Page 118 of When the Smoke Clears

“Everleigh—”

“I’ll call you when I get back home at the end of the week or on Thanksgiving.”

“Everleigh—”

“Love you.” I end the call. With a heavy exhale, I stand, tip up my chin, and return to the bathroom to dry my hair and pick up the pieces of my carefully sorted emotions. As the hum of the dryer drowns out my inner psychiatrist, I put those pieces back where they belong: locked behind a vault.

Then, despite my amateur culinary skills, I find ingredients for minestrone soup and a recipe online. While it simmers, I listen to an audiobook under a heater on the porch, waiting for Will or his mom to return.

But they don’t.

I resist texting him, and instead eat a bowl of the soup before putting the rest of the pot in the fridge. After a few minutes curled up on the sofa, staring at the barren fireplace, I decide to start a fire from the stack of wood and kindling next to the hearth. The warmth and flickering flames soothe my nerves.

A little after eight, the front door opens. I pull out my AirPods and gauge Will’s expression before saying anything or even offering a smile.

He removes his boots, shoulders curled inward, and he has no expression of joy to offer. Just a shell of a man in faded denim jeans, a worn black-and-gray flannel shirt, and wayward hair that looks like it’s taken the brunt of his frustration.

“Hi,” I say, slowly standing and folding the red fleece throw blanket as the fire crackles behind me.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

When he glances up, I offer a sad smile. “What do you need?”

“A miracle,” he whispers as if the weight of the world is crushing his chest.

I can’t give him that, so I meet him halfway as he shrugs off his jacket. He melts when I snake my arms around his torso, cheek against his chest. We stand idle in our embrace for a long minute or two. I won’t let go. He can do it when he’s ready.

After a few more breaths, his hold on me relaxes, and he steps back, brushing his knuckles over my cheek.

“I made minestrone soup, and it’s not awful. That’s a miracle.”

“You’re the miracle.” Will’s lips replace his knuckles, and he kisses my cheek. “But I need you to leave because I don’t want you to see this.”

I hold my breath as he releases me, brushing past me toward the bedroom. All of my emotions hit at once. Even though I’ve decided to go to Baltimore, I’m not quite ready. My heart feels like it’s being shoved off a cliff instead of voluntarily jumping when it’s ready.

What doesn’t he want me to see?

I use the poker to break up and spread out the remaining embers in the fireplace, and cover them with ash. Then I pad my way along the hardwood floor to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Sitting on the end of the bed, Will has his head bowed, resting in his hands.

“I will feel infinitely weaker,” he murmurs.

My heart turns to dust, incinerated by his vulnerability. Does he have any idea how many times I’ve tried to get my patients to give me even a fraction of what he just did? Vulnerability is a gift. It’s the purest form of trust.

I open my mouth to tell him something I have never told anyone because, for the first time in a long time, I feel safe, like I can trust him with the thing that makes me feel “infinitely weak.” But the words don’t find air. They get tangled in my heartstrings, tugging and tearing at the scars. My grief won’t take away his. It might make him feel responsible for consoling me, and that’s just cruel.

Again, I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I cannot utter a single helpful word because my heart is too invested in this man. I don’t feel like a doctor or an expert.

No mental muscle memory.

No professional reflex.

Not a trace of helpful advice.

“Is your mom with him?” I ask, but I know the answer.

Will lifts his head from his hands, eyes closed, and he nods once. “He had a stro—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, jaw clenched.

“A stroke?”