Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,340

She has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide.

Our glory baby.

“Would you say the last rites, Kai?” The words cling to the inside of my throat, fighting against being spoken.

“I’m not a . . . well, that’s to say, I can’t . . .” She looks over her shoulder at Rhyson, whose eyes are as wet and tortured as ours. He nods his encouragement, but Kai’s expression remains helpless when she turns back to face us. “I’m not a priest, Bristol.”

“I don’t want a priest,” I snap, the fierce response rearing from my weariness. “I want someone who believes what they’re saying. Do you or do you not believe my baby is going to heaven? To glory?”

Kai firms her chin, high color painting her tear-streaked cheeks.

“I do.”

She says it like a vow, and her faith shines, a beam I grab hold of as darkness approaches.

Ms. James, Rhyson, and the nurse encircle the bed when Kai steps close to lay her hand on Zoe’s forehead. There’s no squeamishness, no revulsion or disgust on Kai’s face when she touches that most unappealing part of my baby girl. With face solemn, her hand steady, and her words sure, Kai whispers to Zoe of glory, of divinity and perfect peace. She tells her that the God who sent her with His hand is waiting for her return with arms wide open. Kai’s words breathe serenity, but when Zoe’s little chest rises and falls with a final gasp, my heart revolts and I shatter into infinite pieces. I will never be the same. I’ll never be smooth again. I’ll be cracked in all the places Zoe touched in the few hours I had with her. I’ll have to make myself all over with ragged bits of soul and flesh and heart, and as Kai whispers the last words to send Zoe on her way, all I can do is weep and wail and wish I was going, too.

Chapter 42

Grip

“I don’t want so much misery.”

–“ Walking Around,” Pablo Neruda GRIP

THE LINE from Neruda’s poem “Walking Around” is a daily refrain. I wake up with it threading my thoughts like a needle, beaming through my windows with the morning sun. It has been nearly two weeks since Zoe came and went, and the grief is unrelenting, a deluge of despair. It’s the rainy season, a monsoon that never lets up. Like drenched clothes, I’m heavy and dripping everywhere I go.

But at least I go.

Not much, not many places, but I’ve left the house. Bristol can’t. She won’t, and she won’t see anyone. She’s turned away Kai, Jimmi, my mother, calls from Charm. No one has gotten through, and every- one’s worried about her . . . about us.

And they should be.

I keep telling myself this is to be expected, but it freezes my blood when I look into Bristol’s eyes that have always shone with vibrancy and spirit and find them lifeless.

I prop the door to our bedroom open with my back, balancing a tray in my hands. I can’t remember the last time I saw Bristol eat. Knowing she loves this lemon coconut French toast from a place up the street, I grabbed an order of it, hoping I can tempt her to at least try. I set the tray down on the bench at the foot of our bed and settle beside her with my back against the headboard. I placed the huge bouquet of flowers Mrs. O’Malley sent beside the bed, but even that hasn’t coaxed a response from her.

We didn’t tell many people what we were dealing with during Bristol’s pregnancy, but we released a statement later. The pregnancy was common knowledge. We walked red carpets together, were photographed out walking, living. People assumed everything was normal, which at the time, was simpler for us. Now nothing is simple, and awkward questions about how we’re doing with our newborn will only make recovering harder. So, everyone knows what happened, but no one can really know what we’re going through.

I bend to the pillow where her head rests and push the tumble of hair back from her face, surprised to find her eyes wide open and tearless, staring vacantly as she lies on her side.

“Hey babe.” I touch her chin, waiting for her eyes to meet mine. “I brought you some breakfast.”

She shakes her head, her eyes drifting away from my face again.

“Not hungry.” She rolls over, giving me her back and huddling under the comforter. “You should eat.”

“Said I’m not hungry.” She