Page 128 of Made for Mayhem

Then she was back.

In her hands was a ceramic urn no bigger than a loaf of bread, hand-painted with daisies and violets tangled with juniper sprigs. A tiny envelope taped to the side had that same little daisy drawn, and that was the last straw.

The floor rushed up to meet me.

My knees buckled. The urn, the letter, the room—everything tilted sideways. I heard a distant clatter, felt the cold tile smack my palms, but the sound was muffled, like I’d plunged underwater once more.

Strong arms scooped me up, and Ty’s voice rumbled against my ear. It was low and urgent, but the words dissolved into static.

I couldn’t hear.

Couldn’t feel.

Couldn’t see.

The world narrowed to the steady thump of his heart under my cheek and the white-noise roar in my own head.

Car door.

Seat belt.

Engine.

Motion.

None of it registered.

Then he scooped me up again, and the faint smell of pine and woodsmoke told me we were home.

His hard body gave way to the soft mattress beneath me.

I was horizontal, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles, the blades a hypnotic blur.

Only then did the dam break.

The first sob tore out of me like shrapnel—raw, ugly, and unstoppable. Tears flooded hot and endless, soaking the pillow, my hair, the collar of Ty’s T-shirt when he lay beside me and pulled me into his chest.

I couldn’t breathe around the grief; it clawed up my throat, choking me.

My fingers fisted in his shirt, knuckles white, anchoring to the only solid thing left in the universe.

He didn’t shush me.

Didn’t tell me it would be okay.

He just held on, one hand stroking my back in slow, steady passes, the other cradling my head like I might shatter.

And hell, maybe I would.

I cried for the mornings Violet would never make Junie’s favorite pancakes. For the mix CDs she’d never burn for me again. For the inside jokes and memories that lived only in my head now. For Junie’s questions I’d never have perfect answers to. For the bedroom door I’d opened and the life that had spilled out in dust and lavender sachets.

I cried until my ribs ached, until my throat was raw, until the tears slowed to a trickle and my body felt wrung dry.

Ty never moved.

His shirt was soaked, his heartbeat a metronome under my ear. When I finally hiccuped into silence, he pressed his lips to my temple, lingering there.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice rough. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”