about you, Arrow.” For the first time in our long relationship, there’s derision in his voice when he says my name. “But if you care about me at all, you’ll keep your mouth shut. I am a father. Trish doesn’t have anyone else. Maybe I’m selfish for doing what I must for her, but so be it. Make it about me, Arrow. Shut the fuck up about this for me.”
Mia
The house is quiet. Too quiet. Suddenly, I wish for the clamor of the BHU O-line gathering around the patio, even Trish’s drunken screeches of delight when one of the guys throws her into the pool.
I stand in my room for a long time, lost without the nightly tasks of taking care of the baby, doing the laundry, and preparing Uriah’s meals.
There’s a chill on my skin that feels like New Year’s Eve, and I know if I let it, it’ll take over, and I’ll stand here—shivering my way to numbness.
It’s dark outside. It’s dark inside.
I want to pull the curtains wide and open the windows and let the humidity of the Indiana summer seep into the room. I want it to wrap me up. I want the sticky air to cling to me. To hold me here so I can’t get sucked back there. I need the heat to remind me the chill is only in my head. To prove to me that night has passed.
I go to the window and pull it open, leaning my head against the screen. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The night had an end, but I’ve trapped myself inside it and pretended there was no way out. The night of the accident was a cliff, and I let myself believe there was nothing beyond it. Because I was too afraid to jump.
I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of him getting ready for bed. A drawer opening, the rustle of clothes as he changes, the click of a lamp.
A rush of heat climbs up my neck, warms my cheeks. The thought of Arrow climbing into bed in cotton briefs. His strong legs between the sheets. His bare chest. His big hands.
I’m alive.
I press a hand against the wall. Heat swells in my belly and swirls to a tight knot between my legs. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the backs of my lids are painted with the image of him with his hand between my legs, and my mind is full of the sound of his breath against my neck as he slides his finger inside me and tells me I’m beautiful. His fingers slip over me. Heat pools in my belly, and that coil pulls tight between my legs.
I want to go to him, tell him he’s the one I want, tell him that today when I sang, I let go.
There’s a knock on the door, but I don’t turn as it creaks open. The only other person in the house is Arrow, but this house could be full of people and I’d know that it was him standing behind me. When he’s close, I feel him like the beat of my heart.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is low, husky.
Slowly, I nod.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“I’m alive,” I say softly. Maybe it’s the first time I’ve actually believed it. The sticky air on my skin, the heat of summer curling the tendrils of hair at the nape of my neck. “I’m alive.”
“Fuck, Mia.” He doesn’t come closer.
I wait, staring out into the dark night, watching the reflection of the moonlight bounce off Arrow’s car and remembering the night at the lake, jumping into the water wearing nothing but starlight. He doesn’t come closer.
“Mia?” I turn at my name. He’s in nothing but a pair of boxers, and my gaze lingers on his strong, bare chest. “We didn’t get a chance to talk after the funeral. I wanted to check on you. Are you doing okay?”
In my stomach, butterflies flurry from side to side. “No.”
His face falls and he steps forward. “What can I do? Anything?”
Taking two steps toward him, I draw in a long, slow breath. “What are you offering me, Arrow?”
His breath catches, and his eyes rake down the length of me and back up. “Anything I have.”
“I don’t want to be alone.” It’s a simple sentence, and I realize it’s what I haven’t allowed myself to admit during these months of grieving.
“Then you can sleep with me.” He’s so matter-of-fact. So sure that he