comfy clothes. Brush my hair. No makeup — there’s no one to impress and I’m tired of pretending that I’m OK when I’m not feeling OK. 

I’m healing, but healing are like dirty hands. Looks like puffy eyes and no makeup and hair in a messy bun. 

Needed and wanted. And that's okay.

I go down and get the coffee pot going, as I watch the dark liquid drop watery drops into the pot. The house is quiet but not oppressively so. I’m beginning to make peace with the silence, to think of it not as the sound of empty pockets, but the sound of contemplation.

The coffee is ready, and I pour myself a cup, which I dutifully add cream and sugar to. Not the way Leo makes it—strong and black. My way.
Small acts of self-possession. Small amends to myself, small reaffirmations that I exist outside of him, even as I love him.

I'm taking my mug to the living room when I hear it.

A car is in the driveway.

My heart stops. Coffee overflows over the rim of the cup, burning my hand but I scarcely mind.
Anyone can be. The mailman. A delivery. a neighbor.

But I know.

I know, somehow. Or rather, I know. For some reason it seems that I know.

I put down the mug, with trembling hands and step towards the door. Through the window, I saw a car — presumably Leo's car — in the driveway.
And Leo, in the driver’s seat, looking at the house. Something clutches at my throat. 

He's here. I look on as he breathes deeply, then opens the door and gets out.And in his hand, I see a sheet of paper. My letter. 

He moves toward the house at a slow pace, as if he's coming upon something delicate. As if he's scared that it will vanish if he goes too fast.
I open the door before he makes a sound on it.
We are both still, and looking at each other from right across the door. The morning sun is behind him and I have to look away to make out his face.
But what I find there makes my heart ache.

Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. An exhausted, gaunt face. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days.
I look at him like I feel . "Hello," he says, his voice hoarse and rasping.

"Hi," I whisper back.

He raises the letter and I notice his trembling hand. “I’ve read this like fifty times.”

I don’t have a response to that, so I say nothing.
"The first time I read it I cried," he says. He said, “The second time, I was furious—not at you, at myself. Not for recognizing what you were going through. It doesn’t weigh on me.” He pauses. Pic "By the tenth time, I knew what I had to do."

“What’s that?” My voice stammers.

“Come home.”

I’m the type that, when she heard them say it, broke inside. Tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t move. Cannot move. Afraid that if I do, this moment will shatter and I will wake alone once more.

“May I come in?” he whispered.

I nod as I step aside. He stops like he’s attempting to recall what it felt like to be at home there.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pivoting to look at me. “I’m so sorry, Lisa. For shutting you out. For pretending like you had to be flawless in order to get my trust again. For not trying harder to fight for who you were.”

“You don’t need to apologize —”

“I do.” He moves a little closer. “You made mistakes. But so did I. Let my pain mutate into punishment. I shut you out instead of fighting for you, working this shit out with you. It made you feel like love had conditions. When I’ve always told you it doesn’t.”

“Leo—"

“I love you.” The words are fierce and certain. “I love you, and I choose you, and I’m done with space and time and trying to figure out if I can trust you again.” He shortens the distance between us. “I trust you. I choose to trust you. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m SCARED. Because that’s what love is. It’s choosing each other when it’s hard.”

I’m crying now my whole body is trembling. “I’m sorry.I’m so sorry for everything—” “I know I forgive you.” His hands rise and come around my face, his thumbs wiping my tears away. “And I need you to forgive me as well. For leaving, for staying away. For letting you wait alone.” 

"There's nothing to forgive—"

“There is.” His voice cracked. “I left you alone when you needed me most. I let you believe that I might not come back."
“Now you’re here,” I whisper. “That’s all that matters.”

They weren’t too far into falling asleep when he pulled me into his arms, and I went down against him, my face pressed into his chest, inhaling deep the man-stuff—the cologne and laundry detergent and Leo. Home. This is home.

His arms tighten around me, one hand cupping the back of my head, and I hear his entire body shake with feeling.

“A missed you,” he whispers in my hair. “God, Lisa, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too. So much.”

We just stand there for I don’t know how long holding each other, we’re both crying, we’re both finally letting ourselves feel everything we’ve been holding back.

And when we are finally to pull back far enough to see each other’s faces, he’s smiling through tears.

“Hi,” he says again, as if this is the first time we’ve met. 

“Hi,” I say but the smile on my face doesn’t falter.
Then he kisses me.

It’s not the like any kiss we’ve ever had. Not panicked, like that first night. Not timid, like those early dates.

This kiss is a promise. An obligation. A decision we’re both making right now — to stay, to fight, to love through it when it’s tough. 

His lips are soft on Mine, flavored like salt from our tears and coffee and coming home. My hands glide up his chest to his neck, my fingers knit through his hair, pulling him closer because there was never going to be distance enough.

At last, when at length we separate, we are both panting, and have our foreheads pressed against one another.

"I'm coming home," he says. "Here if you want me."

"If I'll have you?" I laugh through fresh tears. "Leo, this was always your home. I’ve been holding it warm for you."

He kisses me again, soft this time. "I need to go get my things from the hotel. Will you come with me? I don't want to be separated from you for even an hour."

"Yes. Absolutely yes."

We go together, his hand never leaving mine. We drive to the hotel in a comfortable silence, our fingers intertwined, there are glances exchanged here and there.

Once at the hotel, it takes less than 10 minutes for him to pack up the meager possession he'd brought with him. When we’re leaving, he stops at the front desk to check out.

"How was your stay?" the clerk asks automatically. 

Leo looks at me, then back at the clerk. "Terrible. Worst week of my life. But it’s over now."

The clerk looks puzzled, but I am laughing as we walk out to the car.

At home, he takes his bag upstairs to our bedroom. Our bedroom. Not the guest room. Not his room and my room.

Ours. 

Taking back his place. Established Home.

When he’s finished, he looks at me. “Can we talk? Real talk? Page through it? About everything?”

"Yes. I'd like that."

We go downstairs and take a seat on the couch.

And we talk.

Really talk.

About what went wrong. About what we learned. About how we'll do better next time something hard happens -- because there will be a next time. Because life has challenges.

But this is the time we do it together.
“I need you to promise me something,” Leo says at one point.

“Anything.” 

“When something scares you or worries you or you don’t know how to deal with it—come to me. Right away. Before you talk yourself out of it. Just come to me and say you need help or I am scared or even just I am not feeling well. Can you do that?” 

"Of course,” I say, relieved.

"That's fair." He pulls me closer. "Then promise me you'll try. That you'll rile yourself up when you start to shut down and push me away. That you'll fight those old patterns Andre put into your head."

"I promise I will try." I look up at him. "And there’s something you need to promise me, too."

"What's that?"

"Promise me that if—because I probably will—I mess up, you won't shut me out the way you did this time. Tell me when you’re hurt or angry instead of going cold and distant."

He winces. "That's fair too. I'm sorry I did that. It's my own pattern—when I'm hurt, I retreat. “But that's not fair to you." He pauses. "I'll try to keep talking to you even when it’s difficult. Tell you what I’m feeling, instead of just shutting down."

"We're both works in progress," I say with a small smile.

"Yeah. But we've got this one in the bag together now. That's what matters."

We talk for hours, about everything—about the impersonation, Andre’s confession to David and the others, the police investigation. I tell him about Detective Martinez, about Claire being looked into. He informs me about the woman with whom I saw him at the hotel — a colleague seeking his advice on a work matter. But nothing romantic. Nothing to get excited about.

We laugh off our misunderstandings - Cry over the pain we caused each other. We cry for the pain we have inflicted upon one another. Cry together through the bad parts. 

And gradually, piece by piece, I feel like the two of us are starting to fit together again. Not the same as before—we're both different now, shaped by what we went through. But stronger. More honest. More fought for.

As dusk falls, I realize I’m feeling hungry — neither of us had had anything to eat at all that day.

“I’ll make dinner,” Leo offers.

“We could order in,” I say. “Just this once. Rest on the couch a little longer.”

“Perfect.”

He orders from our beloved Thai place, and we eat at the coffee table on the floor, like we used to, sharing plates, like nothing ever happened.
Except everything happened. And we lived through it.

After dinner, Leo grabs my hand. “I’m exhausted. Can we just… go to bed? Early? Haven’t been sleeping well in two weeks.”

“Me neither.”

We go upstairs together. We take a bath – together, just holding each other beneath the warm stream no need to put a word between us. We dry off, we change into cozy jammies and we get into bed.

Our bed.

Leo draws me close, my back is against his chest, his arm tightens around my waist. His face sinks into my hair and I hear him exhale — a long, deep breath, like he’s been holding it for days.
“I’m home,” he murmurs.

“You’re home,” I say, my hand resting on his as it lies on my stomach.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

It’s only been a few minutes when I hear the even breathing and feel the weight of his body relax into sleep. He's sleeping soundly for the first time in two weeks.

And so am I.
Because he returned.

He chose us.
He came home.

And it’s all -- at last, at long last -- going to be all right all right.