The way forward was slow, and progress wasn’t always steady, but that was okay. I had no expectations because I was letting Justin lead the way, and I was content to do that -- shocking, I know. I’m not sure what changed -- if the many conversations I ended up having with Rob helped me shed some light on how my tendency to push down uncomfortable feelings didn’t serve me at all and had not helped Justin’s situation, or if I had just finally realized that I couldn’t always fix everything for everybody I cared about. Regardless, I ended up being much more able to live by the adage, “whatever will be, will be” than I ever had been in my life. Realizing that sometimes I had to give up control, and that maybe it wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be.

I spent a lot of time becoming well-acquainted with the waiting room at Justin’s therapist’s office, merely a spectator, just watching as “my” Justin came back to me, gradually, in pieces. With each new piece, I realized just how much was missing that had faded away so slowly that a lot of it had escaped my notice. I felt bad about that too, but that was another mental quagmire Rob refused to allow me to get caught up in. Instead, he pushed me to focus on the here and now, sounding every bit like some sort of motivational quote meme -- but that was just Rob. And honestly, I needed the reminder.

Then, Justin told me one day that he felt he’d be okay going to therapy by himself -- holding my gaze and making full eye contact the entire time, so different from how he had been just a few weeks before when he could barely look at me when he spoke. It was another example of the “old” Justin coming back, thanks to therapy helping him sort through his thoughts and medication bringing his brain chemistry back into balance. His confidence slowly returned, and he was smiling more. There was still an internal fight sometimes, and I could see it, but the Justin I’d always known was shining through more and more, and that was an enormous relief for me to see.

Not every day was a good day, but that was to be expected. Sometimes Justin wanted comfort after a session, and he’d spend the evening holding my hand or leaning up against me, letting me hold him. Other times, he just wanted to be alone so he could process something particularly difficult. Those were the times that were the hardest for me and the “fixer” mentality I’d had since I was a teenager -- fixing things for the people I cared about as some sort of a way to compensate for the lack of control and the lack of caring I’d experienced in my childhood. Those were the times that tested my willingness to let go and allow the path to take us wherever it led. But I did it. And we both lived.

One evening, while Justin was taking some time to be alone in our bedroom as I worked in our home office, trying to catch up on everything I’d had to put off thanks to my unexpected time away and the erratic, abbreviated work schedule that had followed, I heard him talking on the phone to Jennifer. I realized then that those phone calls were another thing he’d done less and less often, so gradually I hadn’t noticed it. I tried not to eavesdrop, but I got concerned when I realized he was telling her the whole story -- why he’d been so out of touch, and what had happened the day I found him on the bathroom floor. I still tried not to listen, out of respect for his privacy, but I caught bits and pieces, and that was enough to get the gist. I was worried that revisiting that day might cause Justin to backslide, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. By letting Jennifer in, Justin was able to affirm to her and to himself that he was okay, he was working through the thoughts and feelings that had led him to that moment, and everything was going to be fine. He’d gone into the bedroom that day looking anxious, but when he came out, he seemed a little bit lighter -- like a burden had been lifted.

Eventually, I returned to my normal routine, working at the office from nine to six each weekday, while Justin spent his days focused on taking care of himself and doing what felt good. Sometimes that meant I came home to dinner on the table after Justin found a new recipe he wanted to try, and sometimes that meant an extra yoga class or two, or going for a walk together in the neighborhood. Sometimes it meant going to one of Gus’ soccer games and being proud parents together. And sometimes it meant letting Justin have space and time to be alone, which also gave me a lot of time to think.

I kept thinking about what Justin had told Rob and Adam at dinner, the night before our entire world was turned on its ear, about how he wanted to take a break from art for a while. As Justin slowly returned to normal, or some semblance of it, I knew he would probably start needing or wanting something to do to fill his days and give him a purpose. Art had been that thing for him for a long time, in one way or another, either working on his own stuff, or teaching art to kids, or working for me at Kinnetik. But it sounded like Justin wanted to eliminate art entirely, at least for a while. The last time he’d said something like that had been a few months after the bashing, when he was frustrated with school and his “gimp hand” and the asshole dean who refused to make reasonable accommodations for a student with a disability. (If only I’d known then what I know now, we’d probably own that damned school.) But back then, Justin’s self-imposed break hadn’t lasted long, because it hadn’t been something he really wanted -- it was just something he said out of frustration. Was this the same? Possibly. I didn't really know, since I hadn't been there. But I did know that Justin hadn't been to his studio since that day, nor had he mentioned it. So maybe he was serious this time.

I found myself sitting at my desk in my downtime at the office, trying to think of ideas for things Justin might like to do that had nothing to do with art, and finding that to be a very difficult prospect. Art and Justin had been synonymous for such a long time that it was hard to separate the two. But if he wanted to do something else for a while, or even for good, I would support that. I just wanted him to be happy, no matter what that looked like. I knew it wasn’t my responsibility to figure that out for him, but it helped me feel useful and was another way I felt I could make up for any contribution I’d made in enabling Justin’s negative behaviors when I should have fucking said something. Anything. Trying to continue to let that shit go through positive action.

That was exactly what I was doing when Cynthia came into my office on a Friday afternoon, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“You allowed to drink?” she asked, holding up the wine and raising an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I looked up at her, arching my own eyebrow in return.

Cynthia gestured toward my foot -- still in the damn boot anytime I was upright for another two weeks at least, and currently propped on an ottoman I’d asked an intern to drag into the office for me from the huddle space.

“Oh,” I said. “No, I’m good. I’m off the heavy duty shit now.”

“Good.” She smiled and set the glasses down on my desk, then poured us each some wine. “Because I’d hate to have to celebrate all on my own.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“Yours truly landing the Kate Spade account.”

“No shit.” I knew she’d been after that account since she moved to New York, so that definitely explained the very expensive bottle of wine that was currently on my desk.

“What can I say? I was irresistible.” Cynthia winked as she took a seat in the chair in the corner and kicked off her shoes. “How’s Justin doing?”

I tried not to sigh outwardly at her question, because I knew it came from a place of caring, and I appreciated that people cared, but I never felt like I could answer those questions with anything more than a cursory, “He’s doing okay,” or “He’s doing better,” since no one among our family and friends knew the whole story except Justin and myself, and now Jennifer. It still wasn’t my story to tell, though, and it never would be. It was Justin’s, and that meant that the three of us might be the only ones who ever knew, save for Justin’s therapist, of course. Rob had never asked for any further details, but I could tell from the things he said and did that he had made some presumptions about what I’d gone home to that day, and that he was likely right on target. Cynthia had never asked either, though I’d gotten an impression that she had a vague idea of what had happened as well, or at least that she understood the seriousness of the situation. She knew Justin’s history and how his brain injury affected his mental state, and she’d been around Justin on more than one occasion in the past few months, so I knew she would have at least noticed something was off, even if she didn’t mention it.

“He’s doing better,” I said, hoping that would be enough. It was an honest answer, vague as it was.

“Good.” Cynthia gave me a reassuring smile as she sipped her wine. “I’m glad he’s okay. What are you working on? Now that I’ve interrupted you and given you alcohol,” she laughed.

“Justin mentioned he’d like to take a break from art for a while, so I’ve been looking for things, trying to find something he could do that wouldn’t involve art, but it’s fucking hard.” I left out the part about just how deep in the shit he’d been when he said that, making it sound a hell of a lot more casual and natural, even though my brain was still wondering who this Justin without art was going to be.

“He’s been doing art for a long time. I can understand needing a break, especially if there’s a lot of pressure. Sometimes you get burned out.” She paused and took another drink. “What does he think he might like to do instead?”

“Hell if I know.”

“You haven’t asked?”

Cynthia looked confused, and I didn’t blame her, because I knew it made no sense that I was trying to solve this “problem” for Justin without having any direction from him at all. He and I had never even talked about what he’d told Rob and Adam at that dinner. But I also didn’t want to have to explain why I felt like this was just something I needed to do, to make things up to Justin.

“Just thinking ahead,” I said, shrugging. Hoping she’d accept that answer. Thankfully, she did. Probably only because she knew me a little too well.

“Well, he likes to read, right? I saw a sign at the library that they were looking for volunteers.”

I wasn’t sure I could see Justin working at the information desk at the library, but I think a lot of it was that unbreakable tie I had in my mind between Justin and painting, or drawing, or sculpting… just creating. I had trouble seeing him doing anything else. But I supposed I would have to get used to it.

“I know they have a lot of events at Central Park. I bet they could always use people to help with those,” Cynthia continued. “Or he could be a tour guide.”

I knew how much Justin loved going up to Central Park, but I also knew that what he really loved to do when he went there was look for inspiration for art projects. Still, it might not be too bad of an idea. And there was Bryant Park, too, a little closer to our apartment. We’d been to a few events there ourselves over the years. So maybe that would be a good fit.

Cynthia and I spent a little more time kicking around ideas together, before the conversation shifted over to her weekend plans with her new lawyer boytoy. We finished the bottle of wine while talking about a few “dream” accounts we were after, then decided to declare an official end to the workday and close the office a couple of hours early.

Justin wasn’t home when I got back to the apartment, but that was to be expected, since his Friday therapy appointment was later in the afternoon. I wondered what sort of mood he’d be in when he got back. I knew it could be just about anything, but I was hoping for one of the good days, so we could spend the evening doing something fun, or otherwise just being together. Still, I also knew I had to accept whatever happened, and if it was a night when Justin wanted or needed some time to himself, I would give him that, even though it was Friday night and I really wanted to go out to dinner, or a movie, or go listen to some live music. Something we hadn’t done in a while. Though honestly, it didn’t matter what we did, as long as I was with Justin.

When Justin walked through the door, I could tell he was still reflecting and thinking, as he’d likely been doing on the cab ride home, but the upright way he was carrying himself -- and the way he was humming quietly to himself as he hung up his coat -- seemed to indicate he was in a good mood. I was thankful for that. It was such a shift from where we’d been a few weeks before that it really made me appreciate those good days. Maybe because I knew just how bad the bad days could get.

I was sitting at the dining room table, paging through a cookbook Justin had apparently been looking through himself at some point that day, since it hadn’t been there when I’d left for work that morning. I’d changed into a pair of jeans and one of my favorite long-sleeved t-shirts, ready for a casual night out or else an evening at home -- whatever Justin wanted to do. Mostly, I was letting my mind wander, trying to unwind from the day.

I watched Justin’s eyes as he looked me up and down, his perfect lips turning up into the slightest hint of a smile as he crossed the room and came up behind me, wrapping his arms around me from behind and leaning down to kiss my cheek. God, I’d missed those little things.

“Surprised to see you looking at desserts,” he said, giving me a teasing grin over my shoulder. I’d missed that too.

“For you. Not for me,” I said. Justin could certainly stand to put a few pounds back on, after his lack of appetite had resulted in him losing a noticeable amount of weight that he didn’t need to lose. “But this does look good.” I tapped my index finger on the open page, which featured a picture of an apple cinnamon coffee cake that the author declared “perfect for all of your fall gatherings.”

“What else were you thinking about?” Justin asked, as he took a seat in the chair to my right and propped his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand. “I know you better than to think you were just admiring the coffee cake.”

“I was just thinking we hadn’t cooked together in a while. Things have been so…”

I wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence without making Justin feel guilty, and I wished I hadn’t started it, but he saved me when he just said, “I know. I miss it too.”

“Why don’t we do that tonight, then? We can go to Trader Joe’s, pick up some stuff for dinner, and just have a night in.” That was another thing that the “old” Brian Kinney would never in a million years have suggested -- something so domestic, bordering on romantic with the right attitude. Like candlelight picnics with wine and cheese on the floor of my loft in Pittsburgh, that I now regretted not taking the time to enjoy. But if I had, who’s to say that Justin and I would still be where we are right now?

“I’d like that.” Justin smiled at me -- still not quite his full-wattage sunshine smile, but it was getting there. Still, I wanted to soak it in and savor it. Justin’s smile was among the things I never wanted to take for granted again.

We walked to the store together -- well, he walked and I pushed, but you get the picture -- and bought the ingredients to make homemade pizza with a slightly non-traditional twist, choosing pesto and parmesan instead of red sauce and mozzarella, and lots of vegetables. Justin made a big show of picking up the ingredients for the coffee cake too, teasing me about all the carbs and sugar, but for once I didn’t protest. It really did look good, and if Justin wanted to make it, I sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him. I’d probably even eat a slice or two, just because. We bypassed the wine section, since I’d already had enough to drink for the day, and Justin wasn’t supposed to be drinking at all while they tried to get his new medications regulated. Then, we made our way back home, taking in the cool fall evening and what remained of a beautiful sunset, painting the western sky with shades of deep red and purple.

We made our pizza, enjoying our time together in the kitchen, laughing and teasing each other -- all things I’d missed much more than I realized -- then settled down in front of the television to watch a couple more episodes of “Tales of the City.” I was glad Michael had turned me on to that series, because Justin seemed to be enjoying it just as much as I was. Mostly, though, I was happy to be spending time with my husband, and to see him smiling a little, laughing a little, and to feel him snuggled into my side, seemingly content. He still wasn’t back to one-hundred percent, and I was sure it would probably be a long time before he was back there, but things were definitely looking up, and I was happy about that. Happy for Justin, really, because it meant he was feeling at least somewhat better, and that was all I wanted for him -- to find his new normal, whatever that would be.