Page 111 of Structure of Love

“Send me…whatever you need to send me, then. Thank you for telling me.”

“Again, I’m so sorry I was the one to break the news. My office will send everything over to you.”

“Thanks.” I ended the call.

Then I just sat there, staring blindly into space for the longest moment. My father was an uncaring piece of shit who believed the world revolved around him, so I could see how, in the wake of Erin’s desertion, he would choose to punish his kids by not telling us our grandfather had passed. My god, the cruelty cut like a knife to my heart. I’d never, ever forgive him for how he’d handled this.

I fiercely wished I’d tried to reach out to my grandfather before now. After I’d established Blackbird, I’d thought about it, but somehow it had felt too juvenile to crow that I’d succeeded on my own and hadn’t needed his help. In the end, I hadn’t made the call.

I’d also been waiting on him. He knew where my bar was—it wasn’t like it was a secret in this town—and he could have easily walked into the bar at any point and talked to me. He never had. I’d taken his silence as rejection, again, and refused to be the one to break it.

Was it pride? Wounds? Something had kept me from picking up the phone. I regretted it so much right now, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. Where was a necromancer when you needed one? I had a lot of things to say to that incredibly selfish old man, but I’d be talking to a headstone now.

The thought drove me out of my chair, and I grabbed whiskey and a glass before standing right there at the bar and knocking back a shot, then pouring another. Then I stopped because I realized very quickly that I didn’t actually want to go down this road, where alcohol numbed my emotions. That was aslippery slope I didn’t need to tread. Besides, alcohol never fixed anything. It wouldn’t fix this situation.

I didn’t know if there was enough alcohol in the whole damn bar to help.

Some instinct had me reaching for my phone. My hand shook, and I almost dropped my phone twice. I stopped, breathed, tried to regulate my emotions enough to at least handle the surge. Almost proved impossible. Grief was hitting, hard and hot. I started to call Gage, then realized my voice wouldn’t come out. I felt my throat clamping down, mostly around the grief and tears welling up, and words just couldn’t muscle their way through.

But I needed him. More than ever before.

I texted instead.Bar now please

Gage was quick to respond.Five minutes

Bless him for not asking why and simply coming. I loved him all the more for it.

I stared at the drink for another moment and then decisively poured it down the drain. Bad as I felt, I didn’t want the drink, not really. I wanted him. Gage was better than the finest alcohol anyway. I felt tears escape my eyes. I didn’t fight them, just let them come, sinking into grief like a millstone into an ocean.

Warm hands touched my shoulders, and I looked up into Prussian blue eyes filled with concern, and seeing that broke me like nothing else could. Gage’s open love and worry were so much better than the whiskey still in the bottle. I turned to him, burrowing my face into his shoulder, felt him catch me, and just held on.

I sobbed like a child, my fingers tangled in his shirt, grief and pain and regret a heady cocktail in my gut. Nothing but raw pain came out of my mouth. I couldn’t even explain to him why I was like this—the words kept clogging up my throat. I felt raw underthe onslaught, my emotions like sandpaper scouring me from the inside.

Gage held me tight, one hand stroking my hair, and he let me get it all out.

Eventually, my tears settled down, and I felt my grief recede a hair, letting me breathe. The emotion had run its course for now. I’d take advantage while I could, because the pain would surely hit me again, and likely when I was least prepared for it.

I lifted my head, looking for something to clean my face. I’d made an absolute mess of Gage’s shirt. I found clean bar towels stacked next to the sink, snagged one, and wiped my face.

Gage silently took a step back, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge behind the bar, and handed it over to me.

Yeah, water was likely a good choice. I felt dehydrated after all that crying. I took the bottle, swallowed half the contents in one go, felt a little better for it. Funny how bodies reacted even when grief threatened to consume you.

Gage didn’t ask, but the question was in his eyes, and I had to tell him what was going on if I wanted his support. I had no doubt he’d support me, but I had to clue him in first.

“My grandfather died on Saturday,” I explained in a rough voice. “I just got a call from a law office informing me.”

“Oh fuck,” Gage choked out, eyes flaring wide. He was so stunned it took him a second to formulate a sentence. “Wait, Grandma’s husband or…?”

“No, he’s been dead for years. My father’s father.”

“Ah. The one who owned the bar.”

He’d put the pieces together quickly. Thank god. I didn’t have it in me to explain everything in detail.

Gage blew out a breath, looking away, and I could tell he was mad now. “Your own family didn’t tell you he died?”

“No.”