Page 105 of Restore Me

“Cool. Text me if you need something.” I set the boxes on the floor. “We just got these in, can you make sure they get installed today?”

“Yeah, we’ll handle it after we finish this up.”

With that sorted, I head back out. By the time I get to my car, Sloane still hasn’t texted me back. Part of me wants to call Mal and see if she knows what’s going on, but I know she’ll just drop everything to head over there to try and fix whatever the problem is.

And that’s not what I want.

If something’s wrong with my angel, I want to be the one to help her through it, to pull her into my arms and wipe her tears away while she just feels.

Because even if I am a bastard like my father, and all signs continue to point towards that fact the longer I spend in Sloane’s bed without letting her know the truth about us, I know I can do this. I can be the man Sloane needs me to be. I can make her life easier, better, fuller in all the ways she lost when Eric died.

The ride back to her place stretches into an eternity, and the quiet in the car is exacerbated by the silence on my phone. The longer it goes on, the more worried I get. I pick it up again, looking specifically at the date because I know Sloane gets sad like I do when any date having to do with Eric comes around. But it’s September 23rd, and the date doesn’t ring any bells for me. I close the calendar, annoyed that it hasn’t offered any additional information and my home screen is still glaringly absent of any notifications from the only person I want to hear from right now.

I swipe past a text from Kristen, a missed call from Chris, and an email from Seb. Getting back to any of them, but especially Kristen, is low on my list of priorities as I turn onto Sloane’s street. When I pull into the driveway, her car is still parked in the same space. Even though I want to get to her as soon as possible, I still take the time to pull into the garage and use the key she gave me to open the back door. Everything in the house is quiet as I move through the mudroom and kick off my shoes, but I know she’s here somewhere.

“Sloane!” I call out, moving through the kitchen where I see that her purse is still on the counter beside her phone, open laptop, and a pile of paperwork. Almost like she started working and then stopped abruptly.

Maybe she did get sick.

I drop my keys on the island and start towards the stairs but stop short when I see a tangle of wild curls peeking out from underneath a blanket on the couch. She’s curled up in the corner, practically in the fetal position, with tears streaking down her face.

“Angel.”

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32

Sloane

Now

Before Eric died I didn’t know what it was to truly grieve someone, to mourn the life you had together and the future you envisioned with them. Up until four years ago, I was one of those lucky people who had never been touched by catastrophic loss. My parents were healthy, only children of wealthy couples who passed away before I was born, so when I lost him, I was unfamiliar with the way grief worked.

The ebb and flow of waves crashing into you on the days your brain associates with that person. The sting of tears at the back of your eyeballs that force their way out regardless of where you are and what you’re doing. The way those tears taste exactly the same every time they fall. Like heartbreak, devastation, and open wounds that will never heal.

That’s the only thing I taste today.

The unique flavor of grief sticking to the roof of my mouth and making it impossible for me to speak even as Dom walks into the living room, eyes filled with fear and the truest, deepest concern for me, and kneels in front of the couch. His brow is furrowed as I look right through him, unable to focus on the handsome curve of his lips or any of the other million things I’ve come to love about his face.

His face. The face I’ve fallen asleep to every night for over a month. The face I gazed up at when I was on my knees for him just a few hours ago. The face I was thinking about when I looked at my calendar this morning and got the niggling feeling I was forgetting something. And not just a small something. Something huge. Something important.

Something pre-Dom Sloane would have never forgotten.

“Angel.” Dom breathes again, putting his hands on my shoulders and sitting me up so he can take a seat beside me. I barely breathe as he hauls me and my blanket cocoon into his lap. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “What’s the matter? Tell me how I can fix it.”

His voice is so tender, his words soothing to match the circles he’s rubbing on my back, and I want to lean into his touch, to take the comfort he’s so readily offering me, but I don’t deserve it.

I don’t deserve any of it.

The happiness I’ve gotten from being with him for the last few weeks. The joy I’ve found in being cared for and desired. The reprieve he’s given me from the demons lurking in the shadows of my mind, reminding me that I’m the cause of all the pain our loved ones have experienced in the wake of Eric’s death.

Because I’m the one that sent him to it.

A sob breaks free from my chest, ripping through me with enough force to make me crumple in Dom’s arms. He wraps them tighter around me like he can hold me together with the sheer force of his will, and I let myself take comfort in the feeling because it might be the last time I get to have it. That might sound a little melodramatic, but I know Dom isn’t going to let this go. He’s going to keep pushing and asking until I tell him what’s wrong. And once I do, he’s going to hate me. For real this time.

“I’m here, Sloane. I’m right here with you, just tell me what you need.”

A time machine. I think silently. Except I’m not even sure I want that because going back in time to fix my mistake would mean I don’t get to be here with you.

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