Chapter 8

He rinses the last dish and passes it over to me, those dark brown eyes seeming to see right into my soul.

My heart skips a beat, and I look away, haphazardly stowing the dish in the bottom rack in a way that would have made Dave crazy.

But...he's dead.

I've had to learn to do things my way.

"Here."

I glance up, see Pascal holding a towel out for me to dry my hands.

Why does that make my heart flutter?

Probably because it's thoughtful, and paired with his words and the soft way he's staring at me...

Flutters. So many flutters I shouldn't be feeling.

"I—um—" I look away when his gaze locks onto mine. "You never told me why you're on my porch."

Clearly, nothing's wrong, considering he spent the last ten minutes washing dishes. And taking one sip out of the glass of water I got for him before rinsing it and passing it to me so I could put it in the dishwasher alongside the other stuff he cleaned.

"Didn't I?" he says, turning away and moving into the family room, his footsteps silent on the rug spread over the floor in the hall.

I follow him through the open doorway, across the entryway, and into the room, arriving in the space just as he stops in front of the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace and?—

"Don't," I say without thinking as he starts to lift the frame I knocked over when he banged on my door and startled me.

He freezes, glances back at me.

"It's..." I nibble into my bottom lip, drift a little closer until I can see the flecks of gold in those dark eyes. "It's Dave," I whisper.

His big shoulders rise and fall on a breath, and then he shocks the shit out of me by lifting the picture frame, carefully setting it on the shelf. Only he doesn't tuck it to the side like I had. He puts it right in the middle of the center shelf and says, "You don't have to hide him. When we remember those we lost, we honor them."

I inhale sharply then find myself asking, "Who are you honoring?"

He goes still in that way of his—searching our surroundings for a threat, for something that might hurt us.

But...the villain of this situation isn't tangible, isn't present in the room with us, forcing me to look down the barrel of a gun.

It's the past, the sickness, the...memories.

And I finally get that Pascal has them too.

Not memories—of course he has those. I'm not a freaking idiot. But...a past that is as sharp and as painful as mine.

Maybe...I study his face...

More.

My heart squeezes and I don't think, just lift my hand, pressing it lightly to his cheek.

He hisses out a breath and I start to pull back, but before my hand is a millimeter away from his skin, he's settled his on top of it, is pressing it more firmly against his face. "My wife," he whispers. "I lost my wife."

My knees wobble because the pain in my soul recognizes the pain in his.

"How?" I whisper.

"Home invasion," he says, and I jerk with surprise, partly because I can't believe quiet, secretive Pascal has actually told me. But also...

Because that doesn't happen.

Well, it does. It just?—

Doesn't happen often.

And then something clicks in my mind.

"Is that why you got into security?"

A long pause, those pain-filled eyes on mine. "Yes," he says. "What I was doing...before"—he clears his throat—"meant I wasn't home to—" He stops, shadows clinging to, then covering, his suffering until he's quiet, secretive Pascal again, unfazed by everything. "I wasn't there." His tone hardens. "Now I am."

The last sounds like...a vow?

But before I can reply, he turns away. "Need to use the bathroom," he grinds out, walking from the room.

I stand there for a moment, staring into the open space, wondering if I should go after him, wondering if it's possible to come up with anything to say that doesn't come off as condescending or trite.

It's not your fault.

Clearly, he still has guilt and this man—this big, protective man with a huge heart and the past he's tried to bury—isn't going to shed it easily.

It doesn't matter if he wasn't there. It's the same red haze that coats my soul when I think of the persistent stomach pain Dave had, and how I didn't push for him to get it checked out.

Guilt and love, hurt and memories, they knot together really fucking tightly. They get so tangled, it's impossible to loosen the strands, to cling to the happy and put the hurt aside.

But as I touch the frame, I know that while I'm right, I also know that it's time—not to forget Dave, but to keep him close as I move forward.

Because I can't breathe under this blanket of the past.

And I need you to breathe, baby.

Dave's voice in my ears again.

It's less of a shock, less painful, and I swallow hard, blink away my tears, glance down at my naked ring finger.

Because…it's time.

"Yes," I whisper, pressing my fingertips to that photograph, to his face, committing his beautiful smile to memory. "I know."

Hold on.

Sew it deep.

But don't bury it.

Allow it to just...always be there, existing instead rising up in my throat and smothering me with sadness and making it so I can't remember the good times.

A smile and a happy day—that's what this picture was.

That's what I can remember.

I close my eyes, keep it close, and then I blow out a breath and turn away from the shelves, feeling the cold of the past receding as I walk across the rug, as I move toward what my life is going to look like. I know I'll be okay. I always am. But this is the first time those sentiments don't feel like a mantra I'm chanting and chanting until one day I hope it becomes true.

It feels...like reality.

And my future.

"Enough," I whisper, shaking that off and realizing that Pascal has been gone a long time.

I'm hoping he hasn't gotten lost...in my two-bedroom house.

Sure. That's totally likely.

Probably, he slipped back into the shadows and out of my life in that sneaky way he always manages to move, randomly showing up to fix things (and helping me acknowledge Dave and my past and that it's okay to move forward is definitely helping to fix things), and then disappearing like a puff of freaking smoke.

But he's not gone, I realize as I make it to the hallway and see him coming toward me.

"You okay?" I ask softly.

He smiles at me dismissively. "Yup. Fine." A nod toward the door. "I should?—"

"Want to watch a movie?" I blurt.

He goes still, studies me closely for several moments.

"I mean," I say. "I'm not doing anything, and Matteo's at the sleepover, and there's that new action flick on streaming, and well, it's late and if you're hungry, I can make you?—"

"No."

I blink, staring at him for a second before finding the courage to ask, "No to the movie or me making you something?"

"The making."

"But"—it's hard to breathe past my heart beating rapidly in my chest—"not the movie?"

He nods, and I feel like I'm holding my breath until he says, "Yes, to the movie."

I exhale and it stutters when he adds, "I would like that very much."

It should be awkward, waiting while he toes off his shoes, sitting next to him on the couch, scrolling through the various apps until I find the movie and get it playing. But it's not.

If anything it feels...normal.

And maybe that's why I'm able to tuck my feet beneath me and relax.

Maybe that's why I don't flinch when he tugs the blanket off the back of the couch and drifts off.

Maybe that's why I don't protest when—much later—I'm barely nudged from sleep as I distantly feel him lifting me, cradling me close to his chest as he carries me down the hall.

Maybe that's why I fall right back to sleep when he tucks me into bed.