Page 12 of From the Embers
“You’re not going anywhere,” I whispered. “You and Luna are going to stay here for a while. In the pool house. It’s what Rob would have wanted.”
“Yeah, well. Rob’s dead, right? Lets you off the hook there.”
My back shot straight. It was a fact, yet it still felt like a punch to the stomach. “That’s not fair.”
“And what part of this is fair?”
With a chin jerk, I signaled for Evelyn to go, and without further objections from Eason, she hurried Luna from the room.
We stood in silence until I heard the back door close. “You need to take a deep breath and relax. I know you’re hurting but—”
“Hurting?” he laughed. “Having my arms torn off would be hurting compared to the shit that is happening inside me right now. I can’t fucking close my eyes without those flames consuming me again. I can’t eat or sleep.” He lifted a trembling hand out in front of him. “I just fucking shake all the time, like my soul is trying to tear free from my body. And sometimes I wish it would, even if that meant I went with it. But then there’s Luna and I know she needs me, but how do I look that little girl in the face knowing I let her mother die?”
I swallowed hard. “You didn’t let—”
“Bullshit,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like you don’t blame me for this. Rob wouldn’t have left me in that house, right? Isn’t that what you said? This was all my fault, right, Bree?” He took a long stride toward me, crowding me in the otherwise empty foyer. “You already said it once. Seeing how I haven’t heard one fucking word from you, I’m not guessing your opinion has changed all that much since then.”
Guilt swelled in my chest, but I stood there with my mouth clamped shut, unable to argue the truth.
“Right,” he whispered. “So, thanks, but no, thanks. I already blame myself enough without staying here, knowing you blame me too.”
He turned on a toe and marched toward the back door.
Jesus, what was happening?
Rob and Jessica would have hated us arguing like this.
In the wake of tragedy, it’s easy to withdraw into yourself. After all, you can’t fathom how anyone else could adequately understand the misery you’re going through.
But Eason did. We filtered our pain in our own ways. Our hearts would work their way through the stages of grief differently. But whether we liked it or not, with every step, Eason was beside me on that same trip through hell.
The realization that I wasn’t completely alone in this eased the pressure in my chest in unimaginable ways.
“You thought I was Jessica,” I told his back.
He froze mid-step.
“I saw your face that night. You were devastated that it was me you’d carried out. And honestly, I don’t blame you for that.”
“Bree,” he whispered, slowly turning around, his face pale and filled with shame.
“It’s okay to hate me for not being her.”
“I don’t hate you. I’m just so fucking—”
“Mad,” I finished for him, a tear sliding down my cheek. “Bitter. Terrified. Heartbroken. Lost. Confused.”
He slanted his head, pained understanding crinkling his forehead. “Yeah. All of it.”
“Me too.” A heart-wrenching sob I could no longer contain ravaged my body, but in the next beat, I was in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his strong arms wrapping around me. “I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I could have saved all of you.”
He had nothing to apologize for. Rationally, I knew that. Getting to a place of acceptance would be a ways off though. Much like him finding a way to look at me without the regret of that night devouring him.
But I was willing to try if he was.
“Please stay here with us,” I cried into his chest. “Just until you get on your feet. You can hate me and I’ll hate you, but we can do it together, okay?”
“Yeah,” he rumbled through an onslaught of emotion. He gathered me closer, his chest vibrating with silent tears of his own. “I can do that.”
We didn’t say anything else.
Eason and I stood in the foyer, crying together for what felt like an eternity. Two people who had lost everything finding solace in familiarity.
When he finally released me, I didn’t feel better. Having company in hell didn’t change the fact that you were still actually in hell.
Then again, I didn’t feel worse, either. And that in and of itself was progress.
EASON
We buried Jessica ten days after the fire. It could have been a thousand days after and I wouldn’t have been ready. Her funeral was small—only about fifty people in attendance. A few of her family members had made the trek from Florida, her father notably missing even after I’d sent him money for a plane ticket.
Despite the gaping hole in my chest, I did everything I could to make that day as special as Jessica deserved. Orange roses, the kind she’d carried at our wedding, covered her ivory casket and a huge memorial of hundreds of photos I’d painstakingly constructed from the cloud storage on our old cell phones created the backdrop to say goodbye to my wife.
