Page 84 of Cara

She’s here with me now, but I'm still waiting for her to disappear. For my world to go dark again.

I wasn’t surprised in the least when I received a text from Bo before the sun had even risen, letting me know that a parcel had been delivered outside the gate with items we might need for a short beach stay. The guy is meticulous as ever.

After brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, I cross the bedroom quietly, grabbing my phone on the way out. There are three missed calls from Dario and a few from Willie, a capo in Miami. Pulling up Bo’s text from this morning, I dial his number, closing the door to the bedroom.

Dante is the one who answers, shouting animatedexpletives before someone snatches the phone from him. After an exhausting night of rehashing old and new wounds, I can’t help but smile at his excitement, allowing myself to feel the significance. Sophie is alive.

My wife—my best friend—isalive.

“Dante hasn’t stopped smiling. Or screaming.” Bo chuckles. “He just told Mimi, and she’s desperate to see her.”

When I make it to the kitchen, it hits me that there’s no food and nothing to drink. While they continue to ramble, I place a grocery delivery order. By the time I finish, Dante is still yelling into the phone, and Mimi matches his volume behind him. “How does she look? How is she?”

Bo’s voice is much more cautious, the only one aware of the fears I laid into him last night before Sophie joined me on the beach. “How was it?”

“She’s been through more than I realized,” I say, struggling to find an answer that wouldn’t betray her trust. I take a deep breath, prepared to hold it all in. “Listen, I should go. I think we’ll be here a few days.”

“We’ll keep Dario calm. Don’t worry about anything here. Focus on her.”

“Thanks.”

Mimi yells once more, “If she gives you any trouble about coming back, tell her I’ll treat her to a spa day. That’ll change her mind!”

The brothers groan at her just before the call drops. Their chaos is more than I can handle this early in the morning. I'm gathering the groceries at the gate when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Bo, this time without the background noise.

“Should I tell Courtney? What about Camilla?”

Sophie’s mother is the last person to tell.

Within months following the takeover, Camilla left the life she knew, a husband who’d just lost everything and moved to California. Vito’s phone taps show they are still in contact… or atleast they were before he went offline. Not a single call or concern for her daughter has reached my ears.

It was the woman whoactuallyraised her who deserves to know the truth.

As I unpack the bags and gather what I need to prepare a meal, I tell him, “Courtney deserves to know. Sophie would want that. Tell her we’ll visit soon.”

Even if Sophie chooses not to stay—fuck, I can’t even imagine it—evenifshe doesn’t, she won’t leave without seeing Courtney. I know that much.

“Okay, I’ll call now.”

“Hey, thanks for sending our things.”

“Don’t mention it.” He blows out a sigh. “I'm so fucking happy for you, man.”

Dicing vegetables as Courtney once instructed, I toss them into the whisked eggs sizzling in the pan, poking the spatula to keep them from burning.

While take-out might taste better, I want to cook for her.

I want to keep moving because my thoughts will darken if I stop. I’ll remember how she thrashed against me in bed, how her eyes glazed over with the worst kind of fear when my hand slid between her legs. She screamed as if she were somewhere else. She didn’t hear my voice, couldn’t register my touch, as if she’d lost all five senses. An attack of complete panic.

I don’t know how to navigate this, how to ease this shame.

So I consume my morning with something to distract me. Work. I ventilate the cottage, opening the doors to invite some sunlight. I remove the sheets from the furnishings. I prepare a tray with her breakfast, placing one of the gardenias from the garden between the coffee and a glass of ice water. She remains undisturbed as I set the tray on the bed, her arms resting above her head.

I find myself at the beach, ripping off my worn shirt and walking into the water. The waves crash against me, calmingonce I've dived deep enough. Everything becomes silent in this part of the world. The closest thing to peace, I swim through the rough current, allowing the exercise to soothe the storm within my chest.

It’s not your fault.

It’s not your fault.