Page 2 of Free

I should say something. But every time I open my mouth to try, nothing comes out. This might be the first time in my life I’ve ever been speechless.

It's enough of a struggle to keep the tears off my face.

His arm has to be getting tired, holding that bag the way he—

“Can I come home?”

Home.

His ring is right where it was last night. Right where it’s been since the day I put it on him, to the best of my knowledge. On his left-hand ring finger.

My ring is warm where my hand rests against my lips.

I told him to choose, and he’s here.

I open my mouth to respond, and I can’t. All that comes out is a gasping sob. Before anything else can escape, I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes and pretend he doesn’t flinch at the show of emotion.

Great, Justin. Very manly.

I scoot over more and pull the blanket down, indicating the empty space next to me in bed.

He doesn’t move right away. His head falls until his chin is resting against his chest and his breathing becomes ragged and audible, wet sounding to my ears. When he lifts his face again, his lips are pulled tight over his teeth, and his eyes are shining.

Relief pools inside my chest.

He’s here…

With a sharp nod of his chin, he disappears into the closet, and I hear the tell-tale sounds of hangers hitting the rod. He reappears a minute later, sans suitcase and bags, barefoot and without his hoodie. Underneath, he’s in a simple forest green Henley, the color stunning against the dark umber of his skin. He walks to the hamper and pulls said shirt over his head, letting it fall into the plastic. His back is towards me, and I’m relieved to see it’s not as bad as I was expecting. He sheds his pants next, leaving him in nothing but tight gray boxer briefs.

He smiles at me shyly. Softly. Maybe with a little trepidation. I can see the pulse in his neck, read the way his heart pounds and his chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.

We need to talk, but not right now. There’s time enough for that later.

He doesn’t scoot onto the bed.

He crawls on hands and knees until he’s right beside me. I fist my fingers, so I don’t tug him down on top of me. He hesitates, waiting—for me to tell him it’s okay? Or for me to tell him no? I don’t say a word, just lie back down and open my arms.

Remi's relief is palpable. His back bows slightly, like I just lifted an unbearable weight from it. His head hangs heavily from his shoulders, and when his breathing picks up, it's wet and sticky.

It's like an avalanche. It starts out small. A trickle. A drop. Then it gathers speed and builds and builds until a wall of grief is pummeling downhill at breakneck proportions.

His face is ugly as he sobs. Screwed up and twisted, he looks like he’s in unbearable anguish. Snot is dripping from his nose, and his eyes are bloodshot and puffy. If it were a physical manifestation, he'd be bleeding out all around us.

Maybe he is, in a way.

I don't reach for him so much as catch him when he collapses. He's a dead weight against me, and I gather him as tight and as close as possible.

"Oh, baby," I try to soothe him…but…it comes out as nothing more than incoherent blubbering…Great. I'm crying too. I thought we were shaking from the strength ofhissobs, but we're trembling from the strength of our tears together.

I cry so hard that I'm nauseous, and my fingers go numb.

"I w-wanna come home," he mumbles into my neck. "I wanna come home. I wanna come home."

His hold on me is near painful. I wrap my leg around his thighs and twist my other between his knees, giving us as much contact as possible.

I've never seen a person break so completely. Julia's depression was—if I'm being honest—terrifying. But Remington,now, is complete annihilation.

Course, I'm not doing much better...

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