Page 147 of Until August

If only the dead could speak. If only they could share their stories about the afterlife.

It could help the living. It could give us peace and help us to let them go.

But death was the great unknown.

No matter how many people were gathered around you when you took your final breath, you still had to face death alone.

How unfair. How cruel.

Some days I wished that I could join Cruz.

I wanted to go wherever he went. Find him in the next life.

But I was a survivor, still stubbornly clinging tothislife.

The Christmas music, though? That was a bad call. When “All I Want For Christmas Is You” started playing from the portable speaker on Cruz’s bedside table, I wanted to hunt down Justin Bieber and plant my fist in his face.

But I wanted to make this Christmas season like all the ones we’d spent together. Cruz used to laugh when I started playing Christmas music the day after Thanksgiving, which was when I always insisted on putting up the tree and decorating the house. When we took it down in January, the floor was a carpet of pine needles.

Cruz indulged me, though. He always said I was like a big kid at Christmas, and just seeing how happy it made me was all the incentive he needed to go along with it.

“Nic. Give me some time alone with him,” Dylan said.

When I refused to move or acknowledge his request, he lifted me out of my chair and set me on my feet.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed.

He scowled, losing patience with me. “I’m trying to get you to leave so I can spend time with my best friend.Alone.”

“You want me to leave?” I asked as the door opened and Scarlett entered.

“Go home.” Dylan turned me toward the door and gave me a nudge. “Take a shower. Eat something, for fuck’s sake. And take your Christmas music with you.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Scarlett said, her voice hushed. For some reason, she spoke in a hushed tone whenever she was in Cruz’s room. I don’t know why. Maybe she was worried she would upset him by raising her voice to a normal speaking level.

“Go with her, Scarlett,” Dylan said. “Take her home.”

“But…” Scarlett looked from her husband to me.

I spun to face him. He was guarding Cruz’s bed, arms crossed over his chest, making it clear that I’d have to get through him to get to Cruz. “I’m not leaving.” I lurched toward the chair I’d been sitting in for the past week. He kicked it aside, toppling it over.

“Sometimes you’re such an asshole,” I said. “You can’t kick me out. I need to be here.” We were acting like kindergarteners, but Dylan wasn’t playing nice. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my sweater, feeling panicky about leaving Cruz.

Dylan let out an exasperated breath. “Stop being so damn stubborn. You look like shit, and you don’t smell much better. You’ve barely left this room in a week. You need to take a fucking break. Don’t make me physically remove you from this room.”

“You wouldn’t.” Why had I even said that? Because, of course, he would. This was Dylan St. Clair.

“Watch me.” He advanced on me, ready to remove me from my husband’s room.

“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “I’ll go. Just let me say goodbye.”

He stepped aside to let me pass with a look of resignation. As if he was doing me a big favor.

I leaned over Cruz and cradled his face in my hands. If I could breathe new life into him, I would do it. I would do anything to make this better. But all I could do was sit by his bedside, watching and waiting for the horrible moment he left me.

Although, as I’d learned, there were worse fates than death.

I had to believe that this was a mercy killing, as Dylan had called it. I thought we’d have more time. I hadn’t expected to get the okay signal so quickly, but it felt like no sooner had I submitted the request when I received a letter that it had been approved.