I could have started with something less heavy, but part of me wanted to test him and find out if he’d meant what he said.
Theo stayed true to his word by not saying a thing.
“A delivery driver had a heart attack,” I said, still shocked by my own words, “and his van ploughed straight into a bunch of pedestrians crossing at the lights. My parents were out on a lunch date.”
His eyes moved behind his lids. Someone like Theo would have wanted to talk it out or hug me, but he lay still and quiet.
His silence encouraged me to go on, and I pushed past the lump in my throat. “Mum died at the scene, and we lost my dad a week later.”
Every time I verbalised what had happened to our family, it was like being stabbed through the ribs with a knife.
Grief was an injury that never healed. Whenever I thought I was close to recovering, memories and moments would pick away at the stitches and reopen the wound.
The tic in Theo’s jaw told me he’d heard what I said, but he didn’t open his eyes or utter a word. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around my wrist, his thumb sweeping across my sensitive skin.
With his hand loosely holding me, I let out a shaky sigh and took in all the objects in the room that had been passed down to me; the dining table, the jewellery box on the bookcase, theantique wall clock my grandfather had had first—and the ring on my finger that used to adorn my mum’s hand.
The light sweep of his thumb steadied me, and I allowed my hand to linger before I pulled it away.
“My uncle dealt with all the arrangements afterwards,” I said. “Which was honestly the most practical help anyone could have given us. He tied up every loose end, so my sister and I didn’t have to handle a thing. Now it’s just the two of us… and life insurance money we’d give up in a second if we could have them back again.”
My eyes were dry. The tears had stopped long ago, replaced by a deep, aching melancholy that I had a feeling might be a permanent part of me.
For a while, the reporter’s voice on the television was the only sound in the room. I trailed my nails over Theo’s head again and again, mesmerised by the rising hairs on his forearms. It was easier to talk while he lay still, eyes closed.
I’d never been to therapy, and I could admit now I should have listened to all the people who’d urged me to go.
“I was still dating my high school boyfriend, Nathan, when they died.” I rubbed Theo’s temples and tried to lose myself in the distraction, but Nathan’s features filled my mind. Dark hair, brown eyes, and that permanent smirk that used to get my heart racing for reasons I couldn’t relate to anymore.
“We had a double funeral for my parents,” I went on, “and a friend came up to me at the wake. Said she’d overheard Nathan drunkenly blabbing to someone that he wanted to break up with me right before my mum died, but he felt trapped after the accident.” I swallowed and used the back of my hand to sweep a stray hair from my forehead. “He said after my dad died too, the inheritance made the idea of sticking around more appealing.” I let out a humourless laugh as the pain slammed into me again.“He was going to propose to me, and everything. Can you believe that?”
Talking about it brought back the feelings in a rush. The hurt, the rejection. My heart thudded faster, and my skin warmed with anger and humiliation. Relief, too, because what if my friend hadn't built up the courage to approach me? We could have been married. Or divorced.
Theo’s jaw hardened beneath my fingers, and his body tensed.
“Am I supposed to keep lying here and pretending to be relaxed?” he asked, his deep voice laced with steel. “I want to get up and punch something—preferably his face.”
“It was six years ago,” I said. “We’ve been broken up for longer than we were together. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
He opened his eyes for the first time. I’d never noticed the black rings around his irises before, and the grey had turned turbulent to match his mood. “Itdoesmatter. He treated you like a fucking meal ticket at the lowest point in your life.”
That part always stung the most, to be used by someone who had no qualms about wasting my time. “I know, but I can’t change it—and I heard he died from Ultimus about six months ago, so...”
Rather than comment on Nathan’s death, Theo went quiet and closed his eyes again. Neither of us spoke, and I combed my fingers through his hair, bringing back the earlier feeling of peace. I’d bet anything he was regretting asking me to share now.
After a long while, he sighed. “Sadie… I understand you now,” he said. “I see you. Everything about you makes sense.”
My heart slammed against my ribs, and a tidal wave of emotion came over me. While I stared at the images on the television through blurry eyes, my throat burned, and I fought to stay calm.
“Thanks,” I said when I could speak again. “That means… everything.”
I’d had about enough reminiscing for one morning. As the reporter’s sombre tone drifted from the television, I forced a smile and pushed through the heaviness.
“Anyway,” I said, brightening my voice, “you’re supposed to be relaxing and not speaking. We’re nearly done, so...shhhand let me take care of you.”
The last part came out more seductive than intended, and he groaned, the sound a combination of amusement and torture. “You can’t say things like that to me,” he said. “I’m touch starved. Do you have any idea how long it’s been?”
“I have a good idea,” I said in a dry tone.
