Page 71 of Her Player

The sky knew to mourn with us. It always had.

I lost count of time somewhere in the first day.

That happened sometimes, on this day. The world went gauzy and distant and my body simply refused to participate in the forward motion of things. I’d learned not to fight it. Fighting it only made it worse, made the grief dig in harder, made the days after longer and darker than they needed to be. So I stopped fighting it years ago. I just let it take what it needed and waited for it to give me back to myself.

What was different this year was the arm around my waist.

Every time I surfaced even partially, it was there. Steady and warm and present without demanding anything from me. Sometimes I heard his voice, low and unhurried, saying something I couldn’t quite make out. Sometimes I felt the cool edge of a glass against my lips and I drank without opening my eyes. Once I woke up fully enough to realize he was reading something on his phone with one arm still wrapped around me, not going anywhere, not waiting for me to be better, just there.

I’d grieved every anniversary of Ryan’s death alone.

Every single one.

I hadn’t realized how heavy that was until it wasn’t.

I surfaced slowly.

The storm outside had quieted to a low rumble, rain tapping against the blackout curtains in an uneven rhythm. The television was on somewhere in the room, the Golden Girls laugh track drifting through the dark like something familiar I hadn’t earned yet. I blinked at the ceiling. Once. Twice.

A strong arm was wrapped around my waist.

I didn’t move. I just lay there and let my brain catch up to my body, clocking the weight of him behind me. The steadiness of his breathing. The particular warmth of someone who had been there long enough that the sheets had gone warm around both of us.

He was still here.

I didn’t know why that surprised me. It shouldn’t have. But it did.

“Hey,” I said. My voice came out rough and mostly gone.

Rhett shifted behind me. “Hey yourself.”

“What day is it?”

“Big game’s tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes. Opened them again. “I’ve been out that long?”

“On and off.” His hand moved slowly up and down my arm. “You’re okay.”

I wasn’t sure that was entirely true. But I didn’t argue with him.

Outside the rain picked up again briefly and then stopped. The Golden Girls laugh track filled the silence. I stared at the wall and breathed and let the room be exactly what it was. Dark and warm and quiet and real.

The next time my eyes opened and stayed open, I heard water running.

I registered being lifted before I registered anything else. The warmth of his arms. The cool air of the room hitting my skin as the blankets fell away. I didn’t fight it. I just tucked my face against his shoulder and let him carry me.

He set me on the bathroom counter. Slid my robe off my shoulders. Gathered my nightgown and pulled it over my head. I sat there blinking in the bathroom light while the shower ran hot behind him, steam already curling toward the ceiling.

He helped me in.

Not into the standing shower. Into his lap, his back against the tile, the rainfall shower head soaking us both. I felt myself exhale for what might have been the first time in days. My head fell back against his shoulder. My eyes closed.

He started with the washcloth.

Long, slow circles against my back. Patient and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do and this was simply what the morning was for. I felt the knots in my shoulders start to give way under his hands one by one. I felt my jaw unclench.

He knew what he was doing.