CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

“It’s no problem,” I tell her, willing my voice to stay steady. “What’s going on?”

“Damon was stabbed earlier today. He died an hour ago.”

My knees buckle, and I fall back, catching myself on the bed. I pull myself up enough to sit on the edge of the mattress. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I talked to the warden myself.”

“It’s really him?”

“It’s really him.”

I take a deep breath. “So… it’s over?”

“Yes, it’s over. Personally, I would have liked to throw the book at him and let him rot in prison for the rest of his life, but this is an ending too. Sometimes the universe decides for us.”

“I can’t believe it’s over.” I don’t know what else to say. What else can I say?

“If you need anything, feel free to call.”

I have to dig deep to pull myself together enough to be polite. “Thanks. Have a good night.”

I let the phone drop from my hand. I grip the bed and stare at the black screen.

I have no idea what to do next.

Not in this moment. Not in this situation. Not in this life.

What does this mean? For me? For my guys? For our future?

My body has completely betrayed me, and the last time I shook this much was when Damon held my face over the fire.

Maybe not even then.

I should tell my guys this news, to let them know that no matter the doubts I’ve been having, there are real possibilities now.

The possibility for Angelo to find us a house. The possibility of tiny feet learning to walk across our carpet. Of us living into our eighties, rather than them attending my funeral at twenty-seven.

My hands are still trembling when I pick up the phone and open the group chat.

Me: I thought you guys should know...

No.

Me: Hey, the ADA just called and...

No.

Me: You’re not going to believe...

I shake my head and close the chat.

I tell myself that I don’t know why.

Maybe because Matt is already asleep, and the others might be too.

Maybe because this isn’t urgent. It’ll keep until tomorrow.

Maybe because I don’t want to burden them.

Maybe, but probably not.

I open a different conversation: You still up?

Him: Yeah, baby. A little while longer.

Me: Can I come over?

Him: Absolutely.

I order a car and change into clothes that I can wear around a driver but also sleep in. My hands shake as I try to hook my bra. My legs tremble as I step into my slacks. It takes me three tries to twist my hair into a clip.

The ten minute wait and twenty minute ride never felt so long.

When I quietly knock on the door, Jarel opens it immediately.

His t-shirt accentuates his fit frame, and his pajama pants remind me how casual we are with each other. “What’s up, lady?”

I’m still in the doorway when I toss my purse on his couch and lean my forehead against his collarbone.

He wraps his right arm around me and lowers his head to try to catch my eyes. “What happened?”

I take a deep breath, and when I look up, my smile makes my eyes shine. “It’s over.”

All of my men find my smile contagious–something else I love about them. “What’s over, baby?”

“Damon’s dead.”

He kisses me, and my eyes flutter at the energetic connection. He reaches behind me to close the door, then backs me against it.

He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

His hands hold mine against the door, pinning me. Our kiss is hard and urgent like many of the others.

But this kiss isn’t like the others at all.

It’s not our typical I-must-have-you-now intensity or our this-is-a-reminder-of-what-awaits passion. It’s not sexual, and I’m not even sure that it’s romantic.

This kiss is I’m-glad-you’re-here joy.

It’s a relief.

A heaviness has lifted from both of us, and we’re giving ourselves permission to forget the trauma that bonded us too quickly.

This changes things for me in so many ways, but it changes things for Jarel too.

He releases me and helps me stand again. I realize that I’m shaking less than I was half an hour ago, and I kiss him once more.

He strolls to his bookshelf of records. Barely thumbing through them, he takes a sleeve from the shelf and places the vinyl on the record player.

A few seconds later, Ella’s gorgeous voice fills the room: My story is much too sad to be told…

Ella Loves Cole.

“I went back to the store and bought it,” he says, ambling toward me. He extends his hand and bows slightly.

I take his hand, and he leads me to the middle of the living room. He places his right hand against my waist and his left hand holds my right. When he moves, I imagine my ballroom dress defying gravity and judges watching us in awe.

He twirls me, letting me spin away before returning to his embrace, and this time, he places his hand on my lower back and holds my hand to his chest. He stares into my eyes, and all I can see is his love.

“So tell me why should it be true that I get a kick out of you,” Jarel sings in his glorious baritone, swaying to the music.

This is the lightest I’ve seen him in months, and we’re swept away by one another’s amelioration.

Tears fall from my eyes, and he cocks his head, but I only simper, and he kisses me again.

A pause gives way to the next song. “With a million neon rainbows burning below me,” I sing, and he steps away to let me spin.

We silently dance the entire thirty-six minutes, and when the record stops, he returns it to its sleeve and rubs my cheek with his thumb.

“Jarel, if tomorrow goes well, I want it all.”

“I know you do.”

“And now that Damon’s dead, I can have it.”

He nods. “Expect to hear Paul Anka’s ‘Having My Baby’ eventually.”

I laugh. “Good to know.”

“You have to tell the guys tomorrow.”

“I will, but you were the one who shared your fear about Damon during our weekend in the woods. I wanted you to know first.”

And that is the truth.

“I appreciate that.”

We come out of our joy-filled bubble long enough to get ready for bed, and when he lies down next to me, he pulls the sheet to our shoulders.

It’s warm, comforting, and familiar.

“I asked Angelo to start looking for a place for the four of us,” I tell him.

“With a thousand bedrooms?”

“Or seven or whatever.”

He grins at me. “And a basement and attic?”

“And a garage with an apartment for Bea,” I laugh, covering my eyes with my hand.

He kisses me. “I get a kick every time I see you,” he sings, “standing there before me. I get a kick though it's clear to see you obviously do not adore me.”

“Oh, but I absolutely do,” I say. The adrenaline has worn off, and I’m exhausted, but I work hard to hit the notes in my singing retort. “Some things just, some things just make sense, and even after all this time, I'm into you. Baby, not a day goes by that I'm not into you.”

He laughs. “Not quite our normal decade, but close enough.”

“I should be over all the butterflies,” I sing.

“You still feel them?” he asks.

“All the damn time.”

“Me too.” He coils one of my curls around his finger. “I’m glad you came over tonight.”

“Better than if I had just texted you this news.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Did you really almost text this?”

I laugh.

Smirking, he shakes his head. “Oh, baby. Yes, this is much better.”

I run my fingers down his torso and gently tug on the hem of his t-shirt.

“What?” he asks, feigning ignorance. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

He sits up long enough to remove his shirt, and he tosses it on the floor.

I trace his Adonis belt with my fingertips and take a deep breath.

“Better?”

I sigh and roll over so that my back is to him. “Better.”

He wraps his arm around me and holds me close. “How do you feel?”

I snuggle against him, further stirring the butterflies. “Safe.”

And I truly hope that I–that we–are as safe as I feel.

Because the prosecutor was right.

Sometimes, the universe decides…