Page 49

Laura was gone. How could that even be? Yesterday, she had been here.

She was pregnant with our baby. She was bringing home dinner.

She had an appointment. She’d had a fucking life , and just like that, it was gone.

Extinguished. Taken from her over a stupid fucking accident, a foolish, negligible mistake.

One I would be paying for, for the rest of my life.

And I understood death. I understood how quickly life could be taken. I’d seen it. I’d been responsible for it. But it was at least somewhat different, wasn’t it? That had been war. And this …

I shook my head at the torrent of grief crashing against my heart like waves against the shore.

Was it karma? Was this the price I paid for the lives I had taken while on the battlefield?

Or could it have gone back further than that?

Maybe this was my punishment for whatever Dad hated me for. Being alive, I guessed.

A cold, vacant emptiness engulfed me at the thought of never seeing her again. Oh fuck, it was so vast, the chasm that separated us now. This wasn’t time or distance. This was life and death. This was her being there with our baby and me being here alone.

I was alone.

I was in no better position now than I had been before we were reacquainted on that bridge. Except … no. This was worse, wasn’t it? I had known what it was like to truly, freely love her, to be really loved by her, to be with her and her daughters.

Her daughters. My daughters .

They were eight. Eight years old. How long would the memory of their mother live in them? How long until they started to forget until she was only a fragment of something they could barely hear, touch, see, smell?

How long until that was all she was for me?

The ceiling blurred, and I angrily swiped at the tears beginning to fall down my cheeks.

“You ready to talk yet, Serg?” Sid asked quietly, and I remembered he was there.

I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I ever would be. But I didn’t want to be alone in my head. I didn’t want to be left with these thoughts that I knew were only driving me closer and closer to throwing myself off that bridge.

So, I talked, and then I talked to my sisters and Ricky. No, I didn’t feel better for having told them all. But it at least felt better to not be so alone.

Anything was better than being alone.

Even if that was exactly what I was.

***

Life at that point seemed to speed up while simultaneously standing still.

With the help of my sisters, I went through the motions of informing Laura’s family and friends of her passing.

Her parents blamed me for their daughter’s death without once asking how I was doing, and I didn’t mind, nor did I disagree .

Her friends—including Molly, our old friend from school and her old roommate—cried and gave their condolences.

Brett sent my calls to voicemail.

As far as my parents were concerned, my sisters handled them. And what their reaction was to the news, neither Grace nor Lucy would tell me, which I assumed was ultimately for the better … even though my imagination did a decent job of filling in the blanks.

Laura’s parents had insisted on handling her funeral.

I struggled with the idea of giving them that type of control when I was her fucking husband—a widower —but her father made sure to remind me that he’d never had a good feeling about me, not even when we had been kids.

But as he put it, she had made her choice in marrying me against all their better judgment—whatever that meant—and I thought the least I could do was pass over the reins in handling her final arrangements.

Honestly, I just didn’t want to go through planning it myself. Not alone, not ever.

Then I somehow got through the services as nothing more than a zombie.

Most of her family members avoided me, pretending I didn’t exist as they consoled her grieving parents and left me to sit in a wingback chair, staring at the two matching caskets—Laura’s, which they’d insisted on leaving open during the wake, though I wished they hadn’t, and the much, much smaller one beside it.

My son is in there.

I never got the chance to hold him, and now I have to bury him.

“How far along was she? ”

“I can’t believe they couldn’t save the baby.”

“So horrible. So unthinkably tragic.”

“Can you believe one careless, stupid mistake led to all of this?”

“Is that the husband?”

“That’s the deaf one, right?”

“It was his fault, wasn’t it?”

His fault, his fault, his fault.

My fault.

Mine.

They wouldn’t talk to me, but they had no issue talking about me, all of them, in hushed tones that they probably thought I couldn’t hear, but I did.

After a while, I decided to lock myself alone in my own mental prison and took my hearing aids out altogether.

Grace, Lucy, Ricky, and Sid were all there.

They never left. Not during either of the viewings and not during the Mass the next morning.

I was grateful for their attendance, but not once did I speak to any of them.

The quiet consistency of their presence was enough to set balance to the verbal assault I was receiving from Laura’s angry, bitter, heartbroken family and friends, and I held on to that in moments when I thought I’d snap—and there were many.

My father came only to the church service.

I hadn’t known until I was carrying the casket of my unborn son out of the church and passed Dad, wearing his Sunday best. My eyes met his, and for the briefest moment, my heart wrenched with the desperation to throw myself into his arms and cry like a little boy might with his father.

I’d never experienced that, not that I could remember, but the urge was overwhelming in that moment.

But there was no affection or sympathy to be found in his glare. No invitation to grieve at his bosom. Only disappointment and hatred.

And all I could think was, There’s the dad I remember.

The only person I hadn’t seen at all was Brett, and that was strange when I’d expected to.

He knew when the services were—Laura’s mom had told me she’d gotten in touch with him after I told her I couldn’t—and for him to not attend at all was odd and confusing.

I worried for him, I worried for the girls, and while standing by Laura’s gravesite, I thought I should stop by his place and at least make sure they were okay.

As okay as they could be. But then, when all was said and done, I reluctantly tore my eyes from the grave, wanting nothing more than to throw myself in with them.

I was about to walk toward Sid’s car when I raised my eyes … and I saw him.

Brett.

He was leaning against a tree, standing off in the distance. He wore a black suit and tie and a stony, unmoving expression on his face. I didn’t waste a moment on hesitation as I approached him, thinking only of the girls.

I needed to know if they were okay, if they needed anything, if I could do anything, and as I came closer, I opened my mouth to say, “Brett, how are L—”

He didn’t let me finish before punching me square in the jaw .

God, it hurt, and, oh, it felt amazing. It felt so good to feel something.

“Hit me again,” I said, looking into his eyes. Begging . “Do it. Hit me.”

And he did. He threw another punch at my nose so hard that the world was set off-balance and my feet stumbled over the spinning ground.

Before I could beg him to hit me again, he grabbed the lapels of my jacket, pulled my bleeding nose up to his, and hissed, “Don’t you ever talk to me again.

Don’t come near me. And don’t even think about reaching out to my daughters.

You will not speak to them, you will not see them, and if I find out that you even think of them, I will kill you.

Do you understand me? Their mother is dead because of you, and now you are dead to them . ”

I said nothing as he thrust me away, tossing me back like I was no better than a piece of dirty trash.

I bumped into Sid—always just a few steps behind me—before I lost my footing on the ground.

I stumbled onto my ass, and Sid came to stand between me and Brett, both of us heartbroken and mourning the woman we loved.

“Maybe you should think about what’s best for your daughters and not what’s best for you ,” Sid suggested, his voice soft and kind when I knew he wanted to be anything but.

We were all grieving. It was important to remember that, even if it was hard.

Brett tipped his head and stared at my friend for a moment, a sneer forming on his lips. Then he replied, “What would’ve been best for them is to not have to say goodbye to their mother at eight fucking years old! Do you know what it’s like to lose a parent that young? Do you even understand—"

“Actually,” Sid replied gently, “I do.”

That seemed to catch Brett off guard for a split second, his face falling with surprise, before he straightened his jacket and turned his glare on me.

“Then you’ll understand why I don’t think it’s best for them to be forced to face their mother’s killer.”

“Oh, come on, Brett. That’s not fair, and you know it,” Sid said. “We’ve all lost someone here, okay? There’s no reason to be an asshole. Walk away. Cool off.”

He looked at Sid and nodded, seeming to listen. But then, before he did walk away—whether to cool off or not was a different matter—he said, “Yeah, well, she never should’ve been his to lose in the first place. And if she had stayed with me , she’d still be here. Remember that. She’d be here .”

He turned and hurried through the graveyard, dodging stones and finding his way back to the path.

We watched as he retreated, hands clenched at his sides.

Sid waited until he was gone before turning to look at me.

He sighed at the sight of my face, blood catching in my beard and dripping off my chin, then crouched in front of me.

He shook his head as he dug in his pockets. “Fuck. You’d think I’d have some napkins or something, but of course not.”