Page 47 of Brood

Finally, I can’t stand it any longer.

I get up, then walk barefoot over to his bed. I crawl under the covers beside him.

“Cadence,” he murmurs thickly.

I don’t know what he means by that, and I don’t care. I scoot against him, wrapping an arm around his middle. His body is very stiff for a few moments, until something breaks inside him. He shakes, still utterly silent, and pulls me into an urgent embrace.

I did the right thing. I know it. He needs me. I hug him tightly until his shaking eases.

It’s a long time before his body finally relaxes and his breathing slows. I rub his back and nuzzle his neck and shoulder.

When he lets out a long sigh akin to a groan, I ask softly, “Is Connie okay?”

“She’ll have scars, but she’ll live.”

“That’s good at least. Did you get the greenhouse fixed?”

“Yes.”

I wait, but he doesn’t continue. “Do you know what happened?”

“Yes. The bolts should have been replaced last year, but they weren’t.”

“Why not?”

He hesitates for a long time. “Jared was supposed to do it. He said he did.”

“Oh.”

I feel guilty for being relieved. But if it was Jared’s responsibility, at least he was the one who paid for the oversight.

“I should have confirmed it got done.”

“You’re not Jared’s supervisor, Will.”

“But I’m Marin’s supervisor. It’s still my responsibility.”

“You can’t do everything.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s tensed again. He’s gripping a handful of my hair and holding it against my back.

“You can’t. No one can. Try to let it go.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not very good at it either. But sometimes I try to breathe it out. Like I gather all the stress and emotion into my lungs, and then I blow it all out in a big exhale.”

He huffs with a brief gust of resigned amusement.

“Not like that,” I tell him, trying to peer at him in the dark. I take a deep breath and blow it slowly. “Like this.”

He echoes my exhale.

“Yes, but bigger. Deeper. You’ve got to gather everything you’re feeling and try to get it out.”

He does it again—slower and more purposefully. His exhale ruffles my hair.

“That’s right,” I tell him, rubbing my cheek against his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. You can’t fix everything. You’ve got to let it go.”