Page 148 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

Wednesday comes whether I want it to or not. Meetings that can’t be moved, things that need to be handled in person. I tell her I’ll be gone until Saturday, and she takes it easily.

Thursday sits in the back of my mind. Her out somewhere I’m not. Him in the same room. That thought doesn’t leave because I don’t say it out loud.

That night, I don’t hold back. There’s nothing distracted about the way I touch her. My focus is on her completely, on the way she reacts, on the way she says my name. She doesn’t fight it. She leans into it.

When it’s over, I keep my hand on her back, holding her there, feeling the way she settles. I let it sit there longer than I should because I know exactly what it feels to have her this way, and I’m not ready to let it go—even if it’s only for a few days.

Chapter 51

Katie

“Hey, Katie,” Sarah yells from across the table on Thursday night.

The bar’s a madhouse. The baseball game has the place packed wall to wall, voices stacking over each other, glasses clinking, and the air thick with sweat and beer.

“Yeah?” I yell back. We can barely hear each other. Our table is packed with friends.

“Phone’s for you.”

I pause, my hand wrapped around my drink. I set it down. Sarah’s already handing the phone down the table.

Who the hell is calling me on Sarah’s phone?

“Hello?”

“Katie? It’s Cheryl from Highland Assisted Living.”

My grip tightens instantly.

Mom.

“Is everything okay? Is Mom okay?” I ask, forcing my voice steady even as the noise from the bar crashes around me.

“I tried calling your cell several times, but you didn’t answer. You had this number listed. Katie—“

She hesitates.

“Cheryl,” I say, my fingers curling around the phone, “what’s going on?”

“Katie, your mom had a headache this afternoon, so she went to lie down for a nap.”

There’s a pause.

“When a nurse went to wake her up for dinner, she…”

She stops.

“Cheryl,” I say, my voice tighter now, my fingers gripping the phone hard enough to hurt. “Is my mom okay?”

A breath on the other end.

“No, honey. Your mom passed away in her sleep.”

The world tilts. The noise from the bar—the shouting, the music, the clatter of glasses—it all drops away, as if someone flipped a switch. I can’t breathe right. Air comes in too fast, too shallow, as if it’s not sticking.

“Katie? Are you still there?”

Cheryl’s voice is far away. Trenton is sitting next to me. I’m still holding the phone, but it’s hanging loose in my hand, nowhere near my ear. I don’t remember lowering it.