For several long moments, Orla and I stand frozen, numb, watching him physically fall apart before our eyes.
Then Orla places herself in his unsteady line of vision and says firmly, “We’ll figure it out, Declan. We always do. But you’re no good to anyone in this state.”
She blinks behind her glasses, and I’m afraid to look too closely. If I see her tears, I’ll lose my shit too, and she needs me to stay strong. Declan needs us both.
“Open the door, child.” She gestures with her eyes for me to help.
I don’t know how she is keeping it together. Maybe she’ll crash when the enormity of the situation hits her, but for now, she’s being the matriarch she has probably always been.
Somehow, we maneuver Declan upstairs and into his room. Several times, he stumbles onto his knees, and it takes all our strength to get him upright again. But when he falls into bed and curls himself up into the fetal position, I feel like I can breathe again.
“I’ll make coffee and get him some water,” I say. “We need to keep him hydrated.”
Orla stares at my cell phone on the nightstand before dragging her eyes to meet mine. “I’ll go. You stay with Declan.” She looks as if she wants to say more but decides against it.
When I’m alone in the room with Declan, I perch on the edge of the bed and pull the covers over him. He grabs my hand and doesn’t let go.
That’s where I am when Orla comes back to the room.
8
DECLAN
My head,when I wake up, feels like a wrecking ball that was set to work on an entire fucking city. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I can smell my own breath.
But this is nothing compared to the tsunami that crashes through me when I remember the reason why I drank myself into a stupor.
I sit up, shivering. My phone. I check the nightstand. Empty.
Need to get up. Stuff to do. Calls to make.
“Declan?” The voice penetrates the thick fug that is currently swamping my brain. “How are you feeling?”
Amelia.
She’s here in my room, hovering over me like a beautiful fucking angel.
An angel that I don’t deserve.
“Like fucking shit. What did I do with my phone?” I’m blunt, but my head is hurting too much for me to take it back or dwell on hurting her feelings.
I’mhurting too much. Need to keep my grief at bay. Need to find out what happened to my son and end the fucker who killed him.
“It must still be in your study.”
She doesn’t come any closer. I can’t fucking blame her, I must look as bad as I feel.
“Clothes.” Because I’m in full-on caveman mode now, talking in grunts and demands. “Things to do.”
“Declan?” Amelia sits beside me on the bed. I can smell her shampoo, feel her warmth, hear her heartbeat through the pounding inside my skull. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
My eyes meet hers. It’s a mistake. I know it the instant I see the kindness in them, the concern, the tiny vertical frown lines between her eyebrows. The hole in my heart through which my son drifted away last night expands, sucking the air from my lungs, and blurring my vision.
It must be written all over my face because Amelia wraps her arms around me and pulls my head onto her chest. And I cling to her, holding her arms in place like they’re all that’s keeping me alive. Tears spill from my eyes. Silent sobs racking my body, draining the life from me and leaving me empty.
A husk.
But even a husk can feel. It can bleed. It can focus on the one thing that will get me through this.
