It felt good to have everything out in the open -- to be intimate, and to find our connection with one another again. Things were looking up. But there’s no switch to turn off depression, so there were certainly bad days in the mix as well. And I’d be lying if I said that sometimes the bad days didn’t scare me, especially now that I knew the whole story.

The days when Justin still struggled to get out of bed or to find his appetite -- or the days when he just seemed down and needed to give himself permission to feel that way without feeling like he needed to “fix” it or hide it or get past it somehow -- were all hard days for me, because they left me questioning whether or not the next day would be better, or if we were headed back in the same direction we’d come from. But the next day was almost always better, and that did a lot to allay my fears. I had to keep reminding myself that Justin was under the care of a professional, and even if he didn’t always frame things that way when he mentioned them, a lot of Justin’s new behaviors had come from his therapist’s suggestions.

We were going for strolls on the High Line more often -- which was good for both of us, to be honest -- and Justin was cooking again most nights. I’d missed his cooking more than I was willing to admit, and I was glad it was back. Justin had also taken up spending some time every night writing in a little hardcover book he’d picked up at the same discount store he bought most of his clothes from. (No doubt at the same time he’d bought the slouchy, two-sizes-too-large hoodie he’d been wearing around the apartment every day.) Writing in the journal was supposed to help Justin find an outlet for his feelings -- to give him what he’d once had in art, before the pressure of trying to make a living from it changed everything and attached a shit-ton of negative emotions to it.

Watching Justin write reminded me so much of watching him draw after the bashing, when he’d drawn some of the most disturbing images I’d ever seen him produce as he tried to process the fact that someone had wanted to hurt him enough to swing a baseball bat at his head. While this situation wasn’t exactly the same -- and thank god, he wasn’t out holding a gun to anyone’s head this time -- I could see every bit of the anger, frustration, anxiety, and sadness he was feeling coming out in the way that he moved the pen across the paper. The faces he’d make as he wrote. The way that he sometimes chewed on the pen as he looked thoughtfully across the room, sitting beside me in bed, turned just slightly so I couldn’t see what he was writing.

A part of me was curious about what he was writing, if for no other reason than because it would give me more insight into how my husband was feeling, but I had to trust that if it was something I needed to know, or that he needed my support with, he would tell me. Otherwise, it was none of my business -- just a part of the process, and something Justin needed to do in order to bring himself back into a comfortable equilibrium.

Of course, part of finding equilibrium was being social again, including having the occasional dinner with Rob, Adam, and their girls, either at their apartment or ours. Rob’s birthday fell on a Sunday, which happened to be our regular night, and Rob and I felt it would be the perfect opportunity to get back into that particular routine, since the focus would be on Rob, not Justin. It was harder than I expected it to be to convince Justin to go, though, given that the last time he’d been to their apartment was the night before his breakdown.

“I’m embarrassed,” Justin admitted reluctantly to me in bed that morning, probably only because I’d asked him why he was anxious -- why his breathing was more rapid than normal, and why I could feel his heart beating, even though we’d just woken up. “Especially since I don’t even remember it. Who knows what else I said or did?”

“It doesn’t matter. They get it,” I said, tightening my arm around Justin and hoping it was comforting. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. And you’ve seen Rob at my office a couple of times already. It was fine. This will be too.”

“Do they know?” Justin closed his eyes, and I knew right then what Justin was worried about, because that was what he did when he asked a question that he really didn’t want to know the answer to. I’d been wondering if Justin had talked to Adam on the phone at all, and that gave me my answer. Apparently he hadn’t, and it seemed like the reason why was because he was afraid to talk about what had happened the last time they saw each other.

“I haven’t said anything. I think Rob has a pretty good idea though, and I know he and Adam don’t keep secrets. But it doesn’t matter. Like I said, they get it. No one’s going to interrogate you. They’ll all just be glad to see you.”

“What about the girls? They were there too.”

“I’m sure if they had questions, Rob and Adam have answered them. I know they’re pretty open about that kind of thing.” Given the girls’ past -- especially Esme, who was old enough to remember the years of her young life before they came to live with Rob and Adam -- I knew that talking about feelings and not keeping secrets from each other was an important part of life in the Anderson-Manning household.

“Yeah,” Justin sighed as he blinked his eyes open again. “It would be nice to see the girls.”

“Just focus on them. And teasing Rob about being older than dirt.” I grinned, hoping Justin would laugh at my attempt to lighten the mood, and I was rewarded with a chuckle, a small smile, and a shake of the head.

“You know you two are practically the same age, right?” Justin turned his head to look up at me, still smiling.

“Yeah, but he’ll be 49 for a whole eight months before I get there. Details. They’re important, Sunshine.”

“Whatever, old man.”

I hadn’t realized just how much I missed hearing Justin use that moniker -- one I’d previously felt he used far too often -- until that moment. But I’d missed my husband’s good-natured teasing, be it about my age or my vanity or the fact that my clothes took up more than three-quarters of our walk-in closet. Those little things were a part of us. Another part that had been missing for too long.

Eight hours later, I was in the elevator at Rob and Adam’s building with a still-nervous Justin, holding his hand and trying to offer silent reassurance. I’d been offering him reassurance all day, both verbally and otherwise, though I wasn’t sure how much of an effect it had. Justin had spent most of the afternoon sitting on the balcony, staring out toward the river and writing in his journal off and on. I wondered what he was writing about, but again, I knew it was none of my business. Just part of the process. And apparently something he needed to do in order to psych himself up to go see our friends -- people we considered to be family, actually -- which made me a little sad. But I hoped that once this first time was out of the way, Justin would feel a lot less anxious about it.

Sophia answered the door, barely getting it open before she bounded out into the hallway and wrapped her arms around Justin’s waist briefly before throwing herself into my lap and giving me a bear hug of my own.

“You have to let them in, Soph.” I heard Rob’s voice call from inside the apartment. Sophia slid reluctantly off my lap and led the way inside.

There were hugs and smiles exchanged all around as we entered, and it wasn't long before Justin's nervousness seemed to melt away. We sat around the table, enjoying good food and good conversation, and those few hours gave me a chance to remember how much I enjoyed watching Justin smile and laugh. No one brought up anything that might have happened the last time Justin had been there, just as I figured they wouldn’t, and it seemed like Justin had a great time.

I wondered if things might get awkward when Esme started talking about an art project she was working on for school, but Justin was still engaged and interested in everything she was telling and showing him, even though I could tell he was a little bit lost in his thoughts after the topic of conversation shifted again. Soon, though, he was back to being fully involved, rolling his eyes when I teased Rob about being on the edge of fifty, chatting with Adam about the books they’d both been reading, and making a show out of sliding his plate of birthday cake away from me when I tried to steal a bite. For those few hours, it was like the “old” Justin was back, only minus the talk about his own art projects.

Justin still hadn’t been back to his studio, and I hadn’t brought it up, because I didn’t want him to feel pressured. It felt so strange for me to consider the idea that Justin might not ever go back to being a professional artist, but at the same time, I knew it wasn’t my place to reject that, if it was what he wanted.

Still, I was struggling to figure out what Justin-without-art looked like, and sometimes I wondered if Justin was struggling with the same. But he helped me start putting the pieces together when he began volunteering at Bryant Park, first helping with an outdoor movie, then an ice cream social, and always coming home smiling and looking fulfilled, just like he had when he was teaching, or when he was really pleased with the work he’d gotten done in his studio on a given day. So maybe he didn’t need art to feel like he’d accomplished something or done something worthwhile. Maybe I just needed to learn how to separate Justin and all things art.

I felt like that got easier with each time Justin came home from an event with a smile on his face -- one that was progressively getting closer to his sunshine smile with each passing day, it seemed. I loved it when he told me all about someone he’d met or helped or talked to, because it meant that Justin was putting himself out there again.

Then, I came home from work one day and Justin told me what the next event was that he would be assisting with -- an all-day art show.

I was apprehensive about it because it sounded to me like Justin was going to be putting himself right in the middle of a giant trigger, just as things were starting to look better on a more consistent basis. He’d likely be associating with many of the same people he had when he was actively showing his own art, and I wondered if he’d be comparing himself to them. If he’d end up sending himself down the same road all over again, feeling like a failure.

“I’ll be fine,” Justin said, and I could have sworn I saw him roll his eyes before he turned to face me fully, the fingers of his left hand still wrapped around the spoon he was stirring our dinner with. Then, he smiled at me. Peacefully, reassuringly. A look I hadn’t seen from him in far too long. But there still seemed to be something else underneath. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“But what if--”

“I can’t hide forever. I’m going to see people I know eventually, and those people are probably going to ask me about art. I have to get used to that.”

I could tell he was trying to be blasé, but his posture as he turned back around and stared down at the skillet looked anxious -- tense shoulders and a faraway look -- and totally different from the way he’d been just a few seconds before. I came closer and wrapped my arm around his waist. “You don’t have to do it now, though,” I said softly. “Maybe you should wait until--”

“Until what? Until everyone in the art world forgets about me?” His tone was acerbic, and I hadn’t heard that from Justin in a long time either, though this didn’t seem like a positive return. This seemed like it was masking something else. Justin was pushing the spoon around the skillet almost aggressively, and I wondered if he wanted to yell at me or if he wanted to cry, or both.

“People aren’t going to forget about you or your story,” I said gently, as I took the spoon from Justin and set it aside before taking both of his hands in my own and pulling him around to face me once again. “Your work still exists. It’s hanging in galleries and in people’s homes and their offices. Hell, people still ask who painted that gorgeous mural in our lobby, and I’m so fucking proud to tell them that it’s my husband’s creation. Even if you never paint another stroke, that isn’t going to go away.”

“I know,” Justin said, this time much quieter. He was looking me in the eye, but I could see the reluctance there. “I feel like I need to do this, though. I need to face it. And if I’m never going to paint or sculpt again…” He stopped and took a shaky breath. “I don’t know if that will be the case, but if it is, I need to make peace with that. Accept where I am and be okay with it.”

I knew he wasn’t wrong, but it was hard to continue to respect Justin’s autonomy and allow him to make this decision for himself when I was scared to death that he might be putting himself in a bad situation. But I couldn’t make this about me or what I thought. It had to be about what he thought.

“Are you sure that now is the time, though?” I asked, mostly because that was the only way I could think of to express my own hesitation -- my concern for his mental health -- without straight-up saying, ‘I think this is a bad idea.’

“I already said I would do it.”

“You could tell them something came up. I can plan us a ‘surprise’ vacation that just so happens to be next weekend.”

“It’ll be fine. Like I said, I can’t hide forever. Do I feel totally ready? No, not at all. But I’m not sure I ever will. John and I have talked about this. I’ve got a lot of things I need to figure out, and this could be the start of it. Just being there, without pressure. Being in the art world without being in it. I need to do this. I promise I’ll be okay.”

I let the topic drop after that, even though in the back of my mind, I still wondered if Justin’s promise was really just him reassuring me, or if he was also trying to convince himself. Either way, I knew that once Justin Taylor had made his mind up about something, there was no changing it, because Justin was nothing if not persistent -- the wedding band on my finger was a prime example of such.

When the day of the show came around, I had to keep myself busy, purely because otherwise I ran the risk of going down to the park to check on Justin, which I knew I couldn’t do. I had to trust him and let him have his space, which meant I also had to remind myself continually that if he’d wanted me to come, he would have asked me to. Still, I wondered what the outcome would be -- if he’d come home feeling down or upset, or if he would have accomplished his goal of figuring out where his life went from here, and whether or not art would be a part of it.

I tried to find things to do at home to distract myself, but that was hard -- mostly because I didn’t want to sit at home alone, since it reminded me too much of the many days I’d done that when Justin was stuck in the depths of his depression, spending almost all of his time at his studio but getting nothing done. And this was a day when I especially did not need to be reminded of that.

So I ended up deciding to go to the gym and at least make an attempt at getting back into my regular routine. I’d had to skip my last several scheduled sessions with my personal trainer, partially because of what had happened with Justin, and partially because of my broken foot. I was still in the damn boot, but hopefully not for much longer, since I’d already been told that a good x-ray at my next appointment would mean I was free. I’d still have to be careful, of course, because the bone was weaker now and it would be easy to reinjure it, at least for a while, but I was ready to get back to wearing my designer shoes and not feeling the extra weight of the boot every time I had to reposition my right leg.

As usual, I drew a lot of attention at the gym -- and not the kind of attention I used to seek out back at Ript Gym in Pittsburgh. I was never quite sure if I actually got less stares when I worked out with my trainer, or if I just didn’t notice because I was so focused on what we were doing. But anytime I was by myself, it seemed like people’s eyes were drawn to me, like they were wondering what I was doing there, which was frustrating. Rob and I both shared that frustration, as did a lot of our friends who used wheelchairs as well -- the idea that it was somehow surprising that we were working out and taking care of ourselves. As always, Rob had a positive way to frame it -- he said we were helping break down stereotypes about wheelchair users -- but sometimes I struggled to look at it that way. Mostly, I found it distracting, and I really just wished people would mind their own business. That day, I felt like I got even more curious glances, probably because of that damn boot, but I used my frustration as motivation to push myself even more, to start getting back any strength I’d lost over the last several weeks.

After about an hour at the gym, I was tired and hungry, and it got even harder to resist the urge to just stop by the park to scope things out and see how Justin was doing. But it wasn’t exactly easy for me to blend into a crowd, so I knew that would be risky at best, if I didn’t want Justin to know I was there. And I didn’t, because I didn’t want him to think I didn’t trust him and his judgment. I did trust him, but after all we’d been through in the last few months, it was hard not to worry. Hard not to be there. Hard not to know if he needed me.

In the meantime, I needed food and distraction, so I rode the subway over to the office, stopping by the cafe on the corner for a salad before going upstairs to a peaceful, deserted Kinnetik. Truthfully, I liked being the only one at the office, because it was so quiet, and with no one there to bother me, I usually felt like I could get a lot of work done. But that day, my brain had other ideas, and no matter how many times I tried to force myself to focus on the campaign on the screen in front of me, my mind kept going back to wondering what was going on at Bryant Park and resisting the urge to call Justin and check up on him. I knew there would be no way I’d be able to get away with trying to make that phone call sound casual or coincidental; he’d know exactly why I’d called. So it was best not to call at all.

Eventually, I gave up and headed back toward home, but when I passed by Monetti's shortly after exiting the subway, I decided a drink sounded pretty good. Lucky for me, the distraction-granting gods were on my side, and I ended up going into the restaurant just as the last customers of the late lunch rush were leaving, freeing up Nick to shoot the shit with me for a bit before he had to get back to doing whatever restaurant owners do in the back office.

We opened a new bottle of wine -- one he was sampling to decide whether or not to add to the menu -- and I even got to try a new dessert for the holiday menu that I was sure Justin would love.

"I've missed seeing you guys in here," Nick said, as he refilled my glass despite my protests that I could serve myself, especially since the wine was free.

"We've had a lot going on," I said, keeping my wording purposely vague. I still felt awkward about responding to people's concern about why Justin and I had been a little out of touch lately. Like I was lying to them somehow when I gave them a cagey answer. But it still wasn't my place to say anything more, and it never would be. I just hoped it would all pass soon, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.

Nick nodded, easily accepting my response. "I get that. Not sure why fall always seems so crazy, but it does. Then come the holidays, and it's a madhouse in here until January, then it's dead for a month because everyone's on some diet that has them avoiding pasta, and I have to wait until they give up on that, usually just in time for Valentine's Day. Speaking of diets, I'm surprised as hell that you didn't even pretend to refuse that orange ginger cake."

“Let's just say I'm turning over a new leaf when it comes to things like that. Appreciating the good things in life and all.” I stopped short of adding one of Rob’s favorite sayings -- you only live once -- lest Nick think that Rob’s motivational quote disease was contagious. But what I had said was true -- after the events of the last few months, I wasn't taking anything for granted, and I was going to try my damndest to enjoy it all.

“I think that’s a good philosophy,” Nick said, as he turned up his wine glass and swallowed what little was left in the bottom. “We never know how much time we have, do we?”

“Nope.” I finished the last of my own glass of wine, using the action to fill the silence, since I didn’t want to elaborate on the details of my newfound perspective on life and what had brought it about. But even though I wished the circumstances that had led me there were different -- more positive, and less dire -- I was thankful for where I’d ended up.

“I guess I’m not telling you anything new there,” Nick chuckled, giving me pause for a moment before I realized he was looking at my chair.

I didn’t often think about my injury that way -- that I could have died that day, from shock if nothing else. That I was brought into a trauma center by helicopter, and I didn’t remember any of it. But even all of that hadn’t been enough to fully awaken me to what was important in life. It had taken a lot more than that, and I still hated that my own awakening had come at the cost of a lot of suffering on Justin’s part. But I knew there was no point dwelling on that -- I just had to remind myself again that the only way to go from here was forward.

Nick’s head chef had just brought us a plate of bruschetta with goat cheese and roasted red peppers -- another possible menu addition -- when my phone rang on the table, and Justin’s face flashed up on the screen.

For a split second, the worry I’d been feeling all day -- and had finally managed to sufficiently distract myself from -- came bubbling back to the surface. I tried my best to push it down, though, as I slid my finger across the screen and held the phone to my ear.

I could still hear the hesitance in my voice as I answered, not quite sure what to expect from my husband, but as soon as Justin spoke, any anxiety I’d been feeling instantly melted away.

“I just had the best day I've had in a long time.”