Page 106 of Eight Years Gone

Squinting in the bright light from the lamp he never got around to turning off, he reached over with his free arm, groping around until his hand made contact with the vibrating plastic, snatching up Grace’s phone by the end of the second ring. “Yeah. Hello?”

“Jagger?”

He sat up, bringing Grace with him as the regret in Paul’s voice registered through his sleepy fog. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Steve,” Paul said, clearing away the emotion choking off his words. “He went into cardiac arrest. They worked on him for as long as they could, but he passed about five minutes ago.”

Shit. He stared at Grace as she sat farther up, blinking sleepy blue eyes at him, absently pulling the robe up her arm to settle the cotton back on her shoulder.

“Okay,” he said, reaching for her hand when she went still—when he knew the exact moment she understood what was happening.

“His body went through a lot,” Paul continued. “I think he fought for as long as he could.” Then Paul lost what was left of his composure. “Tell Grace I’m so sorry.”

“I will.” He hung up as Grace shook her head.

“Don’t tell me,” she whispered as the tears started falling. “Please don’t tell me.”

“Gracie—”

She pulled her hand free from his to cover her mouth as the first sob escaped.

“Gracie,” he said again, his heart breaking for her as he scooted closer, pulling her against him. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

She gripped herself against him as her body shook with each racking sob—as she cried so hard, she barely made a sound.

“Come here.” Picking her up and settling her on his lap, he rested his back against the headboard, holding her tight, desperate to take away her pain. “I’m right here,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m right here, Grace.”

She nestled her face into the crook of his neck, exhaling a shaky breath that turned into a moan as she gave in to another round of sorrow.

“Gracie,” he whispered, clenching his jaw. He’d held her while she’d cried before, but this was entirely different. Everything she’d bottled up over the last few hours—maybe even the last fifteen years—poured out in wave after wave of tears.

This was a grief with so many layers: loss after loss, conflicts and disillusionments, betrayals and regrets—an endless well of unresolved pain starting with her mother’s death. “Just keep holding on to me.”

She did, clinging with her arm hooked around him until she eventually stopped crying—until she stared listlessly at the wall with her head settled on his shoulder.

“We should have stayed at the hospital,” she finally said.

He shook his head as he kissed her forehead. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“He would have known I was there.”

He stroked his fingers through her still slightly damp hair from their shower. “He knew you held his hand. He knew you were there to check on him.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.” Her voice broke. “I didn’t get to fix everything.”

“He was tired, Grace. His heart got too tired.”

She sniffled. “He’s really gone.”

He nodded, wanting to help her start accepting the truth. “He’s really gone.”

“I love him, Jagger.”

“He knows that, Grace.” He kissed her again. “He knows.”

“They’re all gone.”

He’d never known how to soothe that emptiness—her quiet longing for the life and family she’d had before an intoxicated bar patron got behind the wheel late one April night. “But I’m right here. We’re a family, Grace. I know it’s not the same…”

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