Page 102 of Beautiful Broken Love

“No,” Deke murmured. “I feel like I should tell you something about him so you can understand why he’s a sore subject for me.”

His eyes were glossy. He was trying desperately hard not to cry.Way to ruin a great weekend, Davina.

“His name was Damon,” Deke said. “He died when I was fourteen, so he was seventeen. And I, uh ...” He scratched the top of his head, eyes bouncing around the room. “I don’t like bringing it up because he committed suicide.”

At that, my eyes stretched, and my heart dropped. No longer was my guard rising. It had slammed back down again, and I instinctively took Deke’s hand in mine.

“Deke. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well ... now you know.” He offered a pathetic smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“But ... why did he do it? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Deke shrugged. “I have my assumptions for why he did it, but we’ll never really know.”

I started to ask something else, but his phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he grabbed it, almost like he was in the center of the ocean and it was a raft he could hang on to. Something to save him, spare him from remembering the overwhelming details.

I could see the relief in his eyes, how quick he was to stand. All the other times when his phone rang, he ignored the calls, but not now.

“It’s Camille. Gotta take this.” He was up and out of the room before I could respond.

I sat for a moment, tucking my hands between my thighs. His brother committedsuicide? And at such a young age too. I couldn’t imagine that pain. It’s one thing for a person to be sick, or to die in an accident, but it’s another to know that a person inflicted pain upon themselves to end their own life.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. It made sense that Deke didn’t want to talk about it. Suicide never made sense to the people closest to the victim. All they were left with were questions and anger.

How do you discuss something like that without feeling that pang of sadness, or guilt, even? Because I was sure there was some part of Deke that blamed himself for what his brother did.

We all blame ourselves after a death, wishing we’d talked to that person more, or hugged them one last time. Wishing we hadn’t yelled at them, cursed them out, or ignored their phone calls.

Guilt.

Shame.

Hurt.

It’s all tangled in the same web.

While Deke talked to his sister on the deck, I cleaned the kitchen. My mind was racing so fast I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. I kept cleaning, clinging to the distraction, even going so far as to wipe the inside of the microwave.

It wasn’t until I’d cleared the counters that he walked inside again. He met up with me, holding my eyes while taking one of my damp hands in his.

“Come to the room with me.”

I let him lead the way, but with each step we took up the stairs, my heart was hammering. I wasn’t sure what had me going or what was making me so nervous. It was like all the emotion I was trying to swallow was bubbling up and the lid on the pot was wobbling and ready to fly off.

When we entered the master bedroom, Deke released my hand to sit on the edge of the bed. “I feel like I should tell you more about my brother so you can better understand.”

“No, Deke. Don’t.” I waved my hands and took a minor step back. My breath was coming out heavier. “You don’t have to. Seriously.”

He noticed me backing away, and a slight dip formed between his eyebrows. I thought about what Deke said on the boat, about how Icould talk to him about Lewis. How could I just talk about my dead husband knowing his pain was probably much worse?

All these thoughts of death, of suicide, of sickness ... it hit me so hard. Suddenly that giant room, with the endless ceiling, felt too small, and I couldn’t breathe. My head was spinning, my throat drying ...

Oh, God. I’m having a panic attack.

I hadn’t had one in so long. The first time was after Daddy died. I was ten, sitting in my classroom and gasping for breath. I had several of them throughout that year, to the point where my doctor suggested to my mother that I see a therapist.

The last time was a week after Lew died, when the funeral and wake were over, the people had left, and I was alone in my room, with no noise.

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