the five stages of grief?” Vance asked.
Ignoring him, she rocked a little for comfort.
He groaned. “You’re killing me,” he murmured. She heard him take in a long breath. “The five stages of grief. The first is denial.”
That’s what she’d been in, Layla thought, denial—until moving into Beach House No. 9. But she’d been facing the truth since then, hadn’t she?
“The next are anger and bargaining.” When she didn’t reply, he spoke again. “Do you hear me, Layla? Anger and bargaining.”
Suddenly, his little lecture struck her as condescending, and temper added to the roiling mix of emotions inside her. “I know about anger and bargaining,” she said, her voice sounding rough. “I’ve been through those many times. Every time he left, don’t you think I was angry? Every day he was gone don’t you think I bargained with the universe?”
She was rocking again, the ache behind her eyes excruciating. “I didn’t step on cracks when I was little. Later, to get on fortune’s good side, I offered up prayers for drivers who cut me off instead of flipping them the bird.”
“Okay,” Vance said. “Okay. So that leaves just two others. Depression and acceptance.”
Why wouldn’t he go away?
“And I don’t think acceptance is possible quite yet, Layla. I really don’t.”
She turned her head to stare at him. “Oh, great. Are you telling me I’m stuck with depression? What kind of pep talk is that?”
“It’s not any kind of pep talk at all, sweetheart. It’s permission to feel bad. And it’s permission to start letting it out.”
Her eyes closed again and she shook her head. “No. No letting it out. A soldier’s daughter doesn’t cry.”
“When her soldier dad is never coming home again, I think she should.”
“No.” Her head went back and forth again, her hair swirling in her vehemence. No, no, no.
“Yes, Layla.” Vance reached over and grasped her, hauling her into his lap even as she fought him. He curled himself around her, ignoring her struggles and slaps. “I’m not letting go until you do.”
She opened her mouth to shout at him, to yell and scream and curse him. But instead, to her horror, a sob released. And then another. And then she was wailing like the women on the stereo, the notes of her sorrow a song about grief and loneliness and feeling as if she’d lost her roots.
Vance turned her into his body and she buried her face against his chest. “I’m so alone,” she said through her choking tears. “I’m so alone.”
“I’m here,” Vance said, a hand against her hair. “I’ll always be here.”
The lie only made her cry more.
Exhaustion finally quieted her. Maybe fifteen minutes had passed. Maybe three hours. Vance’s sweatshirt was wet and she shivered, suffering from an intense emotional hangover. He brushed a kiss to her hair.
“Let’s go back to the house,” he said.
She started to shake her head again.
“Shh,” he said, kissing her once more. “You’ll be better now. It’ll be easier.”
“Vance...” She needed to tell him they’d be sleeping in separate beds. She needed to make sure he understood that things had changed now. He’d been too close already and now he was the only man who had seen her fall apart. That kind of intimacy was unbearable.
He helped her to her feet.
“Vance...” she began again.
“I’ll hold you all night long,” he said.
And Layla was too worn out to resist.
Back at the house he washed her face with a warm, wet cloth then undressed her like a child. One of his T-shirts was pulled over her head and he tucked her under the covers. He spooned her, his knees curled behind hers, his arm across her belly to hold her against his wide chest. It was a Vance she hadn’t experienced before in bed. No seduction, no demands, but a solid source of strength and comfort.
This is temporary, Layla reminded herself. Impermanent. If they were not yet uncoupled, she had to hold on to the thought that it would never last.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LATE THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Layla and Vance made the drive to avocado country again, with him expertly managing the tricky turns in the road. Since waking alone in bed that morning, Layla had moved around Beach House No. 9 in a listless state, but Vance hadn’t pushed her. He’d been quiet, too, likely preoccupied by the thought of another uncomfortable visit with his family.
His hand was on the small of her back as he pushed open the front door of his childhood home. She decided it was nice that he hadn’t