I nod, ignoring the sudden lump in my throat that he doesn’t want to let me in. Maybe he’s just not ready. “I found it hard to talk about losing Mom those first few years. I thought if I pretended she was away on a trip, and that she was coming back one day, then it would be easier. I guess, I denied it, hoping I could escape the grief.”
“And did you?” Sullivan asks, holding my eyes.
“No. You can’t escape it. It’s always waiting for you.”
He clears his throat, his gaze sliding to Molly.
“Sweet dreams.” He kisses her on her forehead and rises from the bed.
I kiss her in the exact spot Sullivan did and get up too. He takes the book from me and looks at it for a few seconds before putting it on the nightstand.
“Come on.”
He holds his hand out and I slide mine into his and follow him from the room. We walk into the living area, but a part of me is still in Molly’s room, watching her sleep, listening to her innocent little breaths as she dreams of whatever almost three-year-olds dream of.
Daisy chains and explorers, maybe.
Sullivan lets go of my hand and walks to the kitchen, taking out a bottle of whiskey. He lifts the bottle in question, and I shake my head. I’ve never seen him drink after putting Molly to bed before.
He pours himself a glass and knocks back a large mouthful.
I sit on the couch, waiting for him to join me. “I leave in a couple of days if I go on this tour?—”
“You’re going.” His deep voice travels across the space between us, reaching me before he does. He sinks into the couch beside me and leans back, widening his knees and sighing.
“Sull—”
“You’re going, Tate. There’s noifabout it. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“I’ll be gone for four months.”
“And three days,” he adds, tipping his head back and drinking more of the whiskey.
“And three days,” I echo. “Will you… What will that mean?”
“It will mean you’re following the path you’re supposed to.”
“I mean for us?”
“Tate…”
He looks at me, his eyes red-rimmed from tiredness. They soften as he exhales. The sigh leaving his lips is gentle, but it might as well be a nuclear bomb for what it means.
We’re over.
It’s written all over his face.
I turn away, blinking rapidly. I fight not to shiver from the iciness that’s rushed through me. He cannot be serious.
I take deep breaths, unable to face him, afraid of what I’ll see if I look into his eyes.
The piano sits across the room, illuminated by New York’s twinkling lights behind it. Its surface is the same glossy black that I once thought looked like ink. Now it resembles tar. The kind that will suck you inside it. Devour you. Drown you silently.
“It’s four months. I’ll be back before you know it. You and Molly can come and watch me perform. It’ll be fun for her,” I force out brightly, like if I ignore the ominous tension that’s surrounded us suddenly, it will disappear, and everything will be fine again.
I keep staring at the piano.
“Tate.” He sighs again.
