“It’s been a long day. You don’t have to say anything right now.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you away. Or that I don’t care. I do. I care so much, Vi. I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head again. “I meant what I said. I want you in my life.”
“I know you do.”
“But I need to fix things with Cat. She’s my family.” He glanced at the house. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay. Bree and Gav are gonna fly out in a few days. We haven’t all been together since the lighthouse. We thought we’d do something to honor Benji.”
I knew better than anyone how important it was to hang on to the people you loved in the black hole of grief and now, finally, Dex would allow that for himself.
“That’s what you’ve been doing this whole time, right?” I said. “Your job, this trip… Everything was for Benji.”
Wind circled us, picking up a few stray petals and grass clippings. Our eyes locked.
“Not everything,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry, Vi.”
“I know.” I stepped closer to him, my fingers tangling with his. “I haven’t mapped out my feelings yet, but… God, I get it. Ido. People do stupid shit when they’re grieving. I’m a prime example. Look at where we are right now. Look at what we’ve done.” His shoulders sank in a slow exhale and I squeezed his hand. “You did something for Phoebe and me that I can never even begin to thank you for. You think you’re not easy to care about, but you made it impossible not to. It’s so easy to stand here and think about how crazy we were to do any of this and still believe with all my heart that it was thebest. I’d do it all again.”
He nodded tightly, eyes shining. “Me too.”
“But I need some time to… to wrap my head around this.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
“This isn’t me walking away.”
“This isn’t me telling you to.”
The warmth spread through me, wrapping a hand around my heart, holding it delicately. “So, you’ll stay. I’ll go. And we’ll be okay,” I said. His fingers squeezed mine.
“We’ll be okay,” he agreed, and somehow it didn’t feel like goodbye.
Twenty-three
BOSTON, MA
TWO WEEKS LATER
“You know what?” Arden said, putting her hands on her hips as we faced the wall of paint colors. “My bathroom has been looking a little drab. A nice sunshiny yellow would look great.”
“Nope.” I smacked her hand as she reached for the swatches. “We’re here for me.”
“But—”
“Noah told me to tackle you if necessary.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need to be tackled. I have a modicum of self-control.”
“Then use it,” I replied. Her fingers twitched. “You have a problem.”
She shot the samples an imploring look. “They’re just so pretty.”
“This is why I told you not to come.” I reached for a swatch of soft blue greens. Phoebe and I were on a DIY kick after painting her bedroom and building various IKEA purchases. Our apartment was a work in progress, but every day we discussed new ideas of how to make it home: a vase of fresh flowersby the door, framed photos, nonplastic cutlery, fresh paint for each room. Six months ago, it might’ve felt like a Band-Aid solution. Now, though, the relief Phoebe and I felt when we walked through our door made it all worthwhile.
“I’ll behave,” Arden said, waving me off. “But you did invite me. Your bad, maybe.”
“Right. Sorry. I won’t tell you the next time I’m in the market for paint samples.”
She crossed her arms and immediately uncrossed them, dropping them to her sides. “I do have a problem,” she muttered. “I wanted to be an interior designer when I was a kid. My parents wanted me to be a pharmacist. I’m not built for pharmaceuticals.”
