Page 16

Chapter sixteen

Levana

“Now, the key here is precision,” the embalmer says, tapping his gloved fingers against the mannequin’s face. “Too much pressure and you’ll split the skin. Too little and you won’t get enough tension to hold the feature in place.”

This guy’s method is incredible—a delicate weaving of thread so fine it practically disappears against the skin. He explains that it’s meant for trauma cases, where the tissue’s been damaged or compromised, but I’m already thinking about how well it could work for infants too. Babies’ skin is so thin and delicate. Something like this could be a game changer.

I scribble a few notes down, but my handwriting’s a mess today, all shaky and jagged. I wipe my palm against my thigh and try again, but the pen feels clumsy between my fingers.

My stomach churns, sour nausea creeping through me. I swallow hard, biting it back, but it doesn’t help. My throat’s tight, my skin’s clammy, and I can feel the faintest trickle of sweat running down my spine.

Christ, not now.

“You look like you’re gonna hurl,” Elliot says, leaning in close. “If you barf on me, I’m not cleaning it up.”

“I’ll aim for your shoes,” I whisper back.

He grins and nudges my knee with his own. “Classy.”

Honestly, I should be feeling better than this. I should be buzzing. Gordon had practically shoved the tickets into my hands when they arrived in the mail last month. Said he was getting sick of “all that convention crap” —too many people, too many old acquaintances—but I knew better. He’d been going to this thing every year for decades. The only reason he wasn’t coming now was because he was getting older, and his knees had finally had enough.

“You’re better at this stuff than me, anyway,” he’d said, pointing at me with one of his ancient biros. “Go. Learn something new. Bring Elliot to keep you out of trouble.”

Now here I am, sitting in a too-bright conference room, feeling like I’m about two minutes away from throwing up all over my shirt.

I should’ve known something was off when I felt queasy before breakfast. But I’d ignored it, shoved some toast down my throat, and powered through. This trip was too important—two whole days of learning from some of the best embalmers in the field, surrounded by people who love their jobs as much as we do. Actual heaven.

I’d been practically vibrating with excitement when I’d picked Elliot up this morning, rattling off all the sessions I wanted to hit while we drove. The new arterial dyes, the updated hypodermic kits, the restorative waxes designed for specific traumas.

But now I’m sat here feeling like I’ve been hit by a fucking truck and I have no idea why.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I sneak a hand down, dragging it out just enough to glance at the screen.

Hope you’re having fun.

I swipe up on the notification, and my stomach twists again, but not from nausea. There are more texts beneath it.

How’s the convention going? What are you learning?

I miss you.

Guilt flares sharp in my chest. I hadn’t meant to ignore him, I’d just been so distracted this morning, bouncing from one session to the next, trying to absorb as much as I could between feeling like I was going to pass out.

Sorry! Been busy, it’s amazing though. Learning lots. Miss you too.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and sit up a little straighter, determined to focus. The embalmer’s now smoothing a layer of powder over restorative wax in light dabs with a fluffy brush, and the shine disappears completely. Perfect. Seamless. Like nothing had ever been damaged in the first place.

This is gold.

When the session ends, Elliot and I drift between booths, weaving through clusters of funeral directors and embalmers, whilst half the vendors throw glossy brochures and business cards at us like we’ve got money to burn.

We stop at one display filled with gold-trimmed caskets and a massive banner that says ‘ REST IN GLORY ’ in bold, comic sans letters.

“Oh my god,” Elliot mutters. “That’s awful.”

“Glorious,” I correct as I snap a picture of it.

We end up rating casket designs like we’re judging bad tattoos—too shiny, too boxy, “why does that one have LED lights inside?” The whole thing’s ridiculous, and we’re practically crying with laughter by the time we move on.

We’re halfway down another aisle when that sharp, sour feeling roils in my stomach again, and I stagger a step, grabbing one of the booth tables for balance.

“Jesus,” Elliot says, gripping my arm “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie, swallowing hard. “Just dizzy. I’ll grab some water.”

“You sure?” His eyes narrow. “You wanna go lie down?”

I wave him off, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Just too much excitement, I guess.”

We move on, drifting from booth to booth. I try to focus on the displays—new embalming tools, eco-friendly casket designs, some overly enthusiastic sales rep trying to push biodegradable urns like they’re the second coming of sliced bread.

My phone buzzes for the fourth time in the last hour. I ignore it.

A minute later. Another buzz.

I sigh and pull it from my pocket.

Make sure you’re drinking water. Don’t forget to eat something too.

Remember to take a break, yeah? I know how you get when you’re in the zone.

I keep checking the time like an idiot, hoping it’s closer to when I’ll see you again.

I hope you’re smiling right now. God, I love when you smile.

Not trying to bug you, just miss your face a little.

I huff out a small laugh.

Jesus Christ.

Will drink water, will eat, have sat down, definitely smiling, miss your face too. Don’t worry.

The reply comes through straight away.

Good girl.

My heart misses a beat entirely. No. Two beats. I think I’m having a heart attack. Definitely having a heart attack.

It’s the first time he’s called me that. It’s the first time anyone’s called me that.

I relish in the flutter behind my ribs for a second before I shove my phone back into my pocket, trying to play it cool.

Elliot pokes his head over my shoulder. “I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up. Watch him appear round the corner any second now.”

I laugh, but as we move to the next booth, the thought lingers.

I mean, part of me almost likes the idea. Patrick showing up all concerned and sweet, like he just couldn’t stand to be away from me any longer. The kind of wild, impulsive affection you see in movies, and heat blooms through my veins at the thought of it.

But then there’s the other part. The part that makes my skin itch.

He wouldn’t really show up, would he?

No, of course he wouldn’t. Don’t be ridiculous.

The restaurant’s all warm lighting and dark wood. Glasses clink, silverware scrapes against plates, and low jazz hums from some hidden speaker overhead. It’s really fucking nice. And completely out of our depth.

We decided to dress up for the hell of it, figured if we were stuck in a hotel full of funeral directors, we might as well do it looking good. I’m in a sleek black dress, nothing too fancy, but enough to feel like I made an effort.

Elliot’s cleaned up surprisingly well too. Dark shirt, nice tie, hair actually combed for once. He’s got this effortless kind of charm when he tries, like he doesn’t even realise how good he looks. It suits him. Really suits him.

“ You clean up alright,” I’d told him earlier when we left the room.

He’d grinned and shot back, “Yeah, well, figured I’d give you a break from staring at Patrick’s nerdy ass for once.”

Now he’s slouched across the table, tie hanging loose around his neck, with that flushed, happy look he always gets when he’s a drink or two in.

I miss this. I miss us.

We really should do stuff like this more. The dinner nights, the pastry runs at work, the dumb movie marathons where we talk through half the plot.

Just him and me, laughing over nothing, letting the rest of the world wait.

My phone buzzes on the table.

For fuck’s sake.

“Don’t you need to get that?” Elliot asks, raising an eyebrow.

I sigh, flipping it over so the screen faces down.

“I’ll call him back later,” I mutter, but I already know I won’t.

The texts have been non-stop all damn day. I just need five minutes without him checking in. Just five minutes.

But the ringing starts again, and I know if I don’t answer, it’s going to keep going. So I snatch it back up.

“Hey,” I say. “I was just about to call you.”

Liar.

Patrick’s voice is low and calm. “Hey. I just wanted to check in.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “We’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“You sure?” His voice sharpens. “You don’t sound fine.”

I close my eyes, counting to three. “I’m just tired. That’s all. I’m tired and—” I swallow the nausea rising in my throat. “And I think I’m coming down with something.”

“You been drinking anything except coffee?” Patrick presses. “You sound like you’re burning out.”

I blow out an impatient breath. “I’m fine.”

“Levana—”

“Patrick, I’m fine. I’m about to grab something to eat. El and I just got to the restaurant like thirty minutes ago.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Why didn’t you answer my last message?”

“We’ve been busy—”

“You couldn’t send one text?” His voice tightens. “Not one?”

“Patrick…”

“I’ve been sitting here worried, Levana.”

“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “I said I’m fine! Stop. Just stop!”

The second the words are out, I regret them.

“I—” I start, but Patrick cuts me off.

“Yeah.” His voice is cold now, clipped and quiet. “Okay. Sorry.”

“Wait. No, I’m sorry,” I rush, but the line clicks dead before I can finish.

I stare at my phone for a second.

I feel like a complete fucking asshole.

Guilt squeezes my throat. I shouldn’t have snapped. I should’ve just said I’d call him later.

I mean, Patrick’s clingy sometimes—okay, most of the time—but I don’t blame him.

If I’d lost my wife and child… if I’d had to claw my way through that kind of grief just to stay upright… and then the person I was trying to build something new with drove hours away, was staying overnight night with someone I didn’t like, and wasn’t answering my texts?

Yeah, I’d probably spiral too.

I’d be panicked. Hurt. Trying to hold on to anything that felt stable.

He’s not crazy for needing reassurance. He’s human.

Right?

Right?

“Lev.” Elliot’s voice pulls me back. “Look at me.”

I glance up. He’s leaning forward across the table, eyes trained on me.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says firmly. “Don’t let him ruin this for you, okay? Dinner’s gonna be here soon, and we’re gonna eat and laugh and have a good time because you deserve it.”

I try to smile, but it’s shaky. “Yeah.”

“And if you’re really lucky,” he grins, “I might even treat you to a dance.”

“Oh, wow,” I deadpan. “I can hardly contain my excitement.”

“You should be excited,” he says, wagging a finger at me. “I’ve been practicing my moves.” He sits back, tossing his napkin into his lap with dramatic flair. “I’m basically unstoppable now.”

I bite back a grin, but I fail, miserably.

“Good,” He says, flashing me a smile. “There’s that face I love.”

We ate dinner, and I tried to enjoy it. I really did. But halfway through, the dizziness crept back in. I couldn’t finish my steak. I’d barely touched my wine. Even water wasn’t sitting right.

Now I just feel like shit. Shaky and feverish, like I’m burning up from the inside out.

“Come on,” Elliot says as we step out of the elevator. “Let’s get you in bed before you keel over in the hallway.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble. But my heart’s pounding, and my stomach’s rolling in tight, miserable knots, so I let him guide me down the corridor.

He swipes the keycard and shoulders the door to our room open, holding it for me. “Alright, get in.”

I step inside and barely make it to the bed before I almost pass out. The mattress dips beside me as Elliot flops down, one arm draped over his face.

The booking was meant to be separate—two singles, two spaces. But apparently, the universe had other plans.

Of course we end up sharing a bed. Of course.

But honestly? Right now, I’m too damn sick to care.

I lean back against the headboard, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead. My skin feels weird. Clammy but too warm, like my body can’t decide what temperature it’s meant to be.

“You good?” Elliot asks. He’s sprawled out beside me now, one foot hanging lazily off the bed.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna brush your teeth and get your PJs on?”

I nod and drag myself upright, moving like I’m wading through syrup. I go through the motions. Brush my teeth, rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, get changed, and by the time I’m back in bed, I feel even worse.

We’re watching some mindless reality show now, but I can’t focus on it. The colours are too bright, the voices too loud. Every tiny sound feels like it’s burrowing itself under my skin.

“Lev, seriously,” Elliot says after a while. “What the hell’s going on?”

Before I can answer, he shifts closer, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. “Shit. You’re burning up.”

“Maybe it’s food poisoning?” I say, teeth chattering.

He shakes his head. “No way. We’ve eaten the same things.”

I press a hand to my stomach like I can somehow will the sickness away. Everything feels wrong, like my body’s just stopped playing by the rules.

“Listen,” he says. “I know Patrick wouldn’t approve, but you’re my best friend, alright? So get in here.”

He opens his arms, and before I can blink, he’s tugging me closer, wrapping himself tightly around me, his hand rubbing slow circles over my back.

“You’re shaking.” He says, pulling the blanket higher over me.

I can feel the tears building hot and fast behind my eyes, and a sob bubbles out of me as I bury my face into his chest.

“Oh, Lev…” He soothes, his hand still moving over my back. “What’s this now?”

“I feel like shit. And everything feels weird and the past month’s just been so overwhelming. I don’t feel like myself and I fucking hate it.”

He’s quiet, but keeps stroking my back in those warm, steady circles.

“Nothing’s the same,” I choke out. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so fucking emotional for no damn reason and… I miss you, El.”

His hand stills for a second. “Lev. I live with you.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s not the same.”

He shifts slightly, turning so he can see my face. “What’s not the same?”

“I don’t know. I just miss when it was easy. When we’d hang out without,” I wave a hand vaguely. “All this shit.”

They both think I’m dumb. Playing nice when I’m there, then acting like I can’t hear their quiet battles of bullshit whilst I’m out of the room. But I can. And it’s cutting deeper and deeper every time it happens.

“Yeah. I get that,” he says.

“It’s like…” I trail off, biting the inside of my cheek. “We used to just be us . No pressure, no weirdness, no…”

“No Patrick,” Elliot finishes quietly.

I flinch. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in. “I know what you mean.”

He pauses, then reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “I miss you too. But I’m still here, okay? Even if things feel different, I’m still here.”

I nod against him, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“Good. Now, are you gonna let me hold you until you fall asleep, or do I have to start monologuing about how much of an amazing friend I am, and how lucky you are to have me in your life—blah blah bah.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I mumble, but my lips twitch a little anyway. I can’t help it. He always does this. Always knows exactly what to say, exactly when I need him to say it.

I must’ve drifted off at some point. One second I’m sinking into his warmth, his arms heavy and solid around me, and the next, I feel like I’ve been electrocuted.

“What’s going on?” Elliot’s voice is soft from behind me.

“Shit.” I stumble out of bed, practically tripping over my own feet as I bolt for the bathroom. The second my knees hit the cold tile, I’m heaving over the toilet, so heavy it feels like my body’s trying to wring itself inside out.

“Lev?” Elliot’s voice is closer now.

The door creaks open, and I hear him sigh. “Jesus.”

I lean my forehead against my arm, eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m fine,” I croak, even though I’m clearly not.

“Yeah,” Elliot mutters. “That’s convincing.”

There’s a weird, heavy pause in the room before he opens his mouth again.

“I don’t wanna sound like a dick here,” he says carefully, “but… could you be pregnant?”

I blink, stunned, like the words don’t even make sense at first. Then I shake my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “No. No fucking way.”

Elliot’s brow furrows. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m on the pill.”

“And what else?”

“What do you mean ‘what else ’?”

He groans, pressing a hand to his brow. “Levana Marie Foster, even I know that shit isn’t a hundred percent successful.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’m going to the store,” he interrupts. “I’m getting you a pregnancy test.”

“It’s almost midnight!” I protest.

“Good thing 24-hour stores exist,” he fires back, already jamming his feet into his shoes. “Don’t move. I’ll be back soon.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence slams into me like a punch to the chest. My breath stutters, and my fingers tangle in my hair, tugging hard enough to sting, like maybe pain will ground me.

No. No, no, no. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t.

My mind spirals, and I pace the room, arms wrapped around myself like that’ll somehow hold my bones together.

I was careful. I’m always careful. I never forget the pill. I keep it in the kitchen, right next to the coffee machine so I see it every morning. I’m not stupid.

Except maybe I am.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my hands against them until colours burst behind my eyelids.

Maybe I missed one. Maybe I doubled up, or took one too early.

Patrick. Oh, fuck. I can’t do this to him.

I gag on thin air.

It’s not just the thought of being pregnant though. It’s what comes after.

I can’t do it again. I can’t. I can’t go through the doctor’s visits, the sleepless nights spent clinging to hope, the whispered promises that it’ll be okay.

I can’t feel that helpless again, or feel that sickening, gut-deep dread that comes when you’re too scared to let yourself believe things will turn out okay.

Because they didn’t.

Because Violet died anyway.

I choke on a sob, pressing a hand to my sternum like I can force everything back in there, but the memories slam into me too fast. The cold panic that flooded my whole body when she was born too early, not crying. The dread when she was wheeled away in an incubator, nurses running fast. Her tiny chest rising and falling so softly I barely trusted my own eyes. The desperate hope that if I just stared hard enough, maybe she wouldn’t leave me.

And she did so well for so long.

But she slipped away anyway.

I can’t do that again. I won’t.

“Stupid,” I whisper to myself. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

I knew better than this—knew better than to trust that things could stay steady. That I could build something with Patrick without it all going to hell.

And the birth control… Shit , why didn’t I just use condoms too? How fucking hard would that have been?

But no. I’d convinced myself I was safe.

The pill was my best option. Everything else was a mess.

A hysterectomy or tubal ligation? Not a candidate for either. Too young, no living kids, no husband—apparently that makes me unfit to decide what to do with my own body.

An IUD? Nope. My body wouldn’t tolerate it. Some bullshit about my cervix being too sensitive, too prone to inflammation.

The Depo shot? That turned me into a vomiting, dizzy wreck for weeks.

The implant? Worse. Mood swings so bad I barely recognised myself.

The pill was the only thing that worked—the only thing that didn’t turn my body against me. But I still should’ve known better. Should’ve been smarter.

My legs give out and I sink to the floor, curling in on myself like I can squeeze all the fear out. My ribs feel too tight, like they’re shrinking around my lungs.

It’s fine. Elliot’s just being paranoid. This is nothing. I’m fine. I have to be.

By the time he reappears, I’m barely holding it together. His face is tight, like he’s bracing for something bad, and there’s a crinkled plastic bag in his hand.

“I got two,” he says, holding it out like it’s a bomb. “Just in case.”

I don’t even answer. I just lunge for it, and in half a second, I’m slamming the bathroom door shut behind me. My hands shake as I rip the box open, sending instructions and spare packaging scattering across the sink.

Just do it. Get it over with.

I pee on the stick, cap it, and set it on the counter as fast as I can.

The door creaks open a second later and Elliot’s head peaks round.

I glare at him through the mirror. “If you’re gonna stand there watching me, you may as well hold my hand.”

He steps in, and without a word, his fingers wrap around mine. I grip back hard—maybe too hard, but he doesn’t complain.

We stare at the test together. The little screen blinks.

Waiting…

My palm is clammy against his, but he doesn’t let go.

Waiting…

His thumb rubs slow circles over the back of my hand like he’s quietly reminding me to breathe.

Waiting…

I can feel his eyes flicking between me and the test, like he’s bracing to say something if this goes the wrong way. Like he’s already working out what to say to make it better.

Negative.

“Oh my fucking God.” The relief is so sudden and overwhelming it feels like my bones have turned to water.

I spin around and throw my arms around Elliot, hugging him so hard I nearly knock him off his feet.

“Whoa—okay!” He staggers, but his arms come around me fast, strong and sure.

“You’re okay, Lev,” he murmurs against my hair. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” I repeat. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You are.”

I can’t ever let this happen again. No fucking way.

I can’t go through this—the panic, the sickening fear, the memories clawing their way out of the darkness. I won’t put myself in a position to feel that powerless again—not over my own body, not over my own life.

Never again.