Page 91 of Jump

Instead, I stick to the facts. My fire crew was called out to help her. And a neglected dog was the only thing that stood between her and death.

The thought of losing her, of grieving for a woman a second time, makes my stomach roil and my head thud.

“Fuck.” I draw a deep breath, my exhale fluttering her long hair back. “Fuck, babe. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Not your fault.” She leans against me and tucks her head between my shoulder and neck. “Everyone has a life, Matt. You have work. This is just… the world. It’s how things go.”

It’s too much, I insist in my mind. Too much risk. Too much heartache. Too much fucking pain when everything goes wrong.

And when that dog dies, too weak to make it through surgery, Viv will feel that same pain, that grief, I already know too well.

It’s too much, too soon, and way too fucking close.

Vivian

THE OLD MATT IS BACK

He’s a ghost in our home. Walking through it after dark, and keeping to himself, just like when he first moved in.

For the next two days after my attack at the shelter, Matt’s off shift. He holds me at night, brings me to his bed, and strokes my hair. But the silence is deafening, and the coldness in his touch is enough to hurt my stomach.

He waits till I get up in the mornings before he wakes. Or really, he waits till I crawl out of bed before he moves, since I’m certain he hasn’t slept at all. He kisses me when we’re near, and forces a smile when I stare for too long.

But he’s not here. Not with me. He’s somewhere far, far away, exploring chapters in his mind he won’t allow me to visit.

He’s with Ainsley Cootes, in the depths of the pain he felt when she died; my near-miss, a cruel reminder of how thin the line is between life and death.

But to bring her up in conversation makes the chill in our home worse. To ask him about her makes his frown more severe and his silence more pronounced.

He could argue he’s right here. He hasn’t left my side since driving me home from the hospital. He’s even taken me to the veterinary practice to check on the dog we’ve dubbed Rocky, and shared my sigh of relief when the dog survived his first night after surgery.

He could complain that my dissatisfaction with his mood is unfair and unappreciative, since he’s cooked every meal since that night, and cleaned every dish right after.

Honestly, he’s babied me from the moment I was discharged.

But his presence isn’t all I need—not when it feels like icy fingers of dread dragging across my spine.

“How are you doing?” Hannah pulls up a stool at my kitchen counter as I settle a mug beneath the coffee machine spout.

She’s as beautiful as always. As perfect, and still the very best friend I’ve ever known.

She rests her elbows on the countertop, but glances over her shoulder as Matt moves through the apartment and out the door. His duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His clothes, freshly pressed for a day at work.

No goodbye.

No I love you.

Not even one of the fake kisses he’s gotten so good at giving.

He’s the old Matt again. And that hurts more than if he’d just told me he’s done and wants out.

Truth beats pretense in my world, so if he’s thinking about an old flame and prefers his thoughts spent with her, even if just in memory, then that’s his choice. But the least he could do is own it.

I’m still grieving, Viv. I’m still thinking of her. And I’m not ready to move on.

That’s all he has to say.

Put us both out of our misery and speak up!

---