What Grows Dies Here

Karson and I stayed in bed the entire next day.

We did not have sex.

We watched cooking shows. I had vodka for breakfast. Karson said nothing, but he did leave the bed for close to an hour, coming back with a large tray of eggs, bacon, fresh fruit and pastries.

He poured orange juice from a jug into my vodka.

He didn’t demand I eat, as I’d expected. No, he just prepared himself a plate, arranged the cushions on his side of the bed to prop himself up, then ate. Yes, I still referred to it as his side, the side I’d kept undisturbed. It still had a book he’d been reading the day before this nightmare started, a water carafe. Reading glasses I’d teased him mercilessly about but which were secretly so sexy on him I’d climbed on top of him many times while he was reading.

The act of him sitting there, eating breakfast, the TV on our favorite cooking show. It was all so normal. So achingly familiar, yet something that would never be the same again. Not after what happened.

The thought turned everything sour, including the orange juice liberally spiked with vodka. I drained it anyway. And I arranged a small amount of food on the plate Karson had brought in, nibbling on it as I settled in bed beside him.

It was delicious, of course. Yet another thing Karson was brilliant at. Memories of us at his cottage, drinking wine and eating the dinners he prepared rushed at me. He’d made only mashed potatoes for two weeks straight when it was the only thing I could stomach, eating them dutifully in solidarity.

I squeezed my eyes shut at the memories, doing my best to banish them. My gaze strayed over to Karson, who had been studying me.

He didn’t try to hide it, try to mask his expression, he just looked at me. His brows were pinched together, and that smile of his I’d come to adore was nowhere to be found. It seemed impossible that any kind of joy could ever have existed on this handsome man’s face.

It was as if he’d never known happiness, that’s how deep his sorrow was etched into him.

This day was unbearable for him too. This life. This nightmare. I knew this, obviously. But I’d been thoroughly wrapped up in my own grief, drowning in it so that I was ignorant to the fact that I was not in these waters alone.

Karson seemed so strong, so impenetrable, so capable that it seemed unfathomable that he could be destroyed in the same way I was. But there it was, plainer than I’d ever seen it on his face.

My plate hit my side table with a clatter, his landing a bit more gracefully thanks to his large, capable hands.

We both moved toward each other in tandem, but instead of Karson’s arms settling around me and tucking me under his shoulder, sheltering and protecting me as he was known to do, I took that role. His large form fluidly slotted into my slight one, his head settling on my chest as I ran my fingers through his hair, clutching him to me.

He gave me all of his weight. All of his pain. I was grateful for it. I hated myself for having been so selfish in my grief for so long, forcing the person I loved most in this world to shoulder his suffering alone.

At every turn, Karson had been there for me. He had every right to hate and resent me, but I knew he would never do either. He loved me relentlessly. He would love me until the day he died. Only me. I had no doubt of that.

At one time, such a thought was romantic, exciting, comforting. Now it was disastrous.

I did not linger on such thoughts now, though. There would be plenty of time for me to face the reality of a future where I was incapable of giving Karson what he needed, what he deserved.

This was not the time.

At that moment, on that day I could give Karson something. I could give him the last remnants of me. And I did it happily.

Neither of us spoke.

What was there to say?

My naked chest was wet from his tears.

At midnight, he left once more, sensing the change between us maybe. More likely he had tasks that needed his immediate attention. An entire twenty-four hours without glimpsing at his phone was a big thing for him.

Something in the darkness needed him. Or perhaps he needed it. He’d shown me the vulnerable, still bleeding part of him. But he had other parts too. Parts that would require him to make someone else bleed.

I pretended to be asleep when he laid a gentle kiss to my forehead.

We both knew I was awake.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he murmured in a voice that moved through the night like velvet, cutting through my body like a blade.

He didn’t linger, didn’t wait for me to respond, my lips squeezed together as tightly as my eyes. I didn’t let myself move. Didn’t let myself breathe. If I did, I’d cling to him, tell him I loved him too. I’d give us both hope that didn’t need to exist. It was better this way.