Page 13 of The Grief We Hold

As if answering my own question, I promptly throw up again.

Large hands fist into my hair, pulling it back under control from the whipping wind. When he’s gathered it all, Wraith puts one hand on my back. It doesn’t rub or move in circles. It simply stays where Wraith put it. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I can feel the warmth of his palm and wonder if this is what it’s like to feel cared for.

“Get it all out now, because I’ll be pissed if you puke in my truck.” His words offer a cold bite of reality.

As if on demand, I vomit again, and my stomach spasms. Some splashes on his boots, and I’m part mortified, and part pleased. Serves him right for getting involved in shit that doesn’t concern him.

Once the worst waves are over, I stand and wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my coat.

Embarrassment heats my cheeks, and words clutter my throat as I look at him properly.

Thank you.

Leave me alone.

I’m sorry.

None of them make it out.

It’s unfair that he looks so utterly competent while I feel like the hot mess I probably look. I bet my mascara is halfway down my cheeks, and my throat feels raw.

“You’re a mess. Let’s get you home.” Wraith doesn’t wait for an answer. He wraps his strong hand around my wrist and leads me to the passenger door of his truck. And given how I feel, I let him. I’d be foolish to refuse the ride at this point. I’m not sure I could get myself home in one piece, let alone get Fen there.

“Momma, this truck is so cool,” Fen says excitedly from the back when I climb inside.

The interior is spotless. Like, not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. There are no cables or water bottles or packs of wipes lying around. Water pours down the steamed-up windshield as Wraith walks around the front.

In spite of the downpour, he doesn’t rush. Instead, he walks with a powerful gait. Shoulders back. Head up. Ignoring the rain like it isn’t even happening.

When he climbs into the truck, he brushes my hair back off my face and wraps it all up in a messy, wet bun with an elastic from around his wrist. Then he leans across me, so intimately I swear his arm brushes against my breasts. His lips are mere inches away from mine.

I want to shove him away because I’m sick and Fen is in the back of the truck, but a part of me also wonders what it would feel like to lean forward just an inch or two and let our lips meet.

Would he kiss me back?

I must be sick if I’m hallucinating, imagining doinganythingwith this man.

Ruthlessly, he tugs the seat belt around me and clicks it in place.

He turns on the truck, then fiddles around with some dials, and air whooshes up against the front window, de-misting it.

“You got your seat belt on, kid?” Wraith asks.

“I do,” Fen shouts. “Even the seat belt is amazing.”

Wraith doesn’t turn to look at Fen, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch in the slightest indication of a smile.

I swallow, the horrible taste of sickness still coating my mouth. The truck pulls away from the curb, and in the cocooned warmth and slow rocking of the car, I fall asleep.

5

WRAITH

“Is this your truck?” the little guy asks me from the back. He has dark hair like his mom, but his complexion isn’t pale. Dark eyes. Dark eyebrows. Tanned skin even though it’s April.

“Yeah. It’s my truck.”

I wonder how old he is. Five or six maybe. I wonder if Lottie would have been this cheerful and chatty. What would it have felt like to pick her up from school and drive home listening to stories about her day?

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