Page 80 of Covetous

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. What does he mean died? Esme isn’t dead. I try to shove him, but he won’t let me.

“Whoever told you that is lying.” But as I search Victor’s face, seeing the pain etched into every line, the truth sinks in with a sickening finality.

“A friend of mine works as an EMT,” he says, struggling. “He was one of the first responders on the scene.”

A hand, Novalee’s hand, reaches for my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Skylar.”

No. Hell no. Fuck no! She’s not gone. She can’t be. We needed more time.

I’m begging Victor with my eyes to tell me that his friend is wrong. They have to be. Esme isn’t gone. She’s not dead. She can’t be. She’s too young. Too full of life. And she’s…she’s…

We haven’t made up yet.

Oh, God. Oh, God, no. Please no.

A gut-wrenching sob rips from my throat, and my knees give out, almost sending me crashing to the floor, but Victor catches me. The pain in my chest is unbearable, a searing agony that consumes every part of me, leaving me raw and broken as I wail in his arms.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Esme’s been dead for twelve days, and it still doesn’t seem real. Ms. Sharon gave me a copy of the obituary for tomorrow’s service, and I’ve only now summoned the courage to open the program after sitting on my couch for hours.

As I scan over the pictures, a fresh wave of grief hits me. The first photo I notice is of us from our first day of fourth grade. We’re posing in front of Ms. Bidwell’s class with matching backpacks and identical-styled ponytails. There’s an innocence about us, a true bond between two little girls who couldn’t have been more different.

Another photo from one of Esme’s slumber parties catches my eye. She’d said something so hilarious that Coca-Cola shot out of my nose, making her laugh so hard she nearly teared up. Ms. Sharon captured the moment, snapping a picture of us doubled over in hysterics. A laugh escapes me at the memory, but it quickly turns into a broken sob. I take off my glasses, my hands shaking as I wipe my eyes. I can almost hear our laughter, the secrets we whispered, the dreams we shared, and the promises of a future that seemed to stretch out forever.

I toss the obituary and my glasses to the side, rubbing my tired eyes. It’s almost three in the morning, and I know I should try to get some sleep, but it’s been impossible lately. No matter how exhausted I am, I just lie there, my mind racing. And before I know it, minutes have turned into hours.

The service starts at 10:00 a.m., but Ms. Sharon wants me at her house by nine so I can ride with the family to the church. With a heavy sigh, I drag myself up from the sofa, turning off the lights as I head to the bedroom. I try to be quiet, not wanting to wake Victor, who’s staying the night, but as soon as I slip into my room, he stirs, pulling back the sheets for me.

“Sorry I woke you,” I whisper, climbing into bed beside him.

“I didn’t even hear you get up,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me close, his bare chest warm against my back. My heart clenches painfully, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push away the tears.

“I can’t sleep.” The thought of tomorrow looms over us, a suffocating weight in my bedroom. Seeing Esme’s body in a casket—can I handle that? I skipped the viewing today on purpose, not ready to face the reality of her death. But my dad went to pay his respects. He told me she looked like herself, as if she were just sleeping.

If only that were true. But when I see her body tomorrow, in the dress that I helped pick out, I’ll know that this is real and not just some never-ending nightmare.

Victor presses a gentle kiss to the back of my head, his arm tightening around me. I nestle into his embrace, desperately seeking comfort. Every moment, I’m reminded of Esme’s absence and the wreckage of our friendship, and it feels like the grief might swallow me up.

“We don’t have to sleep. We can talk if you want,” he says, breaking the silence.

“I don’t want to talk.” More like, I’m not ready to talk.

The mattress shifts as Victor lifts his head. “What about a movie?” he suggests.

I shake my head, turning to face him. Concern and sadness swim in his eyes. I know he’s hurting too, even though he tries to hide it, wanting to be strong for me.

“I don’t want to do that either,” I say, caressing his jaw.

His body relaxes under my touch as if it’s been wound up tight—the two weeks without us kissing or him being buried inside of me filling him with tension. A low groan escapes him when I press my mouth to his, my tongue flicking against his lips, seeking entrance.

Victor’s hand slides up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair as he deepens the kiss. Rolling us over, he presses me into the mattress, and I respond by wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His lips trail down my neck, each kiss a whisper of desire against my skin. Craving more, I arch into him, hooking my arms around his neck. He feels so good against me, his hard cock grinding into me through our underwear.

For a second, it almost falls away—my grief, my guilt. But there’s a war of emotion in my head that I can’t run away from. Not even when Victor’s hand slips into my underwear, his fingers sliding between my wetness. As he rubs on my clit to pull an orgasm out of me, unwanted tears burst out of me instead. I bury my face into the crook of his neck, sobbing.

He immediately withdraws his hand, his focus shifting from seduction to comfort as he kisses all over my tear-drenched face. “It’s okay,” he soothes, gently rolling us over so that I’m on top of him, my head buried in his chest and my tears soaking his skin as he holds me close.

The overcast sky outside seems to mirror the heaviness of the day as we prepare for Esme’s funeral.

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