I do.
“You’re not alone,” he says firmly. “I’m here. I love you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he leans forward and presses his lips to my ribs. Right over the tattoo. Right over the words about dancing alone.
“You’re not alone,” he says against my skin. “Not anymore.”
It destroys me.
All the crying I couldn’t do in the hospice room comes now. Ugly, gasping sobs that shake my whole body.
Roman pulls me against his chest and just holds me. Lets me soak his shirt with tears and grief.
“She’s really gone,” I sob. “And I don’t think I can keep going in a world without her.”
“You don’t have to know yet. You just have to get through tonight.” His hand strokes down my back. “Tomorrow we’ll figure out tomorrow.”
“What if I can’t do this?”
“Then I’ll help you.” He pulls back to look at me. “You’re not dancing alone anymore, Moxie. You’ve got me. For as long as you want me.”
“Forever,” I whisper. “I want you forever.”
“Then that’s what you get.”
He helps me into one of his t-shirts. Tucks me into his bed like I’m something precious. Lies down beside me and pulls me against his chest.
“Sleep,” he says softly. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
I fall asleep with my head on his chest, Mom’s wedding ring warm on my thumb where I slipped it earlier, his hand covering the tattoo on my ribs.
The one that says I’m alone.
Except I’m not anymore.
And somehow, even with the grief crushing my chest, even with the knowledge that everything has changed?—
That’s enough to let me close my eyes.
31
ROMAN
Five dayssince Marnie’s mom died and she’s a ghost in my apartment.
She’s here physically—on the couch, in my bed, eating the food I put in front of her—but she’s not really present. Just going through motions.
Funeral home appointments. Paperwork. Staring at her phone without seeing it.
I don’t know how to help someone through grief because I’m still submersed in my own. Don’t know if there even is a way to help, or if you just have to stand there and watch them drown.
My phone buzzes while I’m making coffee she probably won’t drink.
Jake
Barrett’s office. Now. It’s Winters.
Everything goes still.
