Page 8 of That Rush

I bend forward and press both palms over my eyes, but I can’t force the tears back. My chest seizes around the first rough breath, and then another follows.

Axel’s hand settles between my shoulders. He doesn’t speak or try to pull me together.

He stays beside me while I cry.

By the time I step back inside, my eyes feel raw and my head aches from the strain of holding everything in.

Josie stands at the end of the hallway holding a clean shirt and a pair of leggings against her chest. Her hair is still tangled from sleep, and there’s a streak of dried syrup near the corner of her mouth.

She studies me as I close the door.

“Were you crying?”

The instinct to protect her rises fast. I could tell her the wind made my eyes water or that I’m tired. She might even believe me.

And I’d be teaching her that grief is something we hide from each other.

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows pull together. “Did Uncle Axel make you cry?”

“No. He was helping me.”

“How?”

“He sat with me so I wasn’t alone.”

She thinks about that. “Were you crying about Mommy?”

“Yes.”

“Because you miss her?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

I take the clothes from her and set them on the small table beside us. There are too many other parts to lay on her. The guilt belongs to me. So do the phone calls, funeral decisions, and every question about what happens next.

“I’m sad she died,” I say. “I’m sad for you. I’m sad about everything she won’t get to do with you.”

Josie looks down at her bare feet. Her toes curl against the hardwood.

“Are you sad because you have to keep me now?”

The question lands like a blow, and I brace one hand against my knee to stay upright.

“What?”

“Mommy can’t take care of me, so you have to keep me all the time.”

“Josie, look at me.”

She keeps her eyes on the floor.

I reach for her hands and wait until she finally lifts her face. “I have always wanted more time with you.”

“But now it’s every day.”