AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Too late now.
Setting my plate on the side table, I open the door and freeze.
“Silvia.” My eyes shift toward Booker, our daytime security, who decided the wife of Pyotr Veles is safe enough to allow an audience with me.
He shrugs as if to say I only need to say the word, and he’ll send her away.
I remain silent.
“Hey, Dani,” Silvia says softly, recapturing my attention.
And when I meet her hazel eyes, they’re filled with a tenderness that nearly undoes me. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed my friend. But now that she’s here, standing right in front of me, it reminds me of how kind and compassionate Silvia has always been to me. I ache with the loss of not having spoken to her about everything that’s happened in my life recently. It’s all too much to believe.
“I brought you this,” she says after a moment of silence, holding out a fresh sketchbook and several new charcoal pencils. “I know you’re not as avid of a drawer as I am, but I thought, given the circumstances, it might give you something to do if you end up stuck in your head.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, thinking back to the painting of Efrem I made and how effectively it helped me channel some emotion. Maybe I’ll give drawing a try the next time I’m woken by nightmares in the middle of the night.
Silvia nods, her lips pulling into a sad smile. “Could I… come in?” she asks tentatively, her tone hinting at the realization that she might not be welcome.
Snapping out of my cloud of confusion, I realize I’ve been blocking the doorway. “Yeah, sure.” I step back, opening the door wide for her and gesturing her inside.
Booker and I share one more glance, his eyes silently teasing me as they say, That’s what I thought. Then I close the door on him.
“Did I interrupt your lunch?” Silvia asks, indicating my plate.
“Don’t worry about it.” I snatch the sandwich off the side table and start walking toward the kitchen once again. “Can I get you anything? A drink?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” she insists, following me into the house, her eyes roaming the space.
And it strikes me then that, as close as I’ve become to Silvia, as familiar as I am with her home, as welcome as she’s always made me feel, this is her first time in mine.
Pulling out a chair at the kitchen table, I settle into it and gesture for Silvia to do the same.
“What are you doing here?” I ask and cringe when it comes out sounding almost accusatory. I didn’t intend it that way.
“I came to offer my condolences,” she says softly, her face solemn, as though she might somehow actually grasp the depth of my pain. “And to check in on a friend I’ve been worrying about a lot lately. I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
There’s no reproach in her comment, just genuine concern. After seeing countless people so determined to prove their grief rather than actually feeling it, I can sense the difference with shocking ease. Too late, I realize it’s far easier to cope with someone’s condolences for my loss when they don’t mean them with the level of conviction Silvia does now. And my stomach twists painfully.
“How are you, Dani?” she asks, reaching across the table to grasp my hand.
A solid knot forms in my throat, obstructing my air. I swallow hard, and though my head nods as if to confirm I’m hanging in there, my eyes drop.
“I’m so sorry, Dani. I know how much you love Ben. What a massive part of your life he was. If there’s anything I can do, please tell me. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
Sniffling, I withdraw my hand from Silvia’s to wipe my nose with my napkin. Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but the pain of physical connection, when I’m so raw, is almost unbearable. I don’t think I can hold it together if I maintain contact.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and I mean it. Silvia might be the first person who’s actually said that to me.
Compared to the loss my parents have been suffering, mine must seem so much less consequential. And I’ve tried so hard to hold myself together—for their sakes as much as my own—that I haven’t stopped to notice that the burden of my grief has remained squarely on my shoulders, a far too heavy weight I’ve been trying to carry alone.
“Is there? Anything I can do?” she presses, her round eyes imploring.
I shake my head. “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. Unless you know how to bring people back from the dead.” A bubble of hysteria rises in my chest, and I try to force it back down.
Silvia gives a sympathy chuckle at my weak attempt at humor, and the sound eases that tension ever so slightly.
“I never got to know Ben,” she says. “But I know he must have been a special person to mean so much to you.”
