Page 117 of Whispered Promises

But I can agree that we all give her something she needs. She does the same for us too.

And if she needs us to just sit with her, we can do that. There might be nothing we can say, nothing to remove or fix her grief. But this? Being with her, offering her company and comfort to remind her that no matter how consuming the grief may feel, she’s not alone in it.

I’m all-fucking-in.

FORTY-EIGHT

ROSY

Bry cups my chin, tilting my face up to his. “How are you doing after yesterday?”

At his sweet question, my lip rolls in between my teeth, needing to clamp down. But he doesn’t let me, tugging it free and smoothing his thumb across it.

“It’s always a messy day. I feel a bit off-centred that they saw me like that,” I reveal.

“They can handle any overwhelming, ugly feeling you throw at them. You should’ve seen me when I was neck-deep in my grief. None of them reduced my emotions or told me to act or feel a certain way. They just stood by me the whole way through,” he says, matching my honesty.

My body sags slightly, feeling some of the weight lifting as his words resonate.

“Is it weird that your words make me feel better, even though you were going through a shitty time?” I whisper, unsure if my words will have him pulling back. Bry seems to not only see my struggling inner self, but he understands it more than anyone I’ve met.

“No, we can just relate and understand each other better than most.”

He kisses the tip of my nose and the corners of my lips, then places a lingering one on my mouth. He pulls away, and it takes a moment for my eyes to open.

I want more of his kisses; each one is so intimate for me.

“So what are we cooking tonight?”

“It’s a mushroom and lentil hot pot,” he says, and I have to hold back my moan. That sounds delicious.

But also…beyond my assisting capabilities.

“That sounds complicated. Perhaps I should keep you company instead?” I suggest, not wanting to be the one to ruin dinner. There are a lot of ingredients laid out…definitely more than four. That’s complex cooking.

“You can do as much or as little assisting as you want. As long as you’re here, I don’t mind,” he promises, dropping the apron from last time over my head, then tying it up for me.

Bry picks up an onion first, placing it on the chopping board. “You can start with this if you want?”

I’m only a few slices in, and the tears start streaming. He spins me gently and uses a cloth to mop up my wet cheeks.

“Next time, I’ll cut the onion for you.”

“I’m barely able to help as it is; you can’t take away my vegetable chopping too.” I blink through blurred vision. I’m probably pouting, but I can’t help it. I may have zero kitchen skills, but I’m really enjoying being in the space that means so much to him.

“Okay, I won’t take it away.” He chuckles, peppering kisses all over my face.

“Thank you.”

We continue to work in silence, though I still sniff the whole way through cutting the onion, and I steadily chop everything he gives me before it gets added methodically to the pan.

It smells so good already.

After everything’s cooked to his satisfaction, Bry tugs out a large casserole dish and pours the contents of the pan in.

“Okay, it’s ready for you to add the potatoes.” He nods at the dish, stepping back and leaving me to…

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess.