We Are Bound Together

This story is a response to a challenge issued by my friend Pamala. She wrote a story in IM format, called A Nasty Turn. Her challenge was to fill in the blanks in story form. This story follows part 14 of A Nasty Turn, which can be found on her site.

************

I log off the computer, wander into the bedroom and sink down onto the bed. I'm not too sure what just happened. Did I just agree to go over to Josh's place and...and basically let him hold me or me hold him...or something like that?

Oh my God, I think I did.

OK, time to think. I've been waiting for this moment for, well for more decades than I care to think about. And now it's here. And I'm sitting on my bed, frozen in place.

A plan. That's what I need, a plan. I'm good at planning, always have been. So what first?

Notecards? Nah, too time consuming.

Suitcase, that's a good place to start. Suitcase it is.

OK, suitcase is open and....and after another few minutes, still completely empty. OK, let's be realistic. Something to sleep in. Pajamas would be good, nice modest cotton pajamas.

Modest??

Who am I kidding, I'm almost 60 years old, the only pajamas I have are modest. Truth is, most nights I sleep in an old pair of Will's pajamas. They're worn, comfortable and hold too many memories for me to start thinking about them now. I find a pair of floral pajamas in the back of the drawer and toss them in the waiting suitcase. An outfit for tomorrow, supposed to be hot, shorts and a nice shirt.

What if we go out? OK, toss in a skirt and sandals. A sweater maybe, Josh always liked the air conditioning up too high.

I grab the toiletry bag I keep packed at all times from the linen closet and toss that in.

Now, just what the heck are we going to be doing? Josh said he doesn't want to talk. Yeah, like I can really see us sitting in his little brownstone, not talking for hours. Never going to happen. So I need some "stuff" to take along.

What in the world do I mean by stuff?

Let's see.

The box of pictures in the closet. Maybe Josh wants to see pictures of John growing up. I don't know, maybe that'll just be too hard. Maybe I'll just take them and let Josh decide. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. I have pictures on CD and movies on DVD; I'll just toss them in too.

Exactly how late do I think we're going to be up? It's already after dinner. Josh is recovering from a stroke. Maybe I should instill some rules and just send him to bed when I get there.

But that'll lead to the whole "holding" think and I don't know if I'm ready to handle that.

What in the world have I gotten myself into?

I jump as the phone rings. I toss the CDs in my tote bag and reach for the phone, trying to sound as normal as possible. "Hello."

"Mom, it's me."

"Hi John. What's up?"

"Just calling to say Hi. You okay, you sound a little funny?"

Only a little funny, then I must be doing better than I thought.

"Just in the middle of packing." Shoot, didn't mean to say that so easily.

"Going somewhere?" he asks. I can almost "hear" the smirk on his face; he's so much like his father. "I just got off the phone with Josh," he confesses.

"John, what am I doing?" I sigh as I sink down onto the couch. He's silent for a minute, obviously trying not to use the sarcasm he's so nicely inherited from Josh.

"You're going to help an old friend through a rough time," he replies quietly.

"But that old friend is pissed at me," I mutter.

"That he is. But he's also hurting. He's making a gesture, take it. He needs you to be there for him. You always told me he was more vulnerable than he let on, than he let other people see."

"I know, but..."

"But what Mom?" he asks quietly. "He's my father and he just had a stroke. He's lonely and I'm sure he's scared. Do what he asked."

"I will. I love you."

"Love you too Mom. Now behave yourselves," he teases as he hangs up before I have a chance to respond.

I hang up the phone and pack a few more things. Some green tea I know Josh likes, or at least, used to like. I toss in some cookies I baked earlier out frustration and confusion. Cooking usually helps clarify things for me.

Yeah, didn't work this time.

I told Josh two hours and I'm ready to leave in 25 minutes. Oh well, if I don't leave now, I may never leave.

****************

My phone rings as I am attempting to juggle my suitcase, my tote bag and my purse. I'm tempted to ignore it but Caller ID tells me it's Josh. So everything lands in a pile at my feet.

"Hi, Josh."

"Hey. Look are you really going to be two hours, or I guess another hour and a half would be more correct cause I..."

"Josh, if you'd stop talking and let me hang up the phone I'd be there in 20 minutes," I sigh in mock exasperation at him.

"Oh, you were on your way. Uh, sorry, see you soon," he spits out before hanging up quickly. Like father, like son apparently.

The drive to Josh's place is quick. Other than dropping him off earlier, I've never been here. That's not to say I've never driven by....when I was in the neighborhood or something like that.

Luck is on my side, or at least I think luck is on my side and I find a parking space a block away. I lug everything out of the back seat of my car and head down the block. I half expect to find Josh sitting on his front step waiting for me. A flash of something goes through my brain and in my mind's eye I see him sitting on the front steps in oversized pajamas and a trench coat as if it happened yesterday and not 30 years ago. It's funny how some memories fade while others stick out in my mind as if they just happened.

Anyway his front steps are empty and he's not standing in the doorway.

Nice deep breath at the top of the steps and I ring the bell. It takes Josh a minute to get to the door and I hear a thud followed by a few choice words before the door opens. He's smiling weakly while rubbing his hip.

"You okay?" I asked, trying not to laugh at him.

"Yeah, ran into a dining room chair. I'm fine," he tries to assure me. As I step into the small foyer and put my things down I get a good look at him. "Fine" is not really the word I'd use to describe how he looks. He closes the door behind me and we stand in the foyer for a minute looking like a couple of idiots. We laugh a little to break some of the tension before I take a step towards him and just give him a little peck on the cheek. He blushes, as I knew he would, as he leads me into the living room. "I was going to make coffee, do you want any?" he asks.

"The last thing you need is coffee, I'll make tea," I offer. "Go sit down." Josh heads for the couch as I grab my tote bag and go into the kitchen. The kitchen, and basically everything I've seen so far is neat, too neat for Josh. I'm thinking he has a cleaning lady.

As I wait for the water to boil I watch Josh move around the living room. So much for his going to sit and relax. He's antsy; I can tell that in an instant. He seems to be getting around a little better. The limp on his left side from the stroke is offset by the residual limp on his right side from the shooting so he's not limping much; he's just vaguely unsteady on his feet. He's got his left hand tucked in the pocket of his khaki pants, a habit he's developed in the days since the stroke. The weakness is worst when he's tired and looking at him I can tell he's well past just tired and edging towards exhausted. As the kettle whistles he stops pacing, as if he just realized he was doing it. He collapses on the couch, pulls off his glasses and rubs a hand down his face. I'm not used to seeing him with glasses on. I know he's worn reading glasses for years but I think the bifocals are new. I turn towards the stove to grab the kettle, having trouble drawing my eyes away from him.

As I get closer to the couch, he hears me and instantly sits up a little straighter, probably in a poor attempt to make me believe he is actually "fine".

"Careful, it's hot," I say as he reaches for the mug. On second thought, I put in down on the end table for him. He gives a grateful smile. Obviously he didn't feel comfortable taking the hot tea from me, but as his stubbornness to ask for help hasn't improved over the years, he didn't mention it. I put my own tea on the coffee table and kick off my shoes. His are already off, probably been that way for most of the day. He's dressed in slightly rumpled khaki pants and a faded blue polo shirt that's seen better days.

We're quiet for a while. It's not exactly an uncomfortable silence, just not as comfortable as it once was. But too much has changed for it to feel as "right" as it did years ago.

"So what did you bring me?" Josh asks suddenly as he puts down his tea and turns a little on the couch to face me.

"Bring you?" I tease with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah, you have a whole tote bag and suitcase full of stuff," he explains, motioning towards the foyer.

"Maybe that's all my beauty accessories Josh. I'm not as young as I used to be," I tease.

"But you're as beautiful as you used to be," he says. I look at him and the look on his face tells me he's sorry he's said that. He looks embarrassed, almost ashamed.

"Thank you," I whisper. It's the only thing I can think of to say. He smiles and rests his head against the back of the couch for a minute with his eyes closed. It gives me a minute to get a good look at him. Seeing him look, for lack of a better word, old, is hard. Sure I've seen him over the years but rarely up close. Most times have been on television and a little makeup does wonders to cover up the effects of time. I truly expected him to be completely bald by now, but he's not. His hair is certainly thin on the top but it's a beautiful, distinguished shade of gray. It's still as unruly as ever and it takes a good deal of willpower for me not to just reach out and run my fingers through the curls at the base of his neck.

"So what did you bring me?" he repeats, bringing me out of my daze.

"Tea."

"And?" he asks impatiently.

"And some pictures. Why don't you go put on your pajamas and I'll get them out. I have some on CD too, where's your laptop?"

"In the office," he answers, pointing down the hall.

I hear Josh in the bathroom as I get his laptop from his home office. Apparently the cleaning lady he must have is not allowed in the office. It's a mess but the sight of it is comforting to me. Just a little reminder of how things used to be in his White House office.

Josh is in the kitchen when I get out. I put the laptop on the coffee table and turn it on as Josh continues to open and close cabinets and the refrigerator. "Josh do you need help with something. Are you hungry?" He just shrugs his shoulders. As he opens the fridge yet again, I see the containers of leftovers I sent home with him haven't been eaten. "Did you eat dinner?" I ask as I take him by the hand and steer him in the direction of the nearest kitchen chair.

"No, not really," he admits.

"Do you want me to heat up the leftovers?" I offer. Again I am rewarded with a shrug of his shoulders and he turns and props his elbows up on the table. His head drops to his hands and I can tell he's on the edge of something he'd probably classify as "unmanly". "You don't have to eat my leftovers," I tease as I stand behind him and tentatively reach out to rub his back. He flinches at the contact, like he has every other time I've reached out to him in the last week or so. "Josh?" He sits up a little, leaning his head back against my chest. He lets me wrap my arms around him and I can feel him start to relax a little. "Guess you're not really hungry?" I ask as I lean over and kiss the top of his head.

"I don't know what the hell I am at the moment," he whispers.

And I think, without even trying, that I've managed to hit a nerve.

"Josh come sit on the couch with me," I urge as I grab his hand to pull him to his feet. He lets me lead the way to the living room. I turn on the overhead light so we can actually see the pictures as Josh curls up at one end of the couch, wrapping himself up in the afghan.

We look at the pictures for a while, the actual pictures. I give a little explanation of each but I don't think Josh is really paying much attention to my jabbering, but that's okay. He looks at each one, studying them carefully, looking for similarities between himself and John. There are so many that it really shocks me that more people never put 2 and 2 together and came to the conclusion that Josh is John's father. The have the same hair color, well they would have, if Josh hadn't gone gray (John's also not happy about the hairline), they both have beautiful brown eyes and dimples, although John's aren't as striking as his father's and both are tall and lean with a tendency to never be still.

About halfway through the stack of photos Josh hands them back to me wordlessly as he curls up further in the corner of the couch. He wants space, that's clear to me. I pat his foot and head to change into my pajamas. When I'm done in the bathroom I'm not too sure what to do with my bags. I eventually toss them in Josh's office, which since there's a pull out couch in there, probably functions as his guest room too.

I'm not sure what to expect when I get back out to the living room. Nor do I know what I really want. And if I'm confused, Josh is ten times more confused. Confused and tired was never a good combination for him in the past. And I seriously doubt that have changed over the years. "Josh," I whisper, trying to get his attention without startling him. I succeed. He gives me a sad, tired smile as he pulls himself to his feet with a sigh. He holds out his hand to me and I take it, not knowing what to expect. He wearily drops his head to my shoulder and lets me gather him into my arms. I rub his back for a minute, waiting to see if he's going to say anything.

Why in the world did I think he would actually initiate a conversation? Some things will never, ever change.

"Josh, you're exhausted. We can talk in the morning," I whisper as I take a step back. He nods and turns towards his bedroom, never letting go of my hand. I think I should take that as a sign.

***********

Josh sits wearily on the edge of the bed, giving a half hearted attempt to kick off his slippers. I eventually just lean over and give him a helping hand. "Did you take your pills?" He shakes his head. "Get under the covers; I'll get them." I trudge back out to the kitchen to get his pills. I start to take a glass out of the cabinet but think twice about it and reach for a plastic cup in the dish drainer. I found out the hard way that by the end of the day, Josh's coordination isn't the best, especially is he tries to pick up something in his left hand. But at least the glass only cracked and didn't shatter when he dropped it on my kitchen floor a few nights ago.

I turn out the lights and lock the front door before heading back to Josh's room.

This should be interesting.

I haven't spent the night with Josh Lyman in decades. The few nights he spent at my house he stayed in the guest room on the first floor. That's not to say I spent a whole lot of time in my room upstairs, but I made a conscious decision not to "sleep" with him. I would stay with him until he fell asleep and then go on the couch. I've always been a heavy sleeper but those nights, practically every time he rolled over, I woke up and checked on him. Most of the time he would still be sleeping, but a few times he was awake and dazed, maybe from a nightmare, from waking up in a strange bed, I don't know. But he'd move over a little and give me room to sit next to him for a while. I'd rub his back until he settled down and then go back to the couch and try to get a few more hours sleep. Needless to say, we both napped during the afternoon since we didn't get much sleep at night.

"Here, take these," I say as I hand him the pills. He reaches for them with his left hand and I curl his fingers around them a little so they don't roll to the floor. My little gesture does not go unnoticed by him and he gives a frustrated sigh. Josh hands the cup back to me and I place it on the night stand.

Now what?

Josh reaches over and pulls down the covers on the other side of his bed. Taking that as an invitation, I turn off the bedside lamp and crawl into bed with him. We're silent for a few minutes, each on our own side of the bed. There's like this deep, wide chasm between us that's much more than just sheets and the plaid quilt.

I figure if I don't say something, we'll spend the entire night like this, flat on our backs, staring at the ceiling, just waiting to see what in the world will happen.

"Josh?"

"Mmmm?"

"I know you said you didn't want to talk about this anymore, but I just want to let you know, if you change your mind, I'm here." I can hear him nod against the pillow but he doesn't say anything. He rolls over a little, facing away from me.

For another ten minutes, the only sounds in the room come from the few cars passing by on the street and Josh's occasional sighs. I've known him long enough to know he's confused, frustrated, sad and on the verge of completely opening up. I also know that it usually only takes a small gesture on my part to get him to let the wall he's built around him fall to the ground, for him to let me in. I pull my hand out from under the quilt and gently reach out to run my fingers through the curls at the base of his neck. He flinches at my touch as I knew he would but I refuse to back away, one way or another something is going to get accomplished tonight.

I don't know what, but something.

"I hate that you're here," he says quietly. My fingers still and I pull my hand away for a moment but he backs up a little, urging me to keep the connection between the two of us. I go back to rubbing his neck a little, waiting to see if he will explain his statement. "No, I don't hate that you're here, I hate that I asked you to come, that I needed you to come," he explains softly.

"I know."

"I should hate you right now."

"I know."

"But I don't."

"I know that too."

"Why don't I hate you?" he asks.

How in the world am I supposed to answer that, I think to myself. "Because we've shared so much, been through so much," I say as I reach around and press my hand against the scar over his ribcage from the bullet wound.

"Because we have a child," he whispers harshly as he rolls over onto his back. He swipes awkwardly at his eyes with his left hand. "Do you understand how hurt I am?"

"No. That's not something I can ever understand."

"That's right," he says quietly. It's as if he's holding back. And I don't know why he's doing that. "Why can't I yell and scream about it?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know how to feel. On one hand, I'm pissed as hell at you, at John Hoynes, at Will. On the other hand, I have a son, someone to....someone to...."

"Love?" He nods as he pushes the covers down around his waist.

"I'm just so confused," he says with a small strangled sob.

"I know Josh. And I don't know how to help you. It's my fault and I don't know how to make it better." I hear him sniffle a little and he rolls over on his right side, tucking his head under my chin.

"Just hold me, please," he begs. "I need to know you're here," he cries against my collarbone. His voice is raw and needy and it breaks my heart to know I did this to him, that I am the source of all this pain and rage and uncertainty inside him. I should be in tears too, but I'm not because it's not about me, it's about Josh and his feelings and fears and pain.

Josh cries for almost an hour. I hold him and rub his back, trying to soothe him just a little. I kiss the top of his head and whisper words of understanding even though I can never truly understand what he's going through. He clings to me like a life preserver, like something that will save him. A life preserver is a far cry from what I really am, the one who tipped over his boat to begin with.

Just about the time I'm ready to get firm and tell him he needs to settle down before he makes himself sick, his sobs slow down to random hiccups. By the time he finally makes an attempt to untangle our arms and legs I am in need of a dry shirt and he's in need of a box of tissues.

It's a few more minutes before I feel like I can leave him alone. I sit up and pull my now soggy pajama top away from my body. "There's a dry shirt in there," Josh says as he points to the laundry basket on the chair in the corner of the room.

"Thanks. Do you need one too?"

"I suppose I do," he answers as he runs his hand down his chest. I hand him the box of tissues before I grab t-shirts for both of us. While he blows his nose I go into the bathroom to change and get something to wipe his face with. When I get back to the bedroom he's managed to sit up a little but he still has his head in his hands, rubbing furiously at his eyes. I reach to turn on the light to get a good look at him but he pulls my hand away. I understand his actions. There's enough light from the street below for me to see what I'm doing.

"Sit up a little and take off your shirt." He sits up a little but makes very little effort to slip out of his damp shirt. I sit cross legged on the bed in front of him and tip up his chin a little to get at the buttons. He purposely avoids my gaze. "Slip your arms out, Josh," I say as I realize he is basically half asleep. He does as he's told. I don't plan on it but as he leans back against the headboard a little, still bare-chested, I can't help but reach out and trace the scar that bisects his chest. It used to be one of my favorite things to do. After we'd make love, we'd curl up for hours, just being with each other. I would always trace the scar with my fingers, my lips, my tongue. The scar was a reminder of what could have been, of the frailty of life and of the gift of a second chance. As I reach to touch the scar from the bullet wound Josh suddenly jolts into full awareness and I pull back as if I've been burned. He grabs my wrist and in a motion that startles both of us, he leans over to kiss me fiercely. It takes us both by surprise and he ends the kiss almost as quickly as he started it. He scrambles back as far against the headboard as humanly possible, doing his best to curl up into a ball. I honestly don't know how to react or what I should say, if anything. He says nothing and won't even look at me.

I settle for just completing the task I've started. I help him into his t-shirt and settle him back down against the pillows. I gently wipe his face with the cool damp cloth, erasing the tear tracks.

"Thank you," he says softly, the earlier pain in his voice has been replaced by exhaustion and probably a touch of embarrassment. I kiss his forehead, pull up the covers and tuck him in. He turns away from me a little and I brush back his hair until I'm sure he's drifted off. I get myself a drink of water from the bathroom and settle down next to him, trying not to disturb him. I send up a silent prayer that he just sleeps through the night.

I lace my fingers with his and give them a squeeze as I close my eyes.

***********

"DONNA!!" Josh's voice calls out in the dark room some indeterminate amount of time later. Guess my prayer went unanswered. I wasn't completely asleep as Josh has been very restless for the last hour so I'm fully awake and aware in all of a few seconds.

Josh, on the other hand, is clearly dazed and still in the middle of a nightmare. Although it's been years since I've helped him through one, I immediately remember what used to work. As he is sitting up, I manage to squeeze myself behind him, against the headboard. I wrap my arms around him from behind, effectively pinning his arms against his sides. From past experience, I know he has a tendency to flail around a little as he comes out of a nightmare. I recall ending up with a bleeding lip one time.

"Josh, it's okay, you're safe,” I whisper as he fights against my embrace. Whispering does absolutely nothing to get him to come out of it. "Josh, listen to me," I say, starting to get a little louder. "JOSHUA, WAKE UP!" Apparently my skills at handling a nightmare leave a lot more to be desired that I had imagined. However, Josh does snap into awareness and goes limp in my arms. I just pull him back against my chest, whispering whatever I can think of that might help.

"I'm okay," he whispers a few minutes later. I let go of him and he sits up cross legged with his head in his hands. I rub his back for a minute. His t-shirt is damp and he's shivering slightly in the air conditioned room. The sun's coming up I notice as I look away from him long enough to glance out the window. The clock tells me that it's not even six o'clock yet. I'm so wide awake now that I know I won't get back to sleep easily.

"Josh, take a drink," I urge as I hand him the plastic cup of water. He takes it with a shaky hand but manages not to spill too much of it on himself. He turns a little and even in the dim light I can see how pale he is. He leans back, molding himself against me. Tucking his head under my chin, he wraps his arms around me. I try not to cringe but he's damp with sweat and the water he just spilled on himself so it's not the easiest thing to do. His hair is plastered to his head and just as I'm about to say something, he sits up suddenly.

"Oh God, Donna, I'm sorry," he mutters as he realizes just how much of a mess he is. He wipes his face with the sheet, not that it does a whole lot to remedy the situation.

"It's okay," I assure him.

"What time is it?" he asks as he squints and tries to read the clock.

"Early, a little after 5:30."

"Time to get up," he mutters.

"After all the years of me calling and waking you up, you get up early now?" I tease him.

"Yeah, odd isn't it," he laughs a little and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

"Josh, just sit for a minute," I suggest as I crawl off the bed and stand in front of him. He starts to protest but soon realizes that if he gets up too quickly he's going to end up on the floor. "Let me get you some juice. Take a few deep breaths and relax."

I really don't have any great hope that he is going to stay put, but he has shocked me more than once over the last week or so.

Josh is still sitting on the side of the bed when I return with some orange juice and a cool damp cloth. He takes a few sips of the juice and tips his chin up so I can run the cloth over his face. I do so and put it on the back of his neck for a minute. I turn on the light to get a good look at him before I consider letting him stand up. His color is a little better and he's no longer shaking like a leaf. "What do you want to do?"

"Take a shower," he mutters as he pulls his damp t-shirt away from his body. I look at him warily for a few seconds.

"How about a bath?" I suggest; I'm not sure he's quite up to standing in the shower for any length of time.

"Probably a better idea," he agrees with a small grin. He sits on the bed and finishes the juice while I start the water in the tub. I didn't really get a good look at the bathroom last night. It's very, very nice. The tub is...let's just say large enough for two.

Okay, now is not the time to be thinking of things like that. This isn't about me and about what I've dreamed about for years.

Water's running and I grab a towel from the shelf. "There's stuff under the sink," Josh calls from the bedroom.

Stuff?

Ah, bubbles...cranky baby bubbles to be more precise. I'll tease him about them later. I dump in a generous amount and close the door to use the bathroom before Josh comes in.

"You okay by yourself?" I ask as he walks into the bathroom. He's a little unsteady but doesn't look like he's about to fall over.

"I think so. Why don't you go start the coffee maker? Then you can come keep me company," he says in a tone I would almost call shy. Apparently my eyes must go really wide and I get a confused look on my face. "Sit and keep me company," he clarifies as he points to the floor next to the tub. I think I nod before I head to start the coffee, I'm not too sure.

"Josh, you decent?" I say as I knock lightly on the bathroom door.

"Hardly ever, but the bubbles are covering everything," he teases.

I enter with a little laugh. Everything indeed is covered. Now he had pointed to the floor a few minutes ago, but I'm sorry, It's too early in the morning and I'm too old to be sitting on the floor. The tub has a nice wide ledge and a sit down on it. Josh scoots over a bit, giving me room to put my feet in the water. I hike up the legs of my pajama pants and do just that.

He leans back and sinks down until the bubbles come up to his chin. His eyes are closed and I take the opportunity to, well...stare. He looks like hell, but rightly so after the night we just had. His eyes are puffy and red rimmed and he's still a little pale. Although I really try not to, find myself reaching out to touch his cheek. He cracks his eyes open and gives me a little smile.

"Feel any better?"

"Yeah." He closes his eyes again; apparently he's not in the mood to chat this morning. But when I came over last night, I made a promise to myself to let him take the lead. This is about him, not me.

"I'm going to get coffee. Do you want some?" I ask a minute later. I'm sure the coffee is done by now, but if it's not, I need to get out of this room for a minute anyway.

"Please and a drink of water too," he says without looking at me. I dry my feet and legs before heading for the kitchen.

"Tell me more about John," he says out of nowhere when I return a few minutes later. His request takes me by surprise as I hand him his water and set his coffee mug on the ledge.

"Uh sure, what do you want to know?"

"Anything, everything, just talk to me," he says as he drains the cup of water. He scoots up a little and motions for me to sit at the end of the tub. The heck with rolling up my pants. I've got an oversized t-shirt of his on, it'll cover enough. I slip off the pajamas pants and settle at the end of the tub. As I tell him little tidbits about John, everything from his favorite bedtime story, to how he broke his arm falling out of a tree when he was 8, to the girls he's dated, Josh listens intently, sipping his coffee and distractedly playing with the bubbles. I run the wash cloth over his back and shoulders and talk some more.

As I launch into a funny story of how John almost got kicked out of summer camp at the age of 12 I reach for the cup from Josh's water. I get him to lean back a little as I wet what is left of his hair. He hands me the shampoo and sighs contentedly as I wash his hair.

It's strange, but as intimate as my gesture is, that's not what it's about. It's not about intimacy, it's about closeness. Though they're related they are two different feelings and wants. It's about Josh's wanting a connection and it's about him slowly feeling comfortable enough to let me in. I think about all the times we shared a bath together. This is certainly not the first time I've washed his hair for him. Spending hours in a tub of bubbles was something we enjoyed immensely. Hiding away from the world on a Sunday afternoon was pure bliss.

Josh leans back again and I rinse his hair the best I can. "How about I leave and you rinse off under the shower?" I suggest as I set the cup on the floor. He nods and smiles as he tips his head back to look at me. I lean over and press a quick kiss to his forehead. "You okay to stand up?" I ask as I stand up and step out of the tub. I look at his face and I know he wants to say he'll be fine but I can also tell, he's not so sure. I look him in the eye, hold out my hands and help him to his feet. Before things even have a chance to get awkward, I walk out of the room without looking back.

************

After Josh gets dressed and comes out, I make some breakfast for us. We eat, catch the headlines on CNN and read the newspaper. We steer clear of any emotional subjects and that's fine with me. I'm honestly content to enjoy Josh's company. And if nothing else gets discuss, then so be it.

"You said you had pictures on CD?" Josh asks as he puts the dishes in the dishwasher.

"I do. But I think I want to take a shower first," I say as I pour the last of the coffee in his mug.

"Be my guest. I'm going to walk to the corner and get some milk; we just finished the last of it."

"Okay, be careful," I say as naturally as can be. I know Josh isn't really in dire need of a quart of milk. But what he does need is a few minutes alone. And I completely understand. I'm looking forward to a few minutes alone in the shower.

As I stand in Josh's shower, letting the warm water wash away the remains of last night I can't help but think I'm in some sort of dream. I pinch myself just to be sure I'm really awake.

Owww, yeah, that'll leave a mark.

"Josh," I call as I head into the office to grab my clothes. No answer. I dress quickly and go to peek my head out the front door. He's sitting on the front step reading the sports page. I decide to leave him be for a while. I pack up my things and pull the sheets off his bed to toss them in the washer. As I reach into the hamper to grab some clothes to fill up the load, it all feels so....so domestic. It's like I'm getting a glimpse of what could have been, or maybe even what could be.

But I really shouldn't think like that. I've hurt Josh too deeply and for too long to even entertain the thought of being a permanent part of his life.

I put a set of clean sheets on the bed before I sit on the couch and boot up his laptop. I put the picture CD in for him to look at, when he's ready.

Josh comes back in the house a little while later. He doesn't look me in the eye and I get the feeling that maybe it is time for me to go. I don't know that anything has been accomplished. Probably because I don't really have a clear idea of what we were suppose to accomplish.

"The CD is in there," I mention as I go to move the wash over to the dryer. I take my time moving the laundry over, as in I pull each piece of clothing out one by one. Still that doesn't take all that long. Josh hasn't yelled to me, asking for explanations of the pictures. Don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I fold the clean laundry I pulled out of the dryer, taking care with each piece. Some might call taking my time with each article of clothing more like "fondling" Josh's clothes but I'm trying not to think about that. I'm just folding neatly, like my mother taught me decades ago.

Yeah, right.

I hear Josh wandering around the living room and I figure it's only a matter of minutes before he comes looking for me. I pick up the laundry basket, intending to just take it into his bedroom and leave it on the chair. He follows me, holding an envelope in his hand.

I'm pretty sure I know what he's holding.

He drops it on the bed and turns to leave without a word, grabbing his sneakers on the way out of the room. I stand there staring at the bed for a minute. I hear the front door open and close. Clearly Josh does not want to be here when I read John Hoynes' letter.

I feel the same way.

I sit on the middle of the freshly made bed and pick up the envelope. I'm shaking as much as Josh was when he woke from his nightmare. I tell myself they're just words on a page. Whatever Hoynes' words are, there is no comparison between how much they hurt Josh and how much my own ultimate decision made over twenty years ago hurt him. Nothing will ever compare to how much pain I have caused Josh...and John.

I pull out the pages from the envelope and start to read.

Well, that certainly was not what I had expected. I'm not sure what I expected, but that wasn't it. Thinly veiled, behind the double talk that comes with years of political experience, John Hoynes is/was pushing Josh to think of what might have been and what still may be. John Hoynes is the last person I would have thought as someone who would give our "family" a second thought. He and Josh were never close, personally. At one time, they worked well politically together, but that was shattered years ago due to Hoynes' relationship with Helen Baldwin. It's almost as if John Hoynes wants Josh...wants all three of us, to be happy.

I just don't get that. And I don't understand why he kept quiet all these years. He always was a strange man to figure out. He was nearly on top the world and he almost threw everything away for a fling.

A fling...

I never thought of what Josh and I had as a fling. It was more than that, but ultimately, in my mind it wasn't enough of a foundation to build a family on. And that was probably, no it was, the hardest decision of my life. One that took years for me to understand. And now, just when I thought I understood my own motives, everything I've believed in and all the choices I've made come back to the surface in a rush. Nothing is clear anymore and the very foundation of my life has been rocked enough that I'm not sure where I stand.

Come to think of it, that's probably exactly how Josh is feeling right now.

I put the envelope on the dresser and wander around the room for a minute. Josh has been gone for fifteen minutes and already I miss him. Wanting to be close to him, to feel some kind of connection, I grab a sweatshirt I find hanging on the back of the door and curl myself up with it and Josh's pillow. The pillow hold the scent of Tide and Downy but the sweatshirt holds the scent of Josh, Irish Spring soap, coffee and the lingering scent of his cologne. I don't even bother to try and stop the tears. I don't think I could if I wanted to.

The clock tells me it's about an hour later when I hear the front door open. Josh says nothing as he comes in and it's a few minutes later before he even looks for me. But I'm too exhausted and emotionally worn out to even lift my head, let alone go out and find him.

I'm facing away from the door but I still feel his presence as he comes quietly into the room. He's standing next to the other side of the bed now, but he still hasn't said a word, or even really made a sound. I have no idea what he's thinking. The bed shifts as he sits down. I fell him roll over and gather me into his arms. His mere touch starts my tears all over again.

He holds me as I cry and while I'm trying to get a few coherent thoughts out. "Shhh, don't talk, just let me hold you," he whispers as he brushes my hair back.

I now have a vague idea of how much it's taking for him to let me in, how much it takes for him to set aside his well deserved feelings of betrayal and hold me...comfort me.

I feel his tears mix with mine as he presses his cheek against my hair.

"I'm only sure about one thing," he says quietly.

"What?" I ask as I turn a little to look at his face.

"That for better or for worse, now and forever, we are bound together. And somehow we have to live with that. Think we can figure it out?" he asks with a teary laugh.

"I think so. But later, I'm exhausted," I mutter as I seek comfort in his embrace.

"That makes two of us," he says as he pulls the light blanket over us. He settles me with my head on his shoulder and I snake my hand under his shirt, resting it over the scars on his chest, the visible scars. I can't see the scars I've caused but I know there are there, in his heart.

I can only hope that one day I can figure out how to heal them.

THE END

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