A faint smile curves her mouth as the wind brushes against the cabin windows, then. It feels like last night again, only there’s a big difference. We’re not strangers thrown together by catastrophe anymore.
We’re something else.
Somethingmore.
Just a couple more steps and we’re toe to toe. Her hands slide up my chest with a familiarity I’ve craved since we got out of the shower this morning. I wrap my arms around her without thinking twice, anchoring her against me as she buries her face into my chest.
“Thank you,” her voice comes softly, almost a whisper.
“For what?”
“For not making me feel like I’m broken.”
That feels heavier than anything we handled at the pit.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, I press my mouth to the top of her head. “You’re not broken.”
“I know,” she concurs. “I just needed someone else to know it, too.”
We stand like that for a long while, the cabin quiet around us as the sulfur pit continues its patient work not far away. The worst of it all is already behind us.
“Tomorrow,” she breathes out, bobbing my throat through a harsh swallow.
“Tomorrow,” I echo.
But tonight, we’re still here.
And for the first time since this started, I’m not calculating exits or worst-case scenarios….
I’m just holding her—and meaning it with every fiber of my being.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
ALMA
It’samazing how quickly a house can feel haunted. And I don’t mean by ghosts, but by absence.
The first night back, I stood in the doorway longer than necessary, staring at the staircase. The banister had been repaired, the hardwood professionally cleaned. There were no stains left behind, no cracks, no visible history.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think none of it happened.
My dad simply made everything disappear, Lance’s car included.
On the second day, the police knocked. It wasn’t aggressive or the dramatic pounding you see in movies. Just two officers standing on my porch in the middle of the afternoon, the sunlight catching on their badges. You’d think they were here to discuss neighborhood parking violations…
“Mrs. Delfino,” one of them says politely. “We’re trying to reach your husband. Do you know where he might be?”
Dissolved in sulfur,I think to myself, but I don’t say that.
Obviously.
“I haven’t, no, but I recently filed for divorce, so I haven’t heard much from him these days,” I reply instead, channelingmy inner Crew and keeping my tone calm. “He moved out after he was served.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?” the second officer asks.
I let myself look like I’m thinking, like I’m backtracking through a reasonable amount of time.
