Credence

by Penelope Douglas

But Kaleb just waves a hand, shooing me away as he lies down next to her and pulls her into his body. I watch as she immediately falls in, burying her head in his neck as the cries subside and her breathing starts to calm. He yawns, pulling her sheet and blanket up over them like this is normal.

He wants to love her. He wants to please her. He wants to trust her and to see her holding his baby someday.

And then he puts his palm to his chest and taps twice, imitating the gesture Kaleb made before he left last week. “This . . .” he says, “means ‘mine.’”

They’re such deep sleepers, they don’t hear you at night. Just me. When I touched your face, you quieted. When I tried to leave, the nightmare started again. So I stayed. I come in every night. You tuck your cold feet between my legs, and I hug you to me, resting my hand on your back and feeling your body calm as it nestles into me. Do I make you feel safe? I like taking care of you.

“There’s been no one since you,” I whisper.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I tell him just above a whisper. “You actually left Colorado.” “It was time,” he says.

“My home is where you are,”

He practiced speaking the last six weeks by reading out loud.

“I think I’m ready to hear both of us now,”

As long as we’re together, we’re home. It doesn’t matter where.