He pulls back just enough to look at me. Then he leans in and kisses me. It’s not desperate or rushed. It’s just real.
Like he needs to feel something other than grief.
For a second, we allow ourselves to exist in something other than loss.
There’s a shift the longer we kiss, and this could easily turn into sex. And it’s not that I don’t want to give us both that comfort, but I also don’t think that’s what he needs right now.Actually, maybe it is what he physically needs, but he doesn’t need the emotional complications that will follow. He doesn’t need messy.
I pull back gently. “Not tonight.”
He nods. He doesn’t push or try to convince me.
“Can I hold you?”
I take his hand. “That we can do.”
We’ve been sleeping in the guest room together because sleeping in Savannah and Chris’s room doesn’t feel right. When we get to the room, I turn to him and take his shirt in my hands and remove it. Then I unbutton his jeans and pull them down his legs. He steps out, but doesn’t move otherwise.
When I look up, he’s watching me with something like gratitude, but also desire.
He holds my arms as I stand and pulls me into him.
We stay in the moment for just a minute, then I lead him over to the bed.
I pull back the covers. “Get in.”
He does what I say, and I climb in right after.
We lie there, facing each other, our legs intertwined, our hands still.
He falls asleep, and his breathing slows.
I turn and tuck myself against him, and he automatically wraps an arm around me, tugging me close.
We stay like that, anchored together. Like even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let me go.
So, I don’t move. I stay in his hold until I eventually fall asleep because this is what he needs. And I’m not going anywhere.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saint
I know there are stages of grief, and right now I think I may have hit the anger stage. Yes, I still have days where the sadness of losing my sister hits me so hard I feel like my chest is going to cave in. It might not be anger necessarily, more like I’ve just been thrown to the wolves of parenting, and don’t get me wrong; I can handle the kids. I love them. It’s getting into a new routine, the traveling back and forth to NC. Getting them in school and all that goes along with being a parent.
When we got back to New Jersey after the funeral, it felt like my house was a landing zone. And definitely no longer mine.
Backpacks in the mudroom. A pair of pink sparkly boots next to my sneakers. Remy’s hockey bag is propped against the wall, which smells much worse than my gym bag. Rhyan’s stuffed dragons lined up on the couch like they were guarding territory.
No-spill cups and plastic utensils that suddenly appeared one day. Crayon drawings hanging on my fridge. And a princess crown sitting on my coffee table.
But somehow, in the middle of all the sadness, these little signs of chaos are the only things keeping me standing. Because I know they’re safe and here with me. Mine to protect.
It’s a thought that doesn’t sit right with me, but not because I don’t want them—because, God, do I want them. I want them with a force that scares me.
It’s because every time I look at them, I see my sister.
Remy’s cautious eyes. Rhyan’s stubborn chin. Questions that don’t have answers, but they look to me to find anyway. And I try. Every damn day, I try. But sometimes, trying isn’t enough.
I hold them when they cry or want to talk about their parents. And they’ve also been asking me to tell them stories about Savannah, so I tell them about what she was like growing up. I tell them how happy she was when she had each of them. And they asked some questions about how they died, but I can’t explain it to them now, so I keep things as simple as I can.
