It had started small—a memory of her wedding day, her husband’s vows, the way she’d believed every word. And then the dam had burst. She’d sobbed in that chair for twenty minutes straight, ugly crying, snot and tears.
And when she was done, when she’d finally stopped shaking, she’d looked at me with something I hadn’t seen in eight months: peace.
“I think I can move forward now,” she’d said. “I think I can actually heal.”
I’d walked her out, scheduled her next appointment, closed the door behind her.
And then I’d returned to my desk and sat down.
The office was quiet. The building was mostly empty—everyone else had gone home hours ago. Just me and the silence and Sarah’s breakthrough hanging in the air.
I pressed my hands flat against my desk, focusing on the cool wood, the solid reality of it. The ice was still there, still protecting me. Cracked, yes — more cracked than ever after the birthday, after watching Holden with those boys and carrying all that grief without letting it touch them — but still intact.
Still keeping me safe.
Safe from what?
The question surfaced unbidden, and wouldn’t leave.
I thought about Sarah. About the way she’d finally stopped fighting the pain and just let it come. About the peace in her eyes afterward—not because the hurt was gone, but because she’d finally stopped running from it.
My breath caught. I pressed my hands flat against the desk and they were shaking.
And then, without warning, the ice shattered.
The first sob caught me off guard. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to hold it back, but it was already too late. The dam had burst, and everything I’d been holding at bay for months came flooding out.
Everything came at once and without order. A boy I barely knew, nineteen, stepping in front of a bullet because he believed in the man I loved. The man I loved, still love, breaking apart in the dark as I’d held him. The morning I’d found him at my door. What he’d said, and how he’d looked saying it. The future we’d been planning, I’d been planning — ordinary things, a Saturday, a dinner, the easy assumption that there would be more. The trust that had taken years to build. Every clinical reflex I’d used to avoid feeling any of this.
The sobs came in waves, each one more devastating than the last. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but let the grief consume me.
At some point, I slid off my chair and onto the floor. I curled up against the wall of my office, my knees pulled to my chest, and I wept like I hadn’t wept since I was a child.
I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Minutes. Maybe longer. Time had ceased to have meaning.
When the worst of it passed, I fumbled for my phone, my hands trembling so badly I could barely unlock it. The phone rang twice before Indira picked up.
“Hi Bea, what’s—”
“I need…” The words wouldn’t come. My voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. “I need help.”
The response was sharp and immediate: “Where are you?”
“My office.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes. I’m safe. I just—” I couldn’t get the rest out.
“Okay. I’m coming. Stay on the phone with me.” I heard keys, a door. “Talk to me, Bea.”
“I can’t stop crying.” It sounded pathetic and I didn’t care.
“Don’t try to.” More sounds — a car door, the engine. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Indira found me still on the floor, still crying. She didn’t say a word. Just crouched down, put her arms around me, and held on.
After a while she helped me to my feet, grabbed my bag and my coat, and walked me to the car. I sat in the passenger seat with my knees pulled up and my face against the window, and she drove us back to the club grounds without asking me to talk.
