“Really. I just… I think I need a shower. I’ve got airport all over me.” I trail off, then add, “I’m so glad… I’m so glad you guys are here.”
Which is true. I don’t know how I’d handle staying in this house alone with just me and the twins, but right now…
I don’t say that I need some space. I don’t have to.
She nods.
“You know where to find me.” Then she circles the table and wraps her arms around me from behind.
“I know things look really bad right now,” she murmurs, her voice soft against my ear, “but we’ll learn more in the morning. This has to be some kind of mistake.”
She’s trying to sound hopeful. But she’s seen the headlines too. Everyone has.
And this idea—that it’s all a misunderstanding—is starting to feel more like wishful thinking than a plausible explanation.
I squeeze her arm, hold on a second longer, then let go.
I’m not sure how long I just sit there after she leaves.
Sleep isn’t even a possibility. Not with this hum in my chest—like static. Like panic. So I default to my usual.
I start by quietly unpacking the boys’ luggage, sorting dirty clothes into a hamper, start a wash load, put suitcases away, then their little toothbrushes, toss stray wrappers. I move to my own bag, but the sight of those silly swimsuits—so frivolous now—makes me a little sick.
I toss them into the hamper and keep going.
I check the fridge and throw out anything that’s questionable, but when I sit down to write up a grocery list, Ican’t do it. I can’t think that far into the future right now. Not yet.
But eventually, I run out of things to straighten. Nothing left to do but face the silence.
So I go to the shower.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, the steam rising fast. I strip slowly, mechanically, leaving my clothes on the floor. When I step inside, I don’t reach for the soap. Or the shampoo.
I just kind of slide down the tile until I’m not standing anymore.
And… I break.
Slow tears at first, building to gulps, and then ugly sobs. They are raw, utterly beyond my control. My chest heaves, and the sound that comes out is somewhere between a gasp and a moan—feral and guttural and completely unlike me.
My arms curl around my knees. Water pours over my head and down my back.
Thank God the master bedroom is on the far side of the house. Thank God the boys are sleeping.
I cry until the water runs lukewarm, then cold. Only then do I move. I shampoo, rinse, somehow, I just go through the motions.
By the time I step out, I’m hollowed out. Empty.
I don’t even bother with pajamas—just collapse on top of the covers still wearing my towel.
Hair wet. Lights on. No strength left to care.
And I kind of sleep, on and off, until something creeps into my brain, and I remember.
At the wedding, I’d asked Beckett if he was in trouble, and he’d said…
If something happens… go to Nick.
Go to Nick. It hadn’t made sense at the time, but…
