“I needed a choice,” I shoot back. “So, these are my terms,” I add. “We stay out of each other’s way as much as possible. No pretending. No acting like this is something it’s not.”
“Wynter, I’m simply offering you a place to stay.”
I exhale in annoyance. “Do you agree to stay out of my way?”
“Fine,” he says. “That works for me. Believe it or not, I’m not looking to complicate things either.” He shrugs, “This is practical,” he continues. “You’re close to the hospital. You keep your therapist. And I can make sure you’re actually taking care of yourself.”
I stiffen slightly. “I was doing that.”
“Barely,” he says, not even looking at me. “You weren’t eating. You weren’t sleeping. I’m not letting that happen again.”
I let out a sharp breath, irritation flaring. “I’m grieving, Ray. It’s not something you just switch off. It’s a process.”
“I’m grieving too,” he snaps. “But I’m still functioning. I’m still eating and looking after myself. No one found me lying on Anika’s grave in the fucking rain clutching a bottle of pills.”
The words hit me like a slap. I inhale sharply. “Fuck you,” I hiss.
“What were you planning to do that day?” he demands, his grip tightening around the steering wheel. “With my child growing inside you?”
I turn my face back to the window, my jaw clenched. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
The car suddenly jerks, tyres screeching slightly as he pulls us sharply out of traffic. Horns blare behind us as he cuts across the lane and slams the brakes. The engine cuts and silence crashes in.
I don’t look at him. I refuse to, even though my heart is slamming hard in my chest.
“Well, I do,” he says, turning towards me. His voice is dangerously low now. “I want to talk about it. And maybe if someone had made you talk about it before, you wouldn’t have ended up like that in the first place.”
I fold my arms tightly across my chest, shrinking into the seat. “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself,” I mutter. Even as I say it, doubt creeps in. My memory of that day is fractured at best.
“So, the pills were for a headache?” he bites out. “Then why the hell did they section you?”
Something inside me snaps. “I’m just sad,” I shout, slamming my hands against the dashboard. The sound cracks through the space between us. “I’m just so fucking sad all the time.” The words tear out of me, raw and uncontrolled. “I went there because I needed to feel something other than this.” I choke. “I needed to feel safe, and he made me feel safe. Josh made everything feel steady, like I could breathe.” My voice breaks, the tears coming faster now. “No one has ever made me feel like he did,” I whisper, my chest tightening painfully.“No one.”
I drag in a shaky breath, but it doesn’t help. “And I was so tired, Ray,” I say, my voice dropping. “So fucking tired of carrying all of it.” I swipe at the tears, but they keep falling. “I don’t remember going there,” I admit. “I don’t remember lying on the ground. I don’t remember half of it.”
My voice softens, fragile now. “But I know I wasn’t going to hurt myself,” I whisper, finally looking at him. “I wasn’t.” He holds my gaze, our chests rising and falling in quick succession. “I have too much to live for,” I say. “They didn’t get that chance.Josh didn’t. Anika didn’t.” My hand presses instinctively to my stomach. “And I promised this baby . . . I promised I’d live. That we’d have the life they didn’t.”
The last of my control shatters and I bury my face in my hands as the sobs come harder—loud, heavy, uncontrollable.
For a second, there’s nothing, just the sound of me breaking apart. And then Ray moves and his arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into him. I tense for a fraction of a second. Then I give in. Because I don’t have the strength not to. He holds me against his chest, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head as I cry.
The apartment feels wrong. It’s too quiet, too still. Like the heart’s been ripped out and now all we’re left with is a cold empty space. I pause outside Anika’s door, my hand hovering near the handle but not quite touching it.
“I had it redecorated,” Ray says quietly from behind me. There’s something in his voice that makes me glance back. “It was hard,” he admits. “But it had to be done.”
I nod slowly, turning back to the door.
“Sebastian’s therapist suggested it,” he continues. “We let him pick things he wanted to keep and put them in a memory box. Then we cleared the rest into storage.” His jaw tightens slightly. “Maybe when he’s older, he’ll want to look through it again.” He shrugs on a sigh. “Seeing her bed empty each day was harder than getting rid of everything.”
My chest aches. “Does he ask about her?” I ask softly. “Does he understand?”
“All the time,” Ray says. “He wakes up in the night crying for her.” I swallow thickly, wishing more than anything I could stop his pain. “I’ve thought about moving,” he adds after a moment.“Starting somewhere new. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like . . .” He trails off, gesturing vaguely around us.
“Like a reminder,” I finish quietly. He nods once. “It might help,” I say.
But even as I say it, I’m not sure anything really would.
“I’ve put your things in your old room,” he says suddenly, like he needs to move on before the silence gets too heavy. He walks ahead, pushing open the door and stepping aside for me to follow.
