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I laugh, and even though it sounds broken, it’s real. The surprise of it makes Carly’s eyes go bright.

Rather than pointlessly asking how I’m doing, she sits on the couch with her legs tucked under her and tells me about the disaster of a dinner party she tried to host.

She talks. I listen. Sometimes I cry. She hands me tissues and keeps talking, and by the time she leaves, my cheeks hurt from the effort of smiling.

Father Joseph comes the next day. Unlike Carly, he doesn’t bring any attempts to cheer me up. He sits with me for hours where neither of us speaks. When he’s ready to leave, he stands up and places his hand on top of my head.

“She knew you loved her, Kira,” he says. “Every time you sat in that room and talked to her, she knew.”

Father Joseph squeezes my shoulder and lets himself out.

The days keep passing. Domenico sleeps beside me every night. His body is a furnace against my back, his arm heavy across my waist, and sometimes I wake up to find I’ve turned in my sleep and buried my face in his chest.

One night, I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Domenico is beside me, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. The city lights cut thin blue lines through the gap in the curtains.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He turns his head. Our eyes meet in the dark, and something passes between us. Then his hand finds mine under the covers, and he laces our fingers together, and we lie there holding hands while the city breathes around us.

I stand in the closet on Thursday, or maybe it’s Saturday morning, staring at the black dress hanging on the rod. This isn’t one of the fancy ones I’ve bought with Domenico’s money. It’s one I brought from home. Mom bought it for me three years ago and asked me to keep it a secret from Dad.

She always said she loved seeing me wear it at Saint Benedict’s, so it seems right I wear it for the funeral in a few days.

Mom’s funeral.

Mom’s dead.

The words haven’t changed. They haven’t softened or evolved, or become easier to carry.

I sink down onto the closet floor and press my forehead against my knees.

The closet door opens, and Domenico enters. He takes one look at me before joining me on the floor. I immediately lean against him, sighing with contentment when he wraps his arm around me and pulls me close to his side.

We sit there, surrounded by clothes and shoes and the faint smell of cedar, and I don’t cry. The tears are there—I can feel them pooling behind my eyes, heavy and hot—but they don’t fall.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe at the funeral, when the reality becomes unavoidable. Or maybe they’ll stay right where they are, trapped behind my ribs, and I’ll carry them for the rest of my life.

Domenico’s thumb traces a slow circle at the base of my skull. “Dr. Morgan called and asked if we could stop by tomorrow,” he says.

23

Domenico

Although Kira agreed to go see Dr. Morgan yesterday, she changed her mind when she got up this morning. Instead, she asked if Dr. Morgan could come here. Which is why the good doctor is now being greeted by Donna, who knows to bring her into the living room where we’re waiting.

“She’s here,” I murmur to Kira as I stand, ready to greet our guest.

As I glance down at her, I see she’s still staring out the window. Her eyebrows are pulled together as though she’s deep in thought. But honestly, I’m not sure she is.

“Kira.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” She still doesn’t look away from the window, just pulls her knees to her chest.

She looks so small, so vulnerable.

“Hello,” Dr. Morgan says as she joins us in the living room.

“Thank you for coming,” I say.