Page 256 of Remy

He nourishes my soul, welcoming me into the destruction instead of forcing me to shut it out.

I let my sorrow surge free, wild and with abandon, as we’re driven through sightless streets and paused at innumerable intersections.

“It feels so good to hold you,” he whispers.

The tears fall harder. I don’t know where they come from. How they keep flowing.

We go somewhere dark. Somewhere echoey.

A multi-level parking lot.

Not my home. His.

The car stops and I’m carried from the vehicle, Salvatore’s surprisingly empathetic stare following me from his position behind the wheel as I cling tight to Remy’s neck.

I’m taken into the private elevator.

We ascend to the soundtrack of my hitched breaths.

Then it’s just the two of us on Remy’s sofa, me nestled on his lap while the tears slow to a trickle.

He coaxes me back to the land of the living, holding me, consoling me, whispering to me.

“You’re not alone…”

“I’m here for you…”

“Your grief is safe with me…”

One by one, he picks up my broken pieces, fitting me back together, making me whole. The silence stretches, allowing me to relax into its cocoon, the weight of my problems still right there, just no longer as heavy.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” he finally asks.

I nod through the exhaustion, my head aching, my eyes puffy and sore.

He places me gently on the seat beside him and walks for the kitchen, returning moments later and handing over a chilled glass.

“Thanks.” I keep my head low and take a sip, not ready to look at him and face the damage that’s been done.

He reclaims a seat at my side, his leg against mine, a gentle hand coming to rest on my thigh. I watch as it slowly glides against the material of my skirt, back and forth, the slight rasp of fabric the only accompaniment to my sniffs.

I don’t know how long he lets me sit there, quiet in my grief, but time stretches enough for guilt to creep back in.

I take another sip and place the glass on the coffee table. “I bet I look a treat.”

“You’re always beautiful.”

I keep my head downcast, hiding my wince. “Even when I accused you of killing my father?”

His hand raises from my thigh, lazily dragging along my jaw, gently adding pressure until I lift my chin to meet his eyes. He stares at me with such hardened sadness I’m almost plunged back into tears. “Even then.”

I crunch my nose against the burn. “I’m sorry.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because I accused you of something that never should’ve been thought, let alone spoken.”

He brushes away the stray strands of hair clinging to my cheeks. “Ollie, you were justified in what you said. I gave him the pento. It was ridiculous of me to think he wouldn’t use it.”

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