Page 48 of Until We Come Home

“How bad?” I ask.

“It was an older couple up at their vacation cabin for a weekend getaway.” He looks down at the floorboards. “Faulty wiring, at least that’s what it looked like. By the time the rig got up the ridge road, there was no chance. We pulled the wife out, but the husband... he didn't make it.”

I swallow hard, thinking how unimaginable something like that would be, how fast a normal night turns into the worst night of your life. And I know, without asking, how deeply any call involving the loss of a spouse is going to hit Mateo. My heart aches for him, and I wish I could reach in and wipe away all the weight he's carrying.

But there are no magic words to fix this, nothing I can say to rewrite the night.

“I’m so sorry, that’s horrible,” I say, and the words feel useless.

“Yeah. She was just... completely shattered.” His eyes go somewhere else for a second, seeing it again. “And I felt for her so much, but it also just brought me back to Lindsey and all of that.”

“That’s natural, I think,” I say gently.

“I know,” he says, “but I just... I still always felt like it was my fault that it happened. Like if I’d just not worked that night.”

I know he blames himself. Mateo was supposed to meet Lindsey for their anniversary dinner, but ended up working late on a call across town and canceled. She went home early, where she fell asleep on the couch.

A neighbor in their apartment building left something charging that started a fire, and it spread right into his and Lindsey’s apartment. If they’d been out at dinner, they wouldn’t have been home. He told me the whole thing once, late at night on the phone, something I think very few people know.

“Mateo, you know that wasn’t your fault,” I say firmly. “You could never have known what was going to happen. That’s how life works. We all see it in hindsight, a million decisions we’d change if we knew what was coming. You could say it over and over and it doesn’t change the fact that you could never have known that would happen. It’s horrible and unfair that it happened to her, but it is not your fault.”

He offers a faint, melancholic smile, turning his hand over to thread his fingers through mine as I give him an encouraging squeeze. We fall silent, the quiet music I had put on playing softly in the background while our fingers stay intertwined.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a low whisper, “we were actually discussing divorce right before the accident.”

I blink, taken aback. “You never mentioned that. I always pictured you two as the perfect couple.”

“I don’t like telling anyone. I feel like it’s... I dunno, disrespectful to her. But things hadn’t been good for a while. We got married so fucking young, and it wasn’t really working. But we agreed to give it a little more time, and then the anniversary dinner was us making one final attempt before officially calling it quits.”

I nod, holding tight to his hand, imagining a younger Mateo, not even twenty-five yet, doing everything possible to hold a broken marriage together. He’s never been the type to walk away or give up on someone. Mateo would go down with a sinking ship, far too loyal and devoted to pull the plug, even when a relationship has run its course.

“You didn’t want to let it go,” I say softly, tracing the back of his hand with my thumb.

“No. She saw things as they were, which I always liked about her. And I think she knew we were dead in the water, but I kept saying we could fix it. So we agreed to give it a few more months. Sometimes I wonder about that part too, if I hadn’t convinced her to keep trying, if we’d just signed the papers months earlier. All those endless, useless what-ifs.”

I can’t imagine it. Loving someone enough to fight for a marriage that was ending, and then having that fight be the thing you blame yourself for.

“Damn it, I’m sorry,” he says, dragging his free hand over his face. “I’m bringing the whole evening down. Tonight was supposed to be about celebrating your huge performance, and here I am unloading my baggage. I shouldn’t have come up here.”

He makes a move to stand, but I tighten my grip on his wrist, pulling him right back down beside me on the mattress.

“Don’t you dare walk out,” I tell him firmly, keeping my hand clasped in his. “I want you here, and you can always talk to me about this. Think of all the times I’ve called you spiraling at two in the morning over some dumb breakup. We’ve always been each other’s safe place. I wish I could wave a magic wand and fix it, but I’m just glad I can be here with you.”

He nods, and we’re quiet for a minute, sitting in the silence together, holding hands and not needing to fill it, until he looks over at me.

“I honestly don’t know where I’d be without you,” he murmurs.

A sudden prickle of guilt hits my chest as I think about the strange, confused feelings I’ve been wrestling with lately. The thoughts about throwing away our friendship and risking it all with him, the lift in the studio, the way I’ve been looking at him.

How could I ever risk this? What we have with each other, being the rocks in each other’s lives? I shove the thought into a drawer, burying the doubts, and offer him an easy smile.

“Always. We’re in this together, right?” I say, squeezing his hand. “Why don’t you stay here tonight, instead of driving back out to the cabin.”

“No, I shouldn’t intrude on your⁠—”

“Just stay. You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” I say, tightening my hold on his hand. “I want you here, really.”

“Alright.” He exhales a low, relieved breath and finally cracks a smile. “Thanks, Mia.”