“How is she?” Mom asks when we are back in our apartment after the funeral.
“Not good,” I truthfully admit. “But I’m taking care of her.” It’s been ten days since Chris died right in front of us, and Presley has withdrawn into herself. I’m beside myself with worry, doing everything I can to help while not knowing if it’s truly helping at all.
She pats my arm. “If you need me to do anything, you only have to ask.”
“You’ve already helped so much.” Mom helped me to organize the funeral after the morgue released his body. We chose to wait a while before having the service to put some distance between the wedding and the funeral and to give Presley the opportunity to grieve in private and some time to try to track Clay down.
Mom has given Presley more commissions to work on because creating art is the only thing keeping her sane right now. I like to think my arms around her at night are helping too, but she is so quiet, barely saying anything, that I can’t tell. “Just keep the commissions coming because art seems to be her only salvation,” I tell my mom.
My family has been great. I managed to get a few days off work, but I can’t push it because I’m only an intern. I was prepared to say fuck it and let them fire me, but it’s the one thing Presley was vocal about—that I go to work and not lose the internship I’ve worked hard for. I have spoken to Rafe, her boss at Ramshackle, and he was understanding and supportive. Ford has hired another waitress temporarily to help while Presley is on leave, and Rafe has told me she can take all the time she needs.
Mo and Ford have wanted to visit, but Presley hasn’t wanted anyone but me. I’ve been keeping people away, which is hard when I have to go to work and leave her here alone. But she locks herself away in the studio, working on her commissions, sketching, and drawing, and she’s begun working on a mural on one of the walls.
“Hang in there, darling.” Mom kisses me on the cheek. “She’s grieving the loss of her baby all over again, but she knows you are there for her. I’m proud of you, and Presley is lucky to have you.”
She wouldn’t be proud if she knew what I did to my girlfriend, but the bruises on Presley’s neck have faded now, along with the cuts on my forehead, so none of my family is aware of what went down the night of the wedding.
I’m still so ashamed over my actions, and I’ve had renewed nightmares since it happened. I’m careful not to disturb Presley when I wake up shaking, soaked in sweat, feeling like my heart is trying to beat a path out of my chest. The doctor prescribed her some sleeping pills, and she conks out most nights. I’m glad because she doesn’t need to deal with my shit on top of everything else right now.
My family knows who Chris is to Presley and that they lost a child because she gave me permission to tell them. Keeping my brothers, sisters-in-law, and my parents away since this all went down has been challenging because they want to help. Austen and Keats are still on their honeymoon, and Presley made them promise not to return early. Thankfully, they abided by her wishes, staying in Italy and sending flowers instead. Cheryl has been dropping off home-cooked meals some evenings while my other brothers have been sending food and care packages along with flowers because everyone knows how much Presley loves flowers.
Everyone attended the service today, and I’m so fucking grateful for my family and Presley’s friends. Clay was a no-show, along with Gerald and Anna Cates—the foster parents Chris, Clay, and Presley grew up with—and I know that upset and angered Presley. She anticipated the Cateses’ indifference, but she expected Clay to show up for her. He hasn’t returned any of her calls, and it’s as if he has just dropped off the face of the earth. I’m pissed at him for letting her down. She needed her brother, and he wasn’t here for her. If I ever meet him, I will rip him a new one for disappointing the love of my life.
Presley says goodbye to everyone before heading upstairs to take a shower. I reassure my family she will be fine, showing them out before cleaning up the kitchen and loading the dishwasher.
“I’m worried about her,” Imogen says after Kady has gone downstairs to the car with Ford and his girlfriend, Michelle. They stayed to help with the cleanup.
“I am too. I think she needs to speak to her therapist, but I don’t want her going alone, and the only available appointments are during the day when I’m working.”
“I can go with her,” Imogen offers. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll mention it to her.” I won’t force Presley to do anything she doesn’t want to, and it’d be super hypocritical of me considering I haven’t done anything about finding a therapist for myself. I want to, but there hasn’t been time. Presley remains my priority.
She squeezes my arm. “I’m happy to help anytime. Presley has been there for me, and we’ve been through a lot of shit together. I’m happy she has you, and you’re being incredibly supportive, but don’t forget I am here too. If you need me for anything, just call.”
“I will. Thanks.” I kiss her cheek and show her out, closing the door after her.
I go upstairs, expecting to find Presley in bed, but she’s not in the bedroom, so she must be in her studio. The door was closed when I passed by, and I didn’t think to check. Stripping out of my monkey suit, I throw some shorts and a training top on. I’ll check on Presley before using my small home gym to alleviate some stress.
I knock on her studio door before opening it and poking my head in. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She turns to look at me, holding a paintbrush in one hand. She’s wearing black yoga pants with one of my old Harvard T-shirts and no shoes on her bare feet. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, and her face is clean of makeup.
She looks beautiful, and my arms ache to hold her.
Though we fall asleep wrapped around one another each night, we haven’t been intimate since the wedding. I miss sex with her, but I can be patient forever if that’s what she needs. I would never put my desires above her needs. However, I really miss feeling close to her, and it seems like with every passing day we grow more distant. The prospect of losing her looms larger, and I’m scared in a way I’ve never been scared before.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, gingerly stepping into the room.
“I’m good.” She graces me with a smile.
It’s the first one I’ve had since everything went down, and I latch on to it like a dehydrated man who finds an oasis in the desert. I think she’s relieved the funeral is behind us now. It’s been a very stressful ten days.
“Thank you for the fridge, the coffee machine, and the kettle,” she adds.
“No problem. I should’ve thought to add them in the first place.” I come to a stop beside her, and my mouth trails the floor as I look at the stunning mural. “This is fucking incredible, Pres. I can’t believe you are nearly finished already.”
A huge tree dominates the mural. Its roots run deep, flowing the length of the wall at the bottom of the drawing. The tree’s branches are wide and far-reaching, like spindly fingers extending toward the heavens. Delicate pink and white blossoms coat the branches and flutter softly to the ground. They look so lifelike my nostrils twitch as if I can smell the floral scent. The branches stretch to a cloud overhead where a little baby angel with fluffy wings rests on her stomach, her chubby fingers reaching out to catch the swirling flowers.
