Page 25 of Demise

Bed hair and that sleep voice. It’s unfair how sexy he is.

“I carried you up here. Found your little pill stash, so I took a couple, too. Figured we both needed a good night’s sleep.”

I can’t even argue with him. I’ve slept off and on for days, but last night, I slept better than I have in a very long time. He doesn’t look away from me. Both of us just gaze at one another.

The room is low-lit, the morning sun blocked by steely clouds. The bed is warm, and all I want to do is tell him to get back in it. Whatever he has to do can wait. My hand stretches, splaying out where he slept, my fingertips feeling the softness where his sweatpants hang on his waist.

He’s slimmer than I remember him, even as a boy. I lightly run my finger over the cotton. His eyes look down at my hand, and then he grabs it, holding it with his.

I haven’tfelthim in so long. Touched him. Our fingers trace and link and unlink, but they don’t separate from feeling.

What is this?

What does it mean for us?

The stubborn loyalty ofourlove.

Steadfast.

Without fade.

Without judgment.

But not without guilt and shame.

I’ve fought this love for so long, I can’t remember what it’s like not to.

It’s held on when nothing else would. By the strongest ligaments, floating in the deepest abyss of our hearts, there it has lain.

Fire rushes up my arm, warming me on the inside, twisting with my veins and enriching my blood. Does he feel it, too?

He sighs regretfully and pulls away. I leave my hand where it is, disheartened.

Standing up, he grabs his hoodie and pulls his white shirt out of it. I look down at his bandaged stomach.

“Are you okay?” I murmur.

He slides his shirt down. “I will be.”

His hoodie goes next and then he sits down on the bed again and reaches for his shoes.

I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t be thinking the things I’m thinking—especially in my deceased husband’s bed—but being here with Danny like this, it’s as if we never were apart.

I want to put my lips on the back of his neck, run my fingers across his hair, kiss him, and breathe him in. I close my eyes for a moment, hating myself once again.

Whereishe going?

What is making him get out of bed?

That was always the question, wasn’t it?

I move the covers off me and sit up, raking a hand through my knotted hair. I go to stand and flinch when I put too much pressure on my ankle.

“Stop. I’ll get your crutches.”

I nod, but don’t retake my seat. As he exits, I limp to the bathroom. I grab a hair tie, toss this mess up, and rinse my face.

Water drips from my chin, down my throat, and my eyes go to the clock on the wall. It’s no longer ticking. Well, something in this house has changed.

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