Page 54 of Night in a Waste Land

Because she was crying, she realized. A truth that, once acknowledged, broke her completely.

“No,” she said again, and closed her eyes, and then covered them with her hands for good measure. But it was no use. The tears had started, and couldn’t be stemmed. They slipped between her fingers, and rolled down her temples, and a sob hitched in her chest. It was terrible, just terrible – and then it got worse.

“Sweetheart, come here.” Lance slipped free of her, and his hands found her arms and pulled her upright.

“No,” she protested, weakly, but went unresisting when he sat back against the wall and pulled her into his lap. He bundled her in close – cuddled her – with her head tucked beneath his chin, and his arms warm and strong around her. They were sweaty, skin slipping and sticking, but he didn’t seem to care as he rubbed her back and murmured soothing noises against her hairline. She tried to fight the tears – but finally gave into them. Better to get them out and be done with it. She pressed her face to his warm, damp chest and let them come, messy, breathless sobs rattling her whole body.

She cried for Beck, for his stupid bravery, and his blind thirst for revenge, his utter devotion to a cause that had taken him from her.

She cried for Frankie, and his inherent sweetness, his insistence on befriending her; cried for his lost arm, and his newfound, well-deserved happiness – bought with flesh and blood, and a stern man’s too-late self-awareness.

She cried for the Rift, for the constant rain, and the unending battle. For the innocents displaced, and killed, and tortured.

Cried for Lance, who loved her though he shouldn’t, who’d been kind to her when he hadn’t needed to be.

And she cried for herself. For her shriveled, broken heart, and all the grace she’d lost along the way – if indeed she’d ever had any to start with.

She cried until her eyes were dry, and gritty, and her sinuses were swollen, and she felt like a boil that had been lanced – the word play there brought a quick, cold smile to her lips, one he must have felt against his chest, because he said, “Better?”

She sat back, slowly, reluctant to meet his gaze – but when she did, he only looked at her worriedly, softly – still, after everything, with great fondness.

She didn’t deserve him.

“I’m sorry.” She wiped at the tear tracks she’d left on his chest. “That was stupid.”

“It was normal. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I grabbed you by the dick and told you to just put it in me when you were trying to be good to me,” she argued.

He snorted. “Oh no. How will I survive?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I know you’re not done grieving him.” His smile managed to be wry and supportive at the same time. “You probably never will be, and that’s okay. I understand.”

She lifted her brows.

“I understand better than you want to give me credit for. But. It’s okay. This is what I was afraid of.” He cupped her cheek, and wiped the tears there with his thumb. “I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t in the right headspace for this.”

“But that’s just it: I think I am, now.”

He cocked his head to a questioning angle.

“Keeping my walls up. Isolating myself – being, frankly, a bitch to you – hasn’t made anything better.”

His thumb made another pass across her cheek, his throat working as he swallowed.

“You’re a good man, Lance.”

His eyes widened.

“And I…I hope I didn’t ruin things between us. Tonight.”

“No. Never.” He leaned in and kissed her. Softly, chastely. “Let’s get some sleep.”

She started to offer to leave and go back to her own room, but his arm was still snug around her, and the thought of pulling away from him left a physical ache in her chest. She nodded instead, and let him stretch them both out and pull the blanket over them; shivered gladly, because the sweat was starting to dry. He reached up to the wall and switched off the lights, plunging them into a dark broken only by the soft glow of the security light up in the corner.

She settled in on her side, facing him, and the arm across her waist felt sheltering, rather than restraining. She’d thought she’d lay awake, questioning, feeling guilty – but sleep came quick, blessed oblivion.

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