His voice cracks, just slightly. “One night, there was a fight. Local gang came to collect what they were owed. Guns. Screaming. I told her to hide in the crawlspace.” He swallows. “But a stray bullet hit her, and by the time I went to get her, she was gone.”
Everything in me clenches.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my chest aching for this man.
“Don’t be.”
“What was she like?”
His voice comes low and rough against the shell of my ear. “She had this gap in her front teeth, which she was really self-conscious about. I used to tell her it made her look fierce.”
There is a smile in his voice, but it’s cracked.
“She wanted to be a dancer,” he continues. “Used to tie pillowcases or sheets around her waist like tutus. Said she’d be on a stage one day, spinning so fast the world would disappear.”
I can feel the ache in his chest like it’s my own.
“My mom died after Ellie was born. That’s when my dad, well, Ellie’s dad, started drinking. Eventually, he lost his job, then us. But no matter what happened, I made sure Ellie and I stayed together.”
He looks past my shoulder, like he’s letting the memories play before he speaks.
“She used to collect rocks,” he says, his voice low. “Not pretty ones, not crystals or polished stones. Just the ones she found on sidewalks or playgrounds. She said they were ‘rescued.’” A short breath of a laugh leaves him. “I once found one in my shoe before a fight. She snuck it in there. Said it was her ‘lucky pebble.’ In fact…” He leans over and fishes something out of his pants. He wraps his arms around me, holding up a palm-sized grey rock with white speckles. “I still carry it around with me. It truly is a lucky pebble. It’s kept me alive all these years.”
The fondness in his eyes makes my eyes sting.
“She sounds like she was clever,” I murmur, smiling into my pillow.
“She was. Way too clever. She had this habit of making up words when she didn’t know the real ones. Like when she couldn’t remember the word for violin, she called it a ‘shoulder guitar.’ And everyone just… went with it.”
I can hear the fondness in his voice now, more than the pain. Like the fog of loss has briefly lifted, letting the sun through.
“She was obsessed with pancakes,” he continues. “Wouldn’t eat anything else if she could help it. Once told me she wanted to marry a stack of them.” He paused. “And she had this laugh. God, it was like… It just filled up a room. This big, snorting, bubbling thing that made everyone around her start laughing too, even if they didn’t know why.”
My throat tightens. “She sounds amazing.”
“She was,” he says, his voice far away. “She used to draw with sidewalk chalk all over the concrete outside our building. Said she was decorating the world. And when it rained, she’d cry like she was losing her friends. But the next day, she’d start over. Never stopped drawing.”
I can see her in my mind now — barefoot on sun-warmed pavement, hair wild, coloring her little world bright.
“Thank you for telling me about her,” I whisper, reaching back to run my fingers along his arm.
His lips brush my shoulder. “She would’ve liked you,” he says again, quiet and certain. “You would’ve made her feel safe.”
My chest aches, but it is a good ache. A full one.
“Stay,” I say, breathless. “Just for tonight.”
He nods and pulls me against him, skin against skin, wrapping around me like armor. And for once, I sleep without dreaming.
The next morning,I wake up to a message on my tablet that I need to be at Dean Everett’s office at ten. My stomach clenches. No explanation. Just that.
Tex stirs behind me, his arm tightening briefly before he blinks awake. “What’s wrong?”
I sit up, already reaching for my clothes. “The school messaged. Said I need to be at Dean Everett’s office at ten. Didn’t say why.”
Tex sits up too, frowning, his hair a sleep-rumpled mess. “I’ll get changed. I’ll meet you down there.”
I pause at the edge of the bed, turning to look at him. He reaches for me, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me in for a kiss. It’s soft, but there is something fierce beneath it—something protective.
