27. Leyland

Leyland

I sat at the edge of the bed, watching Clementine get ready for her first shift since I was discharged. There was a heaviness to her steps that hadn’t been there before.

She was tired. And I knew why.

My frown deepened as guilt settled in my chest. She’d been carrying so much these past few months, and even more since I woke up. Everything had been centered around me, while I let fear take control.

I’d been so caught up in my head, so consumed by the nightmare of losing her, that I hadn’t stopped to think about how much of herself she was pouring into me.

I couldn’t keep letting her carry this alone.

“Tiny,” I called softly, and she paused, glancing at me over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

Her smile was small but warm, like it always was when she looked at me. It made my heart ache more, because even during this trying time, she still loved me.

“I’ve been thinking… about everything, and I want to see someone. A therapist.”

The change in her expression was subtle, but I saw it—the relief, the pride, the love. She crossed the room and sat beside me, taking my hand in hers.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded.

“I can’t keep doing this to you. To us. I need to figure out how to let go of what’s in my head and hold on to what’s real.”

Her fingers squeezed mine, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like I was taking a step forward.

“Will you be okay?” she asked, those soulful eyes I’d fallen in love with meeting mine. “I haven’t worked a double shift in a while and I hate it’s my first one back.”

“You miss work,” I said, choosing not to lie about if I’d be okay without her or not. “And I think I’ll go to the studio and mess around with my canvases. I can’t remember what I last worked on.”

Clementine stood and stepped in front of me, pushing herself between my legs.

“I love you, superstar.”

I pressed my nose into her blouse and took a deep whiff of her scent.

“I love you, tiny. So fucking much.”

We stayed like that for a while but eventually she had to go and when I was finally alone, it felt like the walls were closing in on me.

Clementine’s presence clung to the room… to me, making it easy to step out of whatever head space I had been heading into.

I needed to center myself, needed to paint. The studio was where I’d always processed my emotions, and lately, those emotions had been a kaleidoscope of gratitude, guilt, and the relentless pull I felt toward my wife.

The drive was short once I’d gotten myself together and out the door, but somehow felt longer today, as if the anticipation of sinking my hands into paint was pulling time into slow motion. When I arrived, the familiar scent of turpentine and aged wood greeted me like an old friend.

I could tell Clementine had been here while I was in a coma. Everything was straight and in its rightful place.

Not like how I’d left it, but then again, I didn’t remember my accident at all or the night that led up to it. Just that I’d worked late and fell asleep at the wheel.

The first canvas my eyes landed on was a finished portrait of Clementine. I didn’t remember painting it but I would never forget it being the last piece I saw before waking… fake waking up the first time—the piece I wanted to perfect but she said was already perfect.

She was perfect.

Didn’t matter if it was through my art or real life, Clementine was my everything.

With all I’d been through on my mind, my body moved as if it were on autopilot.

Before I knew it, I stood before a blank canvas, brush in hand, staring at the stark white surface. Usually, inspiration struck quickly, a flash of color or a memory guiding my first stroke. But today, my mind was restless. All I could see was Clementine—her smile, her tired eyes that still held immense love for me despite the weight she carried because of me. The way her laugh could break through even my darkest moments.

The brush touched the canvas almost without my permission, and suddenly I was painting. The strokes came in waves, the colors earthy and warm.

Hours passed without me noticing. The image that took shape was of a figure surrounded by light—soft, golden hues framing her silhouette as if the universe itself was drawn to her.

My beautiful fucking wife.

By the time I stepped back, the sun had dipped lower, the studio dimming around me. The painting was incomplete, but it didn’t matter. It captured what I needed it to—her essence, her strength, and the quiet love that lingered in her eyes even when she didn’t say the words.

It was nearly four in the morning. when I realized I hadn’t eaten, hadn’t moved much from my easel. Clementine’s shift was likely winding down if it was a good night, and the thought of her in that sterile hospital, exhausted and giving her all to others, made my chest ache a little.

She was always grumpy, close to the end, and I always knew just the remedy.

Grabbing my keys, I made a quick stop at a twenty-four hour cafe for two coffees—hers with hazelnut creamer, just as she liked it.

The drive to St. Mercy was quiet, the city asleep except for the occasional car passing by. The hospital glowed under fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the peace I’d just left behind in my studio.

I texted her as I made my way inside.

Coffee in the cafeteria. Come find me.

Not long after, she walked in, her scrubs slightly rumpled but her face lighting up when she saw me. I stood, holding out the coffee like a peace offering. She took it with a big ass smile, her fingers brushing mine briefly.

We sat across from each other in the nearly empty cafeteria, the world shrinking until it was just us. The silence was comfortable, filled with unspoken words and shared glances. Her tired eyes met mine, and for a moment, everything else faded. This was all I needed.

She was all I ever needed, my dreams proved that.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said softly, her voice tinged with gratitude.

“I know,” I mused, leaning forward slightly. “But I wanted to, because I love you. And I want to make sure I give the same effort you’ve been giving me. I’m not going anywhere, tiny. I’m here. Alive and well.”

She was struggling like I was, worried I might end up in another coma or worse.

I wasn’t the only one who needed to heal.

Her eyes stayed locked with mine for what felt like an eternity. We sat there, our coffees cooling, lost in the quiet understanding that some connections didn’t need words to be felt.