Love, Guilt, and Meteor Showers

Content Warning: loss of pregnancy.

She holds my gaze a heartbeat too long, and though we both recall the past, it’s the future we see clearest. I shouldn’t, but I’m powerless as my legs carry me across the atrium towards her. I can’t stop myself from admiring those lips, reposed against her wineglass. I can’t stop my eyes from tracing down her slender fingers, pale skin, gleaming fabric, and the shape of her body underneath. It doesn’t matter what I tell her, or what she says back. This love affair has only one ending.

When I’m driving home, head swimming, a smile tugs at my lips. She’s no longer the one that got away. Four years later, and now we meet out of the blue. It's destiny. And for all that time apart, even if the scars run deep, it feels like nothing’s changed.

There are no sparks – just a meteor shower.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

She’s still awake when I pull up in our driveway, leaning against the doorframe. A satin nightgown ripples across goose-pimpled skin; gold gleams on her finger. She hops from foot to foot, exposed legs bitten by the wind, but her unbridled joy makes my heart lurch. Grabbing me by the tie, she pulls me inside.

Her lips taste like lilac wine. My hand reaches for the gentle swell of her belly, and I can feel her smiling through our kiss. She whispers in my ear, hot and moist. We missed you.

Home is where the heart is.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

Weeks pass. My phone fills with secret conversations. Swapping book recommendations on Messenger. Emojis on WhatsApp. Selfies on Snapchat. An email chain she forwarded me after a guy hit on her at work.

I take longer lunch breaks to see her at the café around the corner. We never eat. It’s always sips of coffee, dabbed napkins, crumbs of libertine eye contact. Someone croons Me and Mrs Jones through the jukebox, and we feel like we’re in a song, characters plucked out of our lives and into inevitability. We both know that it’s wrong.

But it’s much too strong to let it go now.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

The nursery comes to life. The same wooden cot she and her sisters used, uneven leg and all. A box of toys my grandmother found in the attic. A handmade paper wind chime that I’m sure has solved the conundrum of perpetual motion; it sways back and forth and, at any given moment, could either block the sun or flood it into the room.

We dine with her family, and all agree I’ve taken to parenthood classes like a natural. One hand is on her belly, the other animated, as she tells them how quickly I can change nappies on the mannequins. She looks at me and says she knows I’ll be an amazing dad to her. The words revolve through my mind numbly. Her? A little girl?

We’re having a daughter.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

There’s guilt all over my lips, down my throat, on my chest, smeared on my thighs. The contorted union of our bodies is a window into four years ago. It’s like watching a film from your youth with the weariness of age and wondering where your innocence went. It’s like some of our meteors reached Earth, leaving craters even time can’t heal.

But we tell ourselves it’ll be different this time. We’ll be careful. We’ll do everything right. There are nights the fear has her trembling in my arms, and I run my fingers through her hair, murmuring comforts neither of us believe in. My phone buzzes unanswered on the nightstand. I know if I pick it up, I’ll invite the outside world into our space. They’ll tell us we shouldn’t. That we’re risking too much. That the grass isn’t always greener. But they’re wrong.

We have to try again.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

The nightgown is duller than it was before. Speckled with drops of sick, it stretches tight across her belly. The third trimester has been worst of all. If she hates pregnancy now, she doesn't complain, but the sight of her suffering steals my breath. Reed-like arms support her back as she walks, and there are muffled sobs each time baby kicks. One night when she bleeds, the doctor looks down at her acidly, asking questions that make little sense. They tell us something is wrong, but they don’t know what.   

She turns her face away from my kiss these days, as if she knows things aren’t the same. She tells me it’s because she doesn’t want me to taste her vomit. Walking exhausts her. Her belly aches even when baby isn’t kicking. She rubs her legs in vain, but the bulging blood vessels get wider and uglier. Then one day the bleeding comes back, and this time it doesn’t stop. I’m holding her up with all my strength, stammering details to the 911 operator as a puddle of blood, fear, and guilt submerges my feet.

It’s too much for us to take.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

We try for weeks, but she won't test herself yet. She insists it must be a special occasion. We pack our bags, fumble the usual excuses, and jet off on a getaway. On the last night, she kisses my cheek and locks herself in the bathroom with a stack of pregnancy tests.

Unlike the first time, she doesn’t come out waving it in my face, dancing like a mad-woman and jumping on my back. No, this time I’m already waiting; my heart pounds a staccato rhythm as I stare at the bathroom door. When it opens, she doesn't even say a word. She knows I know her well enough to read her expression. It’s joy, it’s fear, it’s anxiety, it’s remorse, it’s guilt. It’s another try, four years down the track.

We have a second chance.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

The day after we lose our daughter, she looks up at me and asks if something is wrong with her. She sobs into my shoulder, apologises again and again for failing us, failing our family. Wishes she’d dieted better. Regrets not taking more supplements, like her mother suggested. Blames herself. All I can do is murmur comforts neither of us believe in.

Grief pulls us apart, in the end. Hot breath turns to spitted barbs. The house is dark when I pull up after work. Eventually, we go our separate ways, leaving our place, our lives, and our memories behind. Until, once more, we trade sparks for meteors.

In an atrium, four years later.

✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ 

When I hold her close, the warmth of her feels different than when we were married. She intertwines her slender fingers with mine, draws my hand to her still-dormant belly. I feel the softness of her lips, smell lilac wine, as she whispers in my ear. She asks if I still remember how to change nappies. She tells me she still has the nightgown. I want to say yes, but I'm afraid. What if it happens again? What if it’s destiny?

This love affair has only one ending.