“You’re the bride,” I point out. “They don’t need to distract you because everyone else will.” Her attention will be demanded left and right.
“So my wedding really is going to be a decoy?” Her indignance is palpable.
“Looks like it.” I face the kitchen where the men are all inside, my senses tingling.
“The asshole,” Rose breathes. “What do we do?”
“What can we do?”
“God damn it, tomorrow is supposed to be a vacation from the shit.” She huffs and puffs, and then she’s looking at me with a sorrowful expression that I one hundred percent don’t like. “I need to talk to you about something else.”
“What?” I ask, as she takes my hand and leads me to the staircase.
“If it’s too much,” she says, lowering to the step and taking me with her. “I can talk to him.”
“What’s too much? And who’s him?”
“Danny wants to announce about the baby.” Her lips twist. “Now.”
My stomach turns painfully, and I try with everything I have not to let the stab of pain show on my face.
“Doc scanned me earlier,” she goes on quietly, unsure, and I hate that, yet I’m incapable of fixing it. “I’m over twelve weeks.”
Past the most likely period of miscarrying. Unless you get shot. “Of course.” I scramble for the right words, scramble harder for the smile I need to give Rose. The one she needs too. But I’m feeling so mixed, struggling with my emotions, fighting to show my elation for her while hiding my devastation for me. My head and my body are at war, my mind screaming to speak, my body wanting to curl into a hopeless ball. “You absolutely must.” I grab her hand and squeeze. This is her time. Full of hope. Full of positivity. Unlawful men aside. “And enjoy every second of it.” I smile and pull her in for a hug. I never want her to feel bad for being happy. Like always, I’m fighting it hard not to project my desolation on others, especially not on Rose. This is a miracle for her. And still, I fight to hold back my tears. And I fight hard. “Do you think he can wait until I’m back?”
“Why? Where are you going?” She pulls away, her face worried and questioning.
“I need to take my meds.” I shamelessly circle my stomach. “I think I’ve overdone it today, what with bachelorette parties, arrests, and trying to pull my pregnant best friend off a strip pole.”
Rose laughs, laying a palm over her forehead. “Obviously, I want to die.”
I lean in quickly and kiss her cheek. “Obviously. Tell Danny to wait for me before he breaks the news.” I jump up quickly and take the stairs fast. “I want to be there.” I’m holding back the dam as I hurry down the corridor, and as soon as I’m in our room alone, I fill the silent space with my sobs, clenching my face with my palms and sliding down the wood to my ass, sounding as hopeless as I’m sure I look. And the pain in my stomach just won’t relent. Won’t go away. For just a moment, I had what Rose has. That awe. That fear. That uncertain joy. That was mine. And even though fucking James in the car centered us again, I feel this aching, devastating tear inside my soul. Every other pain is forgotten with this fresh agony.
It’s finally hit.
It’s finally sinking in, and it hurts so fucking bad.
The door jars behind me. “Beau?” James calls. I jolt with his constant pushing of the door, not bothering to wipe at my face. Not bothering to fix myself. I’m really not okay, and I can’t pretend I am anymore. At least, not with James.
I shuffle forward on my ass, giving him room to open the door, and when he muscles past and finds me on the floor, all I can do is smile lamely, my lip wobbling, my face drenched.
His big body seems to shrink before my eyes. I hate that too. I sense things are coming to a head and, as much as I don’t want to be an added problem, I can’t find it in myself to fight the onslaught of emotions. I’m done. Exhausted. The adrenalin has gone. Empty.
Silently, he takes my hand and gently pulls me up from the floor, engulfing me in his arms and lifting me from my feet. His move gives my sadness another hit of sorrow, and I bury my face in his neck, my body jumping, my cries ruling me. I haven’t lost control like this since Mom died. Back then, I was blinded by my grief, unable to see what lay ahead. Now? Now I know what lies ahead, and it scares me. I know what needs to happen, what we both need to find closure for the murders of the people we love the most. But this new grief feels somehow unstoppable. It feels like there will never be a cure, and it’s terrifying. James taking me to those places that always released me from my torment doesn’t feel like it could work now, which leaves me dangling off the cliff, ready to plummet into the darkness with no lifeline to bring me back.
He walks across the room and eases me down to the bed, reaching behind him to detach my arms from around his shoulders. I can’t look at him, my eyes low. I don’t want him to see the utter hopelessness in me. I don’t want him to feel like I do, because if he doesn’t believe he can fix me, I don’t know where that leaves us. Our anguish has always been shared, whether silently and unknown, or with the truth. It lightened the weight on our shoulders. Offered respite. And on top of my shredded emotions, I feel guilt, because it wasn’t only me who lost the unexpected glimmer of light beyond our purpose.
“Beau,” he breathes, trying to encourage my chin up, trying to find my eyes. I resist, fighting against the pressure of his finger. “Beau, look at me.”
I shake my head, swallowing, trying desperately to rid my throat of the overwhelming lump, jolting with every inhale I attempt to make. I can’t breathe. Can’t feel anything except the overpowering emptiness that crushed me when I woke from my coma. Can’t see anything but James’s face when he told me.
I know what’s coming, I know the feeling, the uncontrollable panic hijacking me. “No.” I will it away, standing from the bed, pushing James back. I frantically search the room for Dexter. Where is he? I look for the drawers that Dexter always kept the paper bags in. Where are they? I search for Uncle Lawrence, for his peaceful balcony that he always took me to. They’re not here. I gasp, reaching for something to cling to, defying the pull. I grapple at the material in my hands, feeling something grab me, hearing the bellow of a man.
“I can’t breathe,” I gasp, heaving, searching for air. “I can’t breathe!” My heart thunders in my chest, my pulse booming in my ears, my vision hazy from the blackness creeping in from the sides.
And then it’s there, over my mouth, and I grab it, urgently pulling in oxygen as my strung body gives and I sink into something soft. The black begins to clear, and I blink, staring at a gold chandelier, disorientated.
“Fuck . . . me,” someone whispers, as a hand strokes through my hair.
“What happened?”
I swallow, my breathing regulating, and drop my eyes. “Aunt Zinnea?” I mumble into the bag, willing my mind to straighten out. The bag continues to crumple, the sound deafening. My face feels taut, my throat hoarse, my chest tight. I remove the bag and try to sit up, but I’m met with force, two spade-like hands pushing into my shoulders and forcing me back to the bed.
“Take it easy.” He appears above me, his handsome face cut with worry. “Please don’t tell me you’re okay or I’ll lose my head.”