I have to agree that’s wise advice, but Damien frowns. “Easier said than done.” He slips an arm around me and kisses my cheek. “You guys have coffee or breakfast or whatever you want, I need to go crash.”

“Sure,” I say, but as I watch him go up the stairs, a cold knot of worry builds inside me. And I’m so lost in my thoughts that I actually jump when Evelyn comes from behind and puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’ll all be okay, Texas,” she says when I spin around. “In the end, everything will be just fine.”

I’m still clinging to those words ten minutes later after I’ve seen everyone out. Thankfully, they all turned down coffee, probably realizing that all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed beside Damien. But when I go to the bedroom, there’s no sign of him there. I hug myself, certain that he’s gone to the second floor and the kids’ rooms—a place I haven’t been since the miscarriage.

I steel myself and go down the back stairs that open behind the kitchen only to find that he’s not down here, either.

For a moment I’m baffled—and then I realize that I know exactly where he’s gone. I take the stairs to the first floor and then hurry through the huge commercial-grade kitchen to the massive gym that takes up almost half of the first floor.

Sure enough, Damien is there, and he’s beating the shit out of a punching bag. He’s taken off his shirt, so he’s now barefoot in only his jeans. The muscles in his back tighten with each thrust, and he’s completely oblivious to everything but the assault on that leather bag.

He’s not wearing gloves, and he didn’t wrap his hands, and even as fast as he’s punching, I can see how red and raw his knuckles are. I make a small sound the next time his fist makes contact with the bag, and he turns to me. His eyes are wild, and I’m not even sure he realizes I’m there. Then he drops to his knees on the mat, my name a soft whisper on his lips.

I hurry to kneel in front of him. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

His brows quirk down. “For what?”

“I’ve been so selfish.” A tear snakes down my cheek. “I’ve been so lost in my own pain that I didn’t think about yours. I’m sorry,” I repeat, knowing that he wouldn’t have flown off the rails so dramatically if he hadn’t been just as wrecked as I am. “I’m so, so sorry.”

For a moment, he just looks at me, and I see both understanding and heat in his eyes. We need this, I think. We need each other. We’re both raw. Both broken. Both in desperate need of release.

I feel my body tense in expectation. He’s going to pull me to him. Take me. He’s going to use me to make himself feel better, to grab control by controlling me. He needs it, and God knows I need it, too.

But that wild touch doesn’t come.

Instead, he simply pulls me close and holds me.

And there in the circle of his strong arms where I’ve always before found comfort, I feel as hollow as I did in the hospital.

22

After staying up all night, exhaustion finally claimed Damien, and he’s been crashed in our bed for hours. Now it’s lunchtime, and I’m pacing the house like a caged tiger, unable to settle. And certainly unable to sleep even a minute more.

I feel off. Hell, everything feels off, and I don’t know what to do to turn it right again.

I hardly ever use our gym, but I’m at such a loss that I’m actually considering going down and hitting that ridiculous bag, when my phone rings. I snatch it up, grateful for the distraction, and see that the caller is Frank.

“I’m so sorry,” he says the moment I answer. “How are you doing?”

“I’m getting better. It’s been hard, but it’s getting better. Either that or I’m getting used to the pain.”

For a moment, I just hear him breathing. Then he says, very softly, “I should have called sooner, but I—I feel like I should have some wisdom for you. Some fatherly advice. But I don’t. I don’t know what to say at all except that I’m sorry.”

“That’s good, though. It helps.” It doesn’t, of course, but that’s what people do. One says they’re sorry. The other says it helps. And they both feel like they’ve played their part.

I frown, disgusted with myself. Even in grief, I’m wearing a mask. Mourning Nikki. And I don’t want to be that girl around this man. Now that he’s in my life, I want it to be real.

“What would you do?” I ask, surprising myself with the question.

“What?”

“In a tragedy. What would you do? To feel better. To get through it.”

“Oh.”

I can tell I’ve put him on the spot, and I regret it immediately. I’m on the verge of telling him never mind when he answers, speaking very softly and thoughtfully.

“Something just for me, I think. Maybe it won’t make me feel good right away, but it lets me believe that whatever it is will pass.”

“Like what?”

He exhales. “Aw, honey, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ve got no business offering you half-baked advice.”

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I appreciate it. And it helps.” Weirdly, it does. I like that he didn’t spout some pre-packaged platitude. That part of his answer is telling me that I have to find my own way. “Really,” I say.

“That’s half the reason I didn’t call earlier,” he admits. “I wanted to give you time, sure. But I also didn’t know what to say.”

“No,” I say. “It’s good. Really.”

“Should I come back? Would that help?”

I’m touched by the tenderness in his voice, and I smile. It feels good. Unfamiliar, but good.

“No,” I say. “You don’t need to do that. Just knowing that you would helps, though. And I’ll see you when get back.”

“All right, then. That’s a plan. You call me if you need anything at all.”

“I will.”

“Okay, then,” he says gruffly. “And Nikki?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates. “I—I’m glad I called.”

My smile broadens. “Me too.”

I hang up the phone, and I do feel better. Not perfect, not healed, but better.