Page 25 of Pretty Thing

Her coffee trembles slightly in her hands.

Fuck.

“I’m not trying to bulldoze you. Someone has to help you sort through everything. Do you agree that this is a lot?”

“Yes…but…”

“There is no but. It’s not going to go away. I’m sorry that is painful, and yes, it can be Kyle, Kris, or a family member who helps. But have they ever been through something like this? Have they lived through a traumatic event while having to make extremely difficult choices about a loved one’s death? Can they take you to all the appointments?”

“No,” Eden admits softly.

“I have and I can. But I promise not to be so…bossy.”

I give her my best puppy dog eyes and try to smooth things over.

“But…I don’t want to think about wills, and paperwork, and death certificates right now.”

“The call was only to set an appointment, Eden.”

“I can barely breathe,” she whispers, her chest rising too fast.

Tears slide down her cheek, and my heart constricts. I take the coffee from her hands before she spills it and set it aside.

“I know,” I repeat. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone. I’m here. I want to be here. Let me help you. Let me be the person you lean on.”

Her eyes shine, and she looks away fast as if she hates being vulnerable in front of people.

Too fucking bad. I’ll hold every ugly part of her grief if she lets me. Every panic attack, nightmare, and shaking breath.

Mine.

It’s all mine.

Everything about her is mine.

Not mine like possession. Mine like responsibility. Mine like if she breaks apart again, I’ll be the one putting her back together.

“Okay…fine, you can help.”

Silence stretches between us while outside the snow falls. Eden finally looks at me like she’s trying to understand why I’m still here.

The truth is I don’t fully understand it either. I just know leaving Eden alone this morning felt wrong in a way I can’t explain. It’s as if I’m walking away from a loaded gun sitting on a table and trusting that no one will touch the trigger.

“We’ve got this.”

She nods once, the action small but obedient without realizing it.

And something dark inside me likes that far too much.

seven

​. . .​

Eden

The physiotherapy clinic smells like eucalyptus body lotion, rubber mats, and stale coffee. But at least the walls have color instead of the hospital’s stark white. The girl at the counter is way too smiley. I’m surprised that is actually a thing, but apparently so. She just sits and smiles at her computer. It’s creepy.

In fact, everyone here is disgustingly friendly. Stepford Wives but worse because they’re all pretending that pain can be measured on charts and solved with time. Maybe some can, but other scars never heal and ache when you’re least expecting them too.