“Yes?”
“Please hurry.”
“I am,” he says. I hear him, his quickened footsteps against gravel as he runs and the sound of his heavy breaths into the phone. “Whatever it is,” he says, panting, “we’ll figure it out together. I’ll make it right.”
A broken sob escapes my lips as I fold into myself, hugging my arm around my waist as I slump against the wall and slide down to the floor. “I’m afraid this is a problem that not evenyoucan fix,” I whisper, sniffing back tears as I look up at the ceiling.
“What about ABBA?” he asks, voice strained from running.
“No chance.”
“Take a chance on—” He pauses. “Probably not the best time for jokes.”
“I appreciated it,” I say, wiping away tears. “But probably not.”
“Okay, I’m here.”
“Already?” I say, moving to stand. “That was fast.”
“The back door is locked.”
“I’m coming,” I say, wiping my face as I step out into the darkened hallway and weave my way through my parents’ home. It looks different…feelsdifferent. Unfamiliar and ominous andnothing like it once was: a place where color and liveliness and joy and art and music had existed in overflowing, abundant quantities.
I’ve been so afraid that there’s too much sadness here now, too much loss, to ever revive it. And now, that feels more possible than ever. Maybe life willalwaysbe better in the past.
I hang up and slide my phone into my pocket once I see Milo’s silhouette through the back door.
I open it and immediately throw myself against him.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he curls his hand over the back of my neck, tucking me closer.
“Hey, Killer, what’s happening?” he says softly, bringing me against him with his forearm across my back.
I begin to cry once more, shaking in his embrace.
“I’ve got you,” he tells me, running his hand along my neck and shoulders.
“It’sawful.” I lean back within his arms to face him. “I don’t know…” My face crumples and I cover it by pressing it into his chest. “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper against him.
“Let’s get you some fresh air.” Milo picks me up effortlessly in a tight hug then carries me to the porch’s back steps. He sets me down next to the railing, sits, then pulls me into his lap, sideways.
“Whatever it is, Prue, we will figure it out.”
“I-I-I…” I try to speak, but the words don’t come, interrupted by sobs and breathless gasps. Milo gently shushes me, brushing the hair that’s fallen out of my bun away from my face as he holds me steady against his chest.
“Breathe for me,” he commands gently. “It’s going to be okay…I’ve got you.” And, foolishly, I believe him. Maybe he won’t be here forever. Maybe the hard truth I should’ve come to terms with a long time ago is thatnothingcan stay forever. But he’s got me now. And that can be enough. I can make it enough…right?
“Dad…” I say, sitting up and wipingmoresnot and tears onto the sleeve of my sweater. “He’s…” My heart breaks all over again when I look into Milo’s eyes, so full of weight and heartache of his own. “He’s sick,” I whisper.
Milo sighs, the heavy, tired sort, before his face turns downward. “Shit…” He looks back toward me after a long, drawn-out pause. “How did you find out?”
“I saw it on his computer,” I answer. “There were these pills on his desk he’d never mentioned needing to pick up…. I went to look them up and then—” I hiccup again, then fight to catch my breath. “He’s known forsolong, Mi. Months. His ultimatum, everything, it’s all bullshit. I-it-it’s—”
“Killer, seriously, I need you to breathe.” He rubs a circle over my back, bunching the fabric of my sweater as he goes. “He’s going to be okay, though, right? The prognosis looks good if he still starts in January?”
“Yeah, he is. And I know that I should—” I pause, my heart lurching into my throat. “Wait,” I say, searching his face. Milo’s throat tightens on a swallow, his eyes falling to the space between us as his lips drop into a frown. “Milo.” I say his name, so hesitantly, so fearfully, in a way I never have before. “Milo, how did you know that?”
He blinks irregularly, his dark eyelashes moving like moth’s wings. “Prue—”
