Push

24. He Asked for Help

💔 CONTENT WARNING 💔
Discussion of suicidal ideations.

TOBY

Zach pushed his glasses up his nose. He squinted at me like I was a tiny bug under a magnifying glass and not a six-foot-two dork in daggy running clothes.

"Mate, don't take this the wrong way," he said. "But you look like shit."

I grunted a laugh. "Fair." Hard to argue with cold, hard facts. The bags under my eyes were carrying their own bags. "I haven't been sleeping much."

Or... at all.

Last night was rough. So damn rough.

The afternoon was okay. Actually, the afternoon was perfect—the best in months. Gwen and I lazed around on the picnic rug and put aside enough of our problems to talk. Noah woke up and was full of beans and laughs. Gwen laughed a couple of times, too. She'd never understand just how happy that made me.

But family time ended too soon.

I tried to ignore the knot in my gut as I walked beside Gwen, pushing the stroller back to the car park. It was hard to keep my head high and stop my shoulders from slumping when my chest was hollow. By the time I waved goodbye—when they drove home without me—I knew I was on the brink of some kind of breakdown.

My resilience was a thin thread. Reality snapped it the moment I stepped through the front door of my apartment. I was on my own. No one to call. No family. My heart was a twisted mess, and I was just so fucking sad about everything Gwen revealed.

There was no one I could talk to about it. Gwen had kept secrets from me, but she was still the person I trusted most—needed most—in the world. The only other friend I'd clung to my whole life was a traitor. No. Ian was a lower form of bottom-feeding scum than that. He was a predator. A criminal. And the person I'd let him hurt was the person I was supposed to protect.

I'd truly failed my wife.

The guilt ached bone deep. I had no idea what to do. A relentless, unforgiving urge demanded I charge back to Ian's and make him pay for every second Gwen ever felt scared. For a breath, maybe two, I'd feel better, but it'd solve nothing. It wasn't recognizing what Gwen needed, only what I needed.

So, instead, I buried the feelings down deep with all the other realities I wasn't ready to face. I did star jumps to try to stop the surge of adrenalin that never seemed to ease. Punched the pillows until feathers floated and landed like snowflakes in my hair. Prayed my son didn't end up like me. Laid face down on the bed, hoping I'd never wake up.

The reality of that thought—what it meant—jolted through the numbness. My eyes snapped open to a pitch-black room, and I fumbled on the nightstand for my phone.

I called the crisis line.

I was okay when the automated message told me to hold. I was even okay when the plinky classical music played until the call connected. But when Mark introduced himself and I tried to explain why I was calling, I could barely spit out a single word.

In the end... I just... cried.

Guys don't cry, right? When life gets too much, you're told you have to keep that shit locked up tight. I couldn't anymore. Over the last few weeks—honestly, longer than that—so many emotions had snowballed, swelled so big there was no space inside me to shove them back down, and they spilled out the cracks of a happy-go-lucky facade I couldn't fake anymore.

Mark asked me if I was safe. Sure, I was safe. Was my wife? No. Not even close. I'd forced Gwen to be around the man who assaulted her.

And I knew.