Page 87 of Holding Hope

“No, no, no; but the things I said,” she cried again, trying to pull her hand free from my grasp but I only tightened my hold on her. “I blamed you but I didn’t mean it, not a single bit. I’m sorry⁠—“

I laughed, dipping my head to kiss her, cutting off the rest of her stupid apology. Her body stiffened in surprise before relaxing and giving into the kiss; when I pulled back, her eyes were large and curious.

“What was that for?”

I sat back and leaned against the base of the bathtub, a satisfied smile on my lips again. “Felt like the only way to get you to shut up,” I laughed out as she swatted at me.

“That’s not funny; I’m trying to apologize⁠—“

I cupped her face with my other hand, my thumb brushing away any stray tears that had managed to escape her eyes. “And I’m telling you I don’t want or need your apology. You did nothing wrong, you hear me?”

I waited for her to nod, for it to finally sink in and click before continuing. “Your anger, pain, and exhaustion is valid. You did nothing wrong.”

Clarke leaned into my palm, slowly letting her eyes close as she sniffed and nodded again. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she exhaled through her mouth. “Thank you,” she quietly whispered, gently kissing the inside of my hand.

I placed a kiss on her forehead in answer, pulling her into my arms. We sat there in the water, Clarke’s arms around my torso and my arms around her. In the silence and steadily growing cold water, deep in our own thoughts, neither of us at all eager to break our embrace.

“You know,” Clarke began quietly, her fingers drawing light circles on my back. “When I was little and Melody was just a baby, my parents almost named her Hope. Mama had suffered from multiple back to back stillbirths, and it…destroyed her—almost tore our family apart.

“And then Mells was born and it was as if there was this light and hope in her eyes again. Every time she cried, even if it was in the dead of morning, Mama was always right there.” I felt her smile against my skin. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard a baby cry, she would say. “The sweetest melody.” Over and over again, just repeating those words. The sweetest melody.”

Clarke buried her face into my chest, her touch no longer soft but desperate. “I don’t know how she’s going to handle losing her songbird, Avalon.”

“Shh, shh,” I cooed, running my hand over the back of her head. “It’s going to be okay.” I tried my best to sound convincing, believable, but I could hear the doubtful shake in my voice.

“No, it’s not,” she sobbed into me and pulled herself onto my lap. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she finally allowed herself to cry; the sound, similar to a wail, pierced through my ears. But all I could do was hold her.

I couldn’t help, I couldn’t fix anything or magically cure Melody. There was no amount of words I could say or repeat that would make this any better. But I could hold her, so I did.

“I don’t want to have to watch my mother grieve another child, it’s not fair or-or right.” Clarke’s words were muffled against my chest, as if they were from a distant memory or dream. “She shouldn’t have to…it’s just not fucking fair.”

I rocked her, back and forth, my hand moving in soothing circles on her back. “I know, baby, I know.” Pressing my cheek to the top of her head, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. I felt hopeless and useless, but there was nothing else I could do, so I allowed her to cry.

After a few moments, Clarke’s painful cries stopped and she heaved with a heavy breath. “I need to sleep,” she muttered quietly. “When I wake up—when I wake up, it’ll be better.”

I nodded, cupping her face as she sat back. “Okay, yeah; let’s get you into these pjs and we’ll get you up to bed.” I forced a smile and pushed back the wet curls from her face; she was right, sleep was definitely the best thing for her. For all of us.

Clarke numbly raised her arms and legs while I pulled the shirt over her head and the shorts up her thighs. She sat in silence as I brushed the tangles from her hair and applied lotion to her skin.

Making our way up the short flight of stairs, she clung to my arm as if it was a safety rail. She was asleep before her head even hit the pillow, but still held tightly to me.

Sitting beside her, her arm unwilling to let me go, a smile crossed my face. She wanted me here, no—she needed me here; for support, for comfort, and strength. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a purpose.

I felt needed.

Sunlight poured through the triangular window, sharp and intrusive, burning against my barely-open eyes. I groaned and reached across the mattress, searching instinctively for Clarke. My hand met only warm, empty sheets—the kind of warmth that said she’d been there recently, but not long enough to leave the room cold.

That small absence tugged at something deep in my chest. I sat up slowly, letting my vision adjust. Her pajamas were folded neatly on the chair—a quiet, deliberate gesture that felt so distinctly Clarke it almost made my throat tighten. But the room itself was hollow without her.

Maybe she was already downstairs with Melody. Maybe she was outside helping her father. Maybe she just needed space after everything.

I pulled on a pair of cut-off shorts and an old shirt, twisted my hair into a knot, and forced my steps steady as I headed down the stairs.

Mrs. King and Colton sat at the dining table; each wrapped around a mug of coffee like it was the only thing keeping them upright. Exhaustion clung to them— dark circles, slumped shoulders, the kind of stillness that comes after too many hours of fear.

They both looked up when I entered.

“Avalon,” Mrs. King said, wiping her face and sitting straighter. “How’d you sleep, Honey?” She looked so much like Clarke in that moment—those blue eyes, the strong nose, the quiet steel beneath the softness. It made my chest ache.