Page 110 of Unveil

So I try to give her the comfort I can. With the only truths I know.

“You take it day by day. Give all the love you’ve got to the ones who are still here.”

“And the ones who aren’t? How do we go on without them?”

The rest of the platitudes burn to ash on my tongue. I shake my head, my throat dry, the words thick.

“We try our best.”

A tear slips down her cheek. I brush it away with my knuckles, catching it on the letters tattooed there. Her arms tighten around her friend, like she can will him back to life just by holding on harder.

Moisture stings my own eyes at the sight of her pain, its familiarity buried deep in my marrow. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone my wife. It’s an ache that nothing but time will dull but never erase. Sometimes, not even that works.

Still, urgency claws at my sternum. I hate to tear her away before she’s ready, but we have to get out of here. I have to keep her safe.

She leans against me, another tear streaking through the dirt lightly dusting her cheek.

Fuck, I have to give hersomething. We can’t even put her friend to rest yet, and she won’t feel any kind of relief until she’s had some way to say goodbye.

An idea sparks. It won’t repair her heartache, nothing can, but it’s a comfort that’s generations old for a reason. Maybe the Appalachia in her soul will connect with it, giving her at least a thread of peace.

“I have something that may help.” I grab a moonshine jug from the corner marked “P.R.” in black sharpie.

Her brow lifts in question, and I raise my hand. “Hear me out. We’ve got a ritual around here. A goodbye toast.”

“A toast,” she asks skeptically, eyeing the jug.

I nod. “I can’t explain why, but saying goodbye like this helps. It still hurts like hell, but paying respects in our way heals something, I think.”

I offer my hand, like I have every time we’ve danced together, hoping she’ll trust me enough to take it.

She gazes down at Benoit for a long, painful heartbeat. Then her voice is barely above a whisper as she answers.

“Okay.”

She lays him gently, reverently back on the floor. Then she slips her hand into mine, my pulse thrumming from her touch outward. I help her to her feet, guiding her to the stove, the untended embers inside having all but gone out.

Curiosity flickers in her eyes as I raise the moonshine toward the mountain in the north.

“For the dead who’ve gone before,” I say solemnly, tapping the bottom of the jug on the mantel. Then I lift it again, this time to Benoit, and pour a careful ounce onto the hearth before the stove. “Rest, dear spirit, forevermore.”

Her eyes shine as I pass the jug to her trembling hands. Her voice cracks as she repeats the tribute.

“For the dead who’ve gone before…” She turns to Benoit. “Rest, my friend… forevermore.”

Orion has been quiet. Not “me talking his ear off” quiet like a couple days ago, and not because I’ve also been quiet. No, his silence is as heavy and loaded as the world after a gun’s gone off.

Meanwhile the cicadas are having entire conversations of their own, their constant buzz filling the night with white noise as I try to figure out what’s going on. There’s an undercurrent of emotion that thickens the air between us, the kind I’d have sprinted away from in the past.

But my friend just died. In my arms. Any emotion after that is child’s play. I couldn’t avoid them right now if I tried anyway. And I don’t want to. Not anymore.

The toast soothed some of those raw nerves, and like Orion said, I can’t explain why. Just that it felt like the kind of finality Benoit would’ve wanted and a much-needed stopgap before the funeral.

The only way to fully mourn him is to get backhome. Which means climbing this mountain to his car in a threadbareSwan Lakeoutfit, an oversized leather jacket, frayed satin ballet flats,and an ankle swollen to the size of a baseball, wrapped in tulle that hangs on by a thread.

So yeah, Orion’s silence wears on me, if at least because I need something to take my mind off the fact I’m turning into one giant blister. Sitting in front of the fire he built, safe in Fury land, I’m still racking my brain for what changed between us.

First I blamed the fact he hasn’t been able to get in touch with his brothers, every call going to voicemail. But he seemed to chalk that up to “single-minded Fury men when it comes to protecting their wives,” which is kind of hilarious when I think about it. The way Brylie would absolutely fuck Dash up if he ever called her that. Lucy’s scaredy-cat behind would flee if Hatch ever looked at her the way Orion looks at me.