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He didn’t leave.
He didn’t leave. I’m not alone.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, surveying the room. Without hesitation, he walks in and sticks his arm in the tub, soaking the sleeve of his hoodie, and pops the drain.
I didn’t even think about the fucking drain.
The danger my mother is in subsides with every lost inch of water. Relief floods me too hard and too fast. I release all the pent-up emotion, sobbing as I hold my mother up until the tub is fully drained, only releasing her when the last drop of water disappears.
Her body slumps into the tub, her chin falling to her shoulder.
I don’t know who moves first, but I haven’t taken another breath before I’m in Ian’s arms and he’s holding me while I soak his hoodie with tub water and my tears.
“That was so fucking scary,” I say, my voice weak and muffled against the fabric.
“I’m so sorry, Jade,” he says, his voice so soft and comforting. It brings a fresh round of tears.
Being held by Ian, I feel safe for the first time all night. He holds me until my sobs slow, turning to hiccups; until my heart rate slows, my breaths coming in and out more evenly. He holds me until I loosen my grip on him, letting me decide how much I need.
“Come on—let’s go sit on the bed,” he says, taking my hands in his.
“But the water . . . and my mom, she— I need to?—”
“We’ll clean up the water in a minute. We’ll take care of your mom, but first we’re going to just sit for a second.” His eyes are kind, his voice firm.
Ian leads me to my mom’s bed, which is a mess, but we just sit on the edge.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I came in the house and found her like this. I don’t know how long she was in the bath. When I got here, she was passed out. The tub was overflowing.” I gesture to the room and the bathroom.
“The water was still pretty warm. I don’t think she’d been in there long,” he says, rubbing his hand in a slow circle on my back. His touch is soothing, and among the raging wildfire of adrenaline and fear swirling inside me, a river of calm starts to fight its way through the chaos.
“It was so scary,” I say. “What if I didn’t get here on time? What if I’d been thirty minutes later? I mean, her head was barely above the water—” I choke on my own words, covering my mouth with my hand. Panic rises from my chest, stinging the back of my throat. The reality of what Icould havewalked in on, what Icould havecome home to—it steals whatever calm I’ve cultivated in the past few minutes. I get the feeling I’m going to float away, and I fold my arms across my stomach, holding myself so I don’t.
Ian wraps both of his arms around me, and I lean into him, letting him ground me.
“She’s safe. She’s alive. You got here on time. Thinking about the what-ifs isn’t going to help. Focus on what is happening right now,” he says, his voice low and soothing in my ear. “She’s okay, and so are you.”
A fresh round of tears falls from my eyes before I can stop them, relief leaving my body and streaking down my face. I shift to sit all the way up, wiping my nose with my hoodie sleeve. Ian takes my face in his hands, swiping at my tears with each of his thumbs, wiping them away as they roll down my cheeks.
I’m at war with myself considering the truth of his words. On the one hand, he’s right. Thinking about the what-ifs is not helpful right now, but I’m still haunted by what almost happened. I think it’ll stay with me longer than I want it to.
“It’s really nice to not be alone right now,” I say, my voice wobbly.
“I couldn’t leave you,” he says.
The sincerity in his voice, the low, gentle tone he uses, cracks open my already fragile heart, and I wind my arms around him. I couldn’t conjure the words to thank him even if I were a witch, so this hug will have to suffice.
He holds me again until I move away. Only after I’ve wiped my face dry and taken a few deep breaths does he say anything else.
“Should we clean up?” he asks, and I nod, leading him to the hall closet.
“Just use all the towels. If you want to start in the bathroom, I’ll get a box fan to start drying the bedroom floor,” I say as I point Ian to the stack of towels on the shelves.
“Do you have a blanket we can put on your mom? Just until we can get her changed and into her bed,” he asks.
“I’ll grab a sleeping bag when I’m in the garage,” I say over my shoulder as Ian piles towels of all sizes into his arms.
