what’s being said, or to know that Mrs. Barrett is breaking Mia’s heart all over again. They decided not to do the dialysis. This is good for Brogan. I know this, but . . . shit. Poor Mia.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Yes, I understand. It’s just . . . Okay. Yeah. I’ll be there tomorrow.” She sniffles a few times, and I hear her soft tread as she paces the floors. “You too.”
After that, there’s nothing but silence for a long time. No footsteps. No miracle-man book being thrown against the wall for giving her false hope. Just her silent grief on that side of the wall. Mine on this side.
And when I think I’ve heard the last of her tonight, when I think she’s fallen asleep: “Damn you, Brogan.” Then the sobs begin. They come from her, but they might as well be coming from me, might as well be torn from my chest. Each one is a piece of my heart sawed off with the dull blade of regret.
How many times has she come to me and saved me from the nightmares?
I don’t have to think about it. I don’t knock. I go into her room, and I don’t stop myself, because she needs someone right now. Maybe she needs someone better than me, but I’m the only one here.
She’s sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her gaze centered on the floor at my feet.
When she lifts her head, the tears welling in her eyes stream down to join the ones already wetting her cheeks. “He’s dying.”
“He’s already dead, Mia.”
Her face crumples at this, her shoulders shake, and no longer do I hear her heart-wrenching sobs. She’s folded in on herself, wrapped the pain up, and her cries are silent and so powerful they rock her whole body.
I climb into bed behind her, wrap my arms around her, and pull her back against my chest and let her cry.
“I needed him . . .” She’s struggling to talk around her tears. “I needed him to wake up.”
“We all wanted that.”
“No, but I needed . . .” She draws in a ragged breath. “Arrow, I needed to apologize.”
Fuck. “You don’t need him to wake up to hear your apology. You don’t even need him to be in the same room.” She doesn’t owe him an apology, but there’s no point in saying that. It won’t make her believe it. “You’re going tomorrow?” She nods, and I press a kiss to her hair. “Apologize then. Maybe your book’s right. Maybe he can hear you. Maybe he’s just trapped and he can hear you, and you’re gonna go and you’re gonna tell him what you need to tell him. Then you’re going to let him go.” The words hurt. They’re emotional suicide. “The Brogan we knew, the Brogan we love, does not deserve to be trapped in a body he can’t use.”
“I’m selfish. Wanting him to wake up, wanting him to hang on, wanting his parents to give him dialysis treatments. I know. It’s so selfish.”
“No.” I stroke her hair with my good hand and use the other arm to hold her close. “You’re just dealing. We all do the best we can. We just deal however we know how.”
I hold her for a long time, talking nonsense about saying goodbye and letting him go, and the next thing I know, I’m not talking about Brogan anymore. “I’m sorry for how I acted on New Year’s Eve,” I say. I should have said it a long time ago. I should have said it that night. “What you said took me by surprise. But it never changed the way I felt about you. I came to you that night because I knew Brogan was screwing around on you, and I thought you deserved better.” I draw in a long, ragged breath. “God, was I pissed at him. He was my best friend my whole life, and I’d never wanted to hurt him until that night. But he was right. He said my ego couldn’t handle being second choice. He knew me better than I knew myself.”
“I don’t understand. What did him cheating on me have to do with you?”
I lay us on the bed, rolling so we’re on our sides, our bodies pressed together, our faces inches apart. “That was when you were mine. In the one night between his betrayal and his apology, you were mine, but only because you couldn’t be his.” The memory