The World Feels Right Again

I'm back with my baby.

I'm back with Dawna.

And fuck.

The world feels right again.

It's hard to explain what I mean by that, but the closest I can come is that everything just feels like it's where it's supposed to be when I'm next to her.

We don't have to be doing anything.

I don't need to be touching her. We don't need to be locked in some loving embrace. We don't even need to be talking. Just being in the same room is enough. Being in the same building. Hell, being in the same fucking town.

Knowing she's okay.

Knowing I'm going to see her later.

Knowing she'll be in my arms at the end of the day.

That's enough to make the universe feel right.

Right now, she's lying next to me.

She's asleep, and if I wanted to, I could reach over and put my arm around her. And fuck, I really, really want to do that. I pretty much want to do that all the goddamned time.

But I also know she needs to sleep.

She needs to rest.

She needs to know that she can close her eyes and let the world disappear for a while. That she doesn't have to be on high alert. That she can finally let her body unwind from everything it's been carrying.

She feels safe again.

And right now, maybe the most loving thing I can do is lie here next to her and let her fucking sleep.

I know all this.

But damn.

It's really fucking hard not to constantly fold her up inside my arms and hug the hell out of her.

Fuck, I love her.

There was some drama over the weekend. I'm not going to go into the details because they're private, and not everything that happens in our lives belongs on the fucking internet.

Her PTSD was triggered, though, and she found herself in a situation no woman should ever have to experience.

And I was across state lines.

That was the part that fucking killed me.

I wasn't powerless, exactly. There were things I could do. Calls I could make. Problems I could work. Pieces I could start putting into place from hundreds of miles away.

But there is a particular kind of helplessness that comes from knowing the person you love is hurting and not being able to put your fucking arms around her.

I needed to be there.

So yesterday evening, I pointed Nyx north and twisted the throttle.

I left a little after six.

And for perhaps the first time in recorded history, I actually kept Nyx at relatively sane speeds because getting there fast wasn't the fucking mission.

Getting there was.

Safely.

I didn't need an accident. I didn't need a speeding ticket. I sure as fuck didn't need to create another problem that somebody else would have to solve.

I needed to arrive.

So I motored north, generally keeping the throttle somewhere around ten or fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit.

Look, I said relatively sane.

Yeah, there were a couple stretches where I pinned it and found myself wandering into triple-digit territory.

But that wasn't the norm.

Mostly.

As I got off the interstate, I could see what looked like dark thunderclouds gathering ahead of me, lightning occasionally illuminating their edges.

Fine.

If the universe wanted to throw a fucking storm at me too, I was ready.

I pulled over and geared up.

Full leathers. Jacket. Bandana pulled over my face. Waterproof gloves.

Then I climbed back onto Nyx and kept going.

Bring it.

Except somehow, I managed to stay just behind the rain for almost the entire fucking ride.

The roads were wet. There was standing water. Everything around me said the storm had just passed through.

But I wasn't getting hammered by it.

No field of rain slapping me in the face.

No little water bullets bouncing off my body at highway speeds.

Just wet pavement, darkness, Nyx beneath me, and miles disappearing behind us.

I still fucking hate riding at night, though.

The deer were thick along the side of the road, and I was on high alert. Every shadow looked like it might suddenly grow antlers and make a catastrophically stupid decision.

For the last thirty miles or so, I was actually riding below the speed limit.

Shhh.

Don't fucking tell anyone.

Because again, speed wasn't the mission.

Arrival was.

Late last night, I finally pulled into the parking lot in La Junta.

I was unpacking Nyx when she came running out.

There she was.

My baby.

Even with everything she'd been through, even carrying all the turmoil of the last couple days, she had that huge fucking smile on her face when she saw me.

And immediately, my heart was full.

Immediately.

All those miles.

All that darkness.

All the wet pavement and fucking deer.

All the waiting and worrying and trying to solve problems from another state.

Gone.

She was there.

I was there.

We were together.

And the world felt right again.

I'm here for a week.

We have things to figure out. There are problems to solve and decisions to make. There are pieces scattered around that need to be picked up and examined and put back where they belong.

And we'll fucking do that.

Together.

Because I've noticed something about us.

We think better when we're near each other.

We're calmer when we're near each other.

We're stronger when we're near each other.

Not because either one of us is incapable of standing alone. Fuck, we've both proven repeatedly that we can survive some shit.

But surviving alone and living together are two very different fucking things.

I've done enough surviving.

So has she.

Right now, the woman I love is sleeping beside me.

She's safe.

I'm here.

And for this moment, that's enough.

There will be time for everything else.

There will be time to figure out what comes next. Time to gather what needs gathering. Time to make plans. Time to deal with whatever the universe decides to throw across our path next.

But right now?

Right now, I get to lie beside the woman I love and listen to her breathe.

The storm is behind us.

The road is ahead.

And with sails full of love, our ship departs.