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Is that even true? I have to ask Ellington or maybe my lawyer. I will sign a release form or anything she needs . . . maybe that’s it. She needs authorization, right?
Brahms: I give you permission to treat me. My lawyer will give you written authorization.
Sephie: What if instead of treating you, I supervise during the sessions?
I stare at her response, frustration bubbling up. How will that affect my plans to reconnect with her? To make her see me, really see me, again?
Brahms: Will you still be here all the time?
Sephie: I might need to run some errands in the morning and afternoon.
I clench my jaw. She really doesn’t get it, does she? Nothing should be more important than helping me right now. And it’s not really about her making me better, but me absorbing her presence. She’s what might heal me. I need something to soothe my soul—I need her.
Brahms: Fine, but sleep in the den with me.
I know I’m pushing too hard, but the thought of her leaving every night, of me lying there alone . . . it fills me with an almost panicked desperation.
Sephie: Nope. I want nothing to do with you, Brahms. While I live in that house, I’ll have my own space. You either take it or leave it.
Her rejection cuts deep, more painful than any wound. Biting my tongue, I relent for now.
Brahms: Fine, but you start tonight.
One small victory is better than nothing. I cling to the hope that over time, she’ll continue to soften. She has to.
Seraphina has to remember us, and how much I love her. She was my entire life then and now . . . she’s the only hope I have to shed this forsaken pain.
Sephie: I can’t. They won’t have what I requested delivered until the weekend.
I feel desperation clawing at my chest. Ellington will have to fix that now. I need her by my side sooner.
Brahms: Two days. You have two days to move in with me.
Sephie: Why are you being so fucking stubborn?
I take a deep breath before responding honestly:
Brahms: Because maybe this is the last chance I have to get it right. Or what if the next time I don’t survive, but at least I could get you to forgive me.
There’s a long pause before her reply comes through, each word hitting me like a punch to the gut:
Sephie: If that’s why you’re insisting, save us some time. I’ll never forgive you.
I stare down at the words until they blur together, a bitter lump forming in my throat. I wish I could deny the harsh truth in what she’s said, but I can’t. The damage caused cuts too deep, and I need to live with it.
My fingers tremble as I manage to type:
Brahms: I don’t expect your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it. But will you at least give me a chance to try and make things right in whatever small way I can? Please, Sephie.
I wait for her to say something. Her next words will either give me hope or destroy me completely. But she never responds.
Chapter Thirteen
Brahms
(Then)
I slowly drifted into awareness. It felt like I’d been sleeping for too long, so long it’s almost impossible to open my eyes. The beep and hum of machines surrounded me and I remembered that earlier I had a similar experience. Ellington looked at me with concern, but then . . .
