I don’t cry. Don’t scream. Just sit there staring at her still face, holding her hand, trying to understand how she can be gone when she’s right here in front of me.
Teresa’s crying quietly. The sound breaks through the numbness.
She hugs me—this woman who spent months caring for my mother—and whispers, “She loved you so much.”
I nod because I can’t speak.
Teresa leaves after a while, and then it’s just me and Roman and the body that used to be my mother.
The hospice staff is kind. They ask gentle questions I can barely process. Do I have a funeral home in mind? Do I need them to call anyone? Do I want a few more minutes?
Minutes. Like minutes will make a difference.
But I take them. Sit beside her and hold her hand and try to memorize everything one more time even though there’s nothing left to memorize.
Somehow we endup at Roman’s apartment.
I don’t remember the drive, don’t remember anything until I’m sitting on the edge of his bed and he’s kneeling in front of me.
“You should sleep,” he says gently.
“I can’t.” My voice sounds mechanical. “If I sleep, when I wake up it’ll be real.”
“It’s already real, Moxie.” He sits beside me on the bed. “When Matty died, I didn’t sleep for three days. Thought if I stayed awake, I could somehow rewind time. Go back to that phone call I didn’t answer.”
I take a shaky breath. “The call?”
“He called the night before. I was at a team dinner and sent it to voicemail.” His voice breaks. “Next morning they called to say he was gone.”
“Oh, Roman.”
“So yeah, I get not wanting to sleep. Because waking up means remembering all over again.”
“How did you... how did you survive it?”
“Honestly? I didn’t. Not for a long time. I just kept moving. Kept playing hockey. Kept pretending I was fine until December 29th every year when I’d fall apart.” He looks at me. “This is the first year I won’t be alone for it. Because of you.”
His hands grasp the hem of my shirt and he tugs. “Arms up.”
I lift my arms and he pulls the shirt over my head.
Then he stops and stares at my ribs. At the tattoo I usually keep hidden, that he’s seen but we’ve always been occupied with other things for him to really stop and read.
“’So dance alone to the beat of your heart,’” he reads quietly, fingers hovering over the words. “Marnie?—”
“It’s from a song. About being alone.” I can’t look at him. “I got it after my dad died. When I realized it would be just Mom and me. That I’d probably always be the person dancing alone because no one stays.” My voice breaks. “Everyone leaves eventually.”
His hand settles over the tattoo, warm against my ribs.
“I know that feeling. After Matty died, I told myself the same thing. That loving people meant losing them. That being alone was safer.”
I look at him. “What changed?”
“You did.” His voice is rough. “You crashed into my life and made me realize—being alone isn’t safer. It’s just lonelier.”
“My dad died. Now my mom.” Tears are streaming down my face. “You’re here for now but?—”
“Marnie. Look at me.”
