Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,346

papers go flying in the air. I hadn’t noticed them, and now they’re all over the floor. I bend to collect them, jarred when my daughter’s name catches my eye.

For Zoe, our glory baby.

“What is this?” I ask the empty room, my breath seizing at the dedication.

I shuffle through a few more pages before I realize it’s Grip’s poetry book for Barrow. Maybe I’ll read through them when I’m feeling more myself. Right now, I’m not in the mood for beautiful words skillfully strung together, not even from Grip. I’m stuffing the pages in the drawer of the table on his side of the bed when I see my name.

Not my actual name, but the title I know was inspired by me.

“Pretty Bird”

That’s what he called me, how he teased me when I said my laugh sounded like a bird. That day, years ago, I had no idea how fragile joy is, that in a moment, with just a few words, everything can capsize. You can sink. One day the wind is in your sails then in no time you’re the Titanic. I sit on the bed and read the poem attached to that distant memory.

My pretty bird,

Like a peacock, spread yourself for me.

Awe me with your plumage.

We’re birds of a feather, you and I.

I hear your cry, do you hear mine?

A mating call before you fall, your holla never heard.

My moaning bird,

One by one, I’ll count your feathers.

Let me try to make it better.

Can I kiss your scars?

I want to give you what you’re needing

Use my heart to staunch the bleeding

And for your broken wing, my arms will be the sling

Where you go, I go, even due south

Borrow my breath, mouth to mouth

Resuscitation

A flock to ourselves, a murmuration

Just us two in our love nest

Hide in my love, take your rest

Till you’re ready to fly again

Fly into my arms,

A safe arrival, a sure survival, a glorious revival

Then we’ll leave this nest together

Two birds, we’ll soar above the past behind us

A path we can’t un-fly

A death we can’t un-die

But we ain’t at death’s door

Nah, it’s time to leave.

Our hearts can do the impossible

Do you believe?

Then fly, my love! Soar!

My pretty bird, fly with me and cry no more.

I read it again and then again. Each time through, the words find spots inside me that need soothing. I finish storing the other pages in the drawer, but can’t make myself let “Pretty Bird” go. The sheer vulnerability of it, the need and love infuse every line. I’m about to call Grip, to ask him to come home, when I hear a muffled sound from the living room. I let the sound lead me, and my heart finds new ways to break when I see my husband, seated on the floor, back to the couch with his head in his hands, shaking with sobs.

I hear your cry, do you hear mine?

I haven’t. I’ve been so consumed with my own grief, turned inside out in my pain, I didn’t see his. I didn’t hear his cry.

“Grip,” I say in a voice I can barely hear myself but that grabs his attention immediately.

He stiffens, his head jerking up as if he’s been caught. When our eyes connect, he tries to pull it together, tries to pull his strength back in place, but it fails him like a broken gate hanging off its hinge—the same way mine fails me every morning when I wake up and roll back over, unable to face the day. His rugged features crumple, a broken dam of tears running over his face.

“God, Bris.” His voice falls apart like wet tissue. “I need you, baby. I wish I could do this without you, for you, but I meant it: we don’t survive this unless we’re together. If we’re together, I know we can.”

“Our love can do the impossible,” I quote from “Pretty Bird.” “Do you believe?”

His eyes narrow, recognition of his own words sinking in. Before he can ask, I answer.

“Your poem was on the bed.” I sink to the floor beside him, reach for his hand, linking our fingers and placing them in my lap. “I hope it’s okay that I read it.”

His glance shifts away from me, eyes squeeze closed, long lashes wet against his cheeks. His cocksure bravado, the confidence he wore like skin drew me before. His vulnerability woos me now.

“I’ve never felt this lost,” he confesses, his broad shoulders shrugging helplessly. “You said I want to fix you. In some ways you’re right, but not to make