Her face presses into me, damp and hot, and she cries like she’s been holding it back for months. Her whole body shakes with it.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist, keeping her close, anchoring her.
Every time her breath catches, I stroke her back.
Every time she shudders, I kiss her hair.
Every time she tries to apologize, I murmur, “No,” against her skin until she stops.
Her tears soak my shirt.
I don’t care.
I want them to.
I want her grief to have somewhere to go besides swallowing her whole.
Eventually, her sobs soften into smaller, exhausted sounds.
Her breathing evens out in uneven little spurts.
She doesn’t stop hurting.
But she starts to fall asleep anyway—because bodies do that when they’ve run out of ways to stay upright.
Her fingers remain fisted in my shirt.
Her forehead rests beneath my chin.
And when her tears finally slow to quiet hiccups, I press my lips to her hair and whisper the only thing that matters.
“I’m here,” I repeat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sloane doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
But her hand tightens once against my chest, like she heard me.
And in the dark, with the house hollowed out around us and Cameron somewhere out breathing anger into the night, I hold her while she cries herself to sleep—head on my heart—like if I don’t let go, I can keep at least one thing from breaking.
41
SLOANE
Two days after the funeral, the house still smells like other people.
Like perfume that doesn’t belong here. Like cologne and casseroles and sympathy that seeped into the couch cushions and refused to leave. Someone’s flowers are dying in the corner of the kitchen, petals browning at the edges, and I keep meaning to throw them out—but every time I look at them, my chest tightens like I’m tossing out proof that any of this happened.
Thathehappened.
Cameron moves around the kitchen like he’s doing a drill.
Open cabinet. Close cabinet. Open fridge. Close fridge.
He’s trying to feed me without making it obvious that he’s trying to feed me, which is almost insulting because it’s so obvious. I sit at the kitchen table with my elbows on the wood, staring at the grain like the lines might rearrange into something that makes sense.
Nothing makes sense.
