Any sadness that I didn’t personally inflict on her is a variable I didn’t plan for, and I don’t know how the fuck to fix it. If she is going to be miserable, I want it to be because of me. Because if I broke her, I’d know exactly how to piece her back together.
“What’s wrong?” I demand.
She turns her back to me, curling into a ball.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Graham. Please.”
I slide across the silk sheets until I am flush against her back. I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her tight againstmy chest, and that’s when I feel her shoulders trembling. She is sobbing silently into the pillow. A vicious pain punctures straight through my lungs. I gasp for air.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Is… is this sadness?
Am I actually feeling sad because she is sad?
The realization is terrifying. It makes me feel weak.
“Speak to me, Maya,” I hiss, my teeth grazing the back of her neck.“Tell me right now.”
“It’s my mother’s death anniversary,” she chokes out.“Today is the day she died after giving birth to me. Everything I am… everything I touch, I just ruin.”
I researched her and already know all this. I have no idea how this date slipped my mind. Anger takes over the pain in my chest. I wrench her around so she is forced to look at me.
“Don’t you ever speak that way about something that belongs to me,” I hiss.“You belong to me, Maya. And I don’t let anyone—not even you—talk shit about what is mine.”
“You don’t get it,” she sobs.“I’m not even worthy of visiting her grave.”
“Get up,” I order, throwing the blankets off our bodies.
“What?” she gasps, blinking through her tears.
“I said get up and get dressed.”
I force her out of bed, completely overriding her protests. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing or why I’m doing it. These feelings inside me have become deeply uncomfortable.
Minutes later, I am tearing through the city streets. I pull up to a flower shop, marching inside like a man on a mission to commit murder. I buy five massive bouquets, throwing them into the back seat.
“Graham… what are you doing?” she whispers as I speed toward the cemetery where I know her mother is buried.
I don’t answer.
She will see.
When we reach the cemetery, I grab her hand, leaving no room for argument as I drag her through the tombstones until we are standing right in front of her mother’s grave.
Maya sinks to her knees.
“I’m sorry,” Maya whispers.“Mom, I’m so sorry—”
“Stop,” I shout.“My girl isn’t sorry for existing. Tell her something else.”
Maya looks up at me in bewilderment.
“Graham, you can’t stop me from being sorry—”
“I can,” I grumble, dropping the bouquets over the tombstone.“She doesn’t get your apologies, Maya. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Maya flings herself upright, hitting me with both hands. They feel like nothing, so I don’t protest much.
