Page 35 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

“Apologize, for starters. Explain the situation and offer to let them bring in a photographer to take their family pictures.”

Edna tuts, shaking her head. “He’s not going to like that.”

Don’t I know it.

“If Noah can’t clean up his own mess, he doesn’t get to criticize how I go about doing it for him.”

The words are harsher than intended. I’m not angry with him. I’m not even angry with the situation.

At the world? Yes. At the unfairness of it all? Abso-fucking-lutely.

His life wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Everything he had going for him, everyone he loved, gone, because of one tragic accident.

I adjust my bag on my shoulder, distracting myself from the pain flaring in my chest. “I’m going up to the house now.”

Edna steps forward and wraps her bony arms around me. “You’re a good boy, Mercer,” she murmurs into the front of my shirt.

Gingerly, I return her hug. When she doesn’t release me right away, I cup her shoulders and consider her. “You’re okay?”

I should have asked that first. I realize that now that I’m thinking properly. I swear my brain short-circuits any time Noah’s wellbeing is involved.

“I’m fine.” She steps back and waves a hand. “I just—” She sighs, once again leaning on the doorjamb. “I just hope it isn’t always this painful for him. The grief will always be there, sure, but I hate to see him hurting this badly for so long.”

“Me, too.” I glance at the house, then turn back to her. “I’ll be here all weekend. Call up to the house if you need me. Or…” I scan the inside of the store again. “I can stay until you lock up?”

“No, no,” she insists. “I’m through. I was just waiting for you. I didn’t want to leave him here alone. ”

Once we’ve said our goodbyes, I trek across the gravel lot, past the barn, and up the hill to the house, my feet dragging, as if my loafers have been weighted down.

I knock on the farmhouse door, three hard, loud raps he’ll hear, even if he’s already upstairs. Then, without waiting, I let myself in.

“Noah,” I call into the dark. “It’s me.”

I close and lock the door behind me, then punch the code into the security system.

Crouching a little lower, I check the security panel and the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, then verify that the heat will kick on if it gets too cold tonight.

I finish the ritual by taking a picture of the screen and the locked door, just in case he wants to see.

Noah’s been hypervigilant about safety and security since the accident. It’s another way he punishes himself—by obsessing over an incident he couldn’t have prevented in the first place.

He’s been telling himself the same story for nineteen months. Had he been here, he could have prevented it. He could have saved them.

In reality, had Noah been home that night, he would have died right alongside them.

Shoulders slumping, I step out of my shoes. Then I pad up the stairs.

I don’t bother looking at the framed photos I pass. I’ve seen them all, memorized their placement. Meg wasn’t just a great photographer. She had an impeccable eye for design.

Not long before she died, she offered to help me lay out a gallery wall in my condo. I’ve had art and pictures sitting around since I moved in two years ago.

I have no plans to do anything with them now. I can’t stand the idea of hanging up any of the frames without her.

We had so many plans. They had their own plans, too. Plans that will never see the light of day. Plans that died the day she did, leaving nothing but hollowed-out hope in their place.

I pause at the top of the stairs, my gut telling me to go left.

The primary bedroom is to the right, but Noah doesn’t let himself sleep in there very often.

As I round the corner and peer into a dark bedroom, finding an unmoving mass in the center of the queen mattress, my suspicion is confirmed .

“Hey.” I navigate through the dark, unbuttoning my shirt as I go. I drop my bag to the floor and drape the Oxford over the back of the desk chair before I ease onto the edge of the bed and peel my socks off.

Once I’m stripped down to my underwear, I dig my portable charger from my bag and locate my phone and AirPods. Then I climb onto the bed and settle against the headboard.

I wait like that for one breath, then another. Beside me, his back rises and falls steadily, but from this angle I can’t tell whether he’s asleep.

“Noah. I’m here,” I whisper. Just in case he’s awake. Just in case he needs me.

Slowly, I place my hand on the side of his torso. He shudders, then stills. A breath passes. Then again.

Eventually, he covers my hand with his.

There’s nothing to say. Nothing that can ease the burden of grief or quell the self-loathing I’m sure he’s drowning in.

I lower myself onto the bed without releasing him and pop an AirPod into one ear, then cue up a podcast.

Tomorrow, I’ll handle all things orchard-related. I’ll pick up where Noah left off today.

But tonight, my job is to be here.

I can’t fix this. I can’t change the past or change the size and shape of his grief. But I can be here and remind him that he’s not alone, even when he’s lost in his own darkness, unable to find his way back to the light.

I’ll wait. I’ll stay. I’ll lie here all weekend if it’s what he needs. Longer, even. Whatever it takes, for however long he needs, to make sure he knows he’s not alone.