“And I don’t need to, but let me remind you, the company—your company—has generous mental health benefits.” I give Jay a weak smile as he winks at me. “And I know a guy that can walk you through the offerings.”
And that simple wink, that small gesture of his levity, is so familiar and important in this moment. It’s like a sliver of light that beckons to me—reminds me there is hope and happiness to be found.
“Thank you,” I whisper, not sure if it’s entirely for them or a prayer.
“We’re going to stay with you until you’re feeling self-sufficient.” Jay huffs a laugh. “And even then we’ll probably stay longer than necessary. We’ll work from home once you’re ready and Marco and I will take turns visiting your mom while you grieve. Okay?”
“You really don’t have to do that.”
“But would it make you feel better knowing she has company?” Marco asks.
I think for a second. “Yes. It would.”
He smiles. “Then it’s settled.”
We spend the rest of the day cuddled up in my bedroom, the guys each taking turns holding me, allowing me space and freedom to cry and sleep. They bring me snacks throughout the day, and when Angie arrives, they leave the room so I can be alone with her. Marco interrupts only once to bring us dinner and let me know Jay went to the nursing home and will be back later.
“You have excellent staff in your estate, darling,” Angie drawls in an English accent, after Marco closes the door, making me smile.
“I don’t deserve them.”
“Stop that. Yes, you do. You deserve to be loved and cared for, Cora. And heaven forbid, but if you didn’t have them, you would always have me.”
For the millionth time today, an errant tear springs free as I wipe it away and sniffle. “Thank you, Ang. And you’ll always have me.”
Marco and Jay spend the rest of the week at my place. On Wednesday, I felt better enough that Marco had myself and Jay work from my studio. By work, I mean he worked from his laptop and cell phone with frequent breaks to check on me, while I painted and sketched to my heart’s content. Dayo took over the majority of my responsibilities, which I was apprehensive about, but that was nothing against them—I trust them, I do. It’s just hard, still, to give up control. I know I needed this time to grieve.
Marco had found my sketch pad that first day and thought it could be a good idea for me to indulge and express myself. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Creating, painting, sketching—it’s always been a part of me. It helps me center myself. It makes me feel more connected to… me.
Marco busied himself with cooking, cleaning, and fixing random stuff in my home. A leaky faucet in one of my bathrooms, a faulty light switch, a wobbly stair rail, even fixing a doorknob that I was convinced would never function properly again.
I drew portraits of what I think Violet would look like now. I sketched what I imagined her nursery would have looked like. A watercolor painting of me breastfeeding her and another of me placing her tiny, swaddled body on a cloud. Each one both effortless and emotionally draining to create, but it felt cathartic and necessary.
Turning off the light to my closet, I pad over to my bed and slip in between Jay and Marco. I’m wearing a full matching set of pajamas, but both of them are shirtless furnaces. Marco pulls back the comforter and lets me snuggle in between them, just like every night this week. And just like every night, George springs up and claims her spot behind her man’s legs.
“Do you want to watch a show before bed, baby?” Jay asks, hooking his leg between mine and pressing into me.
“Actually, can you tell me the story of how you met again? Please,” I beg sweetly. It’s the third time I’ve asked them this week, but thankfully, Jay grins and I know they’ll indulge me yet again.
Marco clears his throat as he speaks into my hair, his low timbre soothing me. “Once upon a time, a queer prince and a straight knight walked into a bar…”
“Supposedly straight,” Jay smirks.
Chapter 2
Dirty Frank's
Marco
Five Years Ago
Forthelastthreemonths I've been in a rotten mood. I should be relieved to be home on leave—a chance to relax. But I can’t.
And is it even home? It’s home in the sense that I’m in Philadelphia, but it’s not my home. It’s my sister’s.I’mtechnically homeless. I don't really consider my base at Fort Belvoir in Virginia my home either.
The Army is my life—and a sad excuse for one. Yes, it gave me structure when my life had none and it saved me from a life of stealing cars and hanging out with unsavory people. But when I come home now, I’m painfully aware of my lack of friends outside my unit. The ones I do have in the Army—well, they only know a certain version of me. This hard, reserved, and quiet version, and the more I am that version, the more I feel myself become wholly that.
It’s easier to deal with death that way—to pretend it doesn’t bother me.
