Chapter 83 Grief
Rowan
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, her voice soft and rough from crying, her thumb still resting along the edge of my jaw like she’s grounding herself there.
“I know,” I answer quietly, because there’s no point denying it.
“You always stare.”
“I know.”
There’s a ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth, the faintest lift, like she wants to tease me but doesn’t have the energy to commit to it.
I can hear the shift in her breathing as her body finally begins to unclench beneath my hand. The tension that’s been coiled in her spine all day slowly unwinds, inch by inch, until she sinks more fully into the mattress... and into me. Trust settles there between us, heavier than anything we’ve said. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t loud. It just exists, dense and undeniable.
I study her face like it’s something sacred. The faint swelling beneath her eyes. The pink flush still lingering on her cheeks. The way her lashes clump together slightly from tears she didn’t bother wiping away. If I memorize every detail, I tell myself, I can protect it better. I can anticipate what hurts her before it ever reaches her.
“Tell me about him,” I say finally, my voice lower now, not demanding—inviting.
Her fingers still against my skin. “My brother?”
“Yes.”
For a second, I see it, the flicker of retreat. The instinct to shut the door and swallow it down. But she doesn’t. She inhales slowly, steadying herself, and when she speaks, it isn’t about tragedy.
“He hated mornings,” she says, almost incredulous, like the memory surprises her too. “Like, violently hated them. He’d set five alarms, five, and snooze every single one. And then he’d argue with the clock when he was late, like it had personally betrayed him.”
A faint, real smile touches her mouth this time. It softens her entire face.
“He’d steal the last pancake off my plate,” she continues, her thumb absently tracing along the line of my jaw. “Every single time. And he’d say, ‘I thought you were done,’ even though we both knew I wasn’t.”
I feel my hand tighten slightly at her waist, not in jealousy, not in irritation, but in something deeper. Grief laced with protectiveness. I would have liked him already, I think. I can tell.
“What was he like?” I ask, wanting more. Needing to know the shape of the person who shaped her.
“Loud,” she says immediately. “Annoying. Protective in the most over-the-top way. He thought I couldn’t handle anything by myself. Like I was fragile.”
“You’re not,” I murmur.
“I know,” she whispers. “But he meant well. He always meant well.”
Her hand slides down from my face to my collarbone, resting there as if she needs the contact to keep speaking.
“He tried so hard to do the right thing,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter now. “Even when he didn’t always make the right choices. He took care of Mom. Even when she didn’t deserve it. He’d cook for her. Sit with her when she couldn’t get out of bed. Handle the bills when I was working late. He never complained. He just… stepped up.”
There’s pride in her voice. And pain.
“He got into things he shouldn’t have,” she continues, staring somewhere just past my shoulder. “Thought he could fix problems that weren’t his. Thought if he just pushed hard enough, he could outrun whatever he’d gotten tangled up in.”
She swallows, and her throat works visibly. “He always thought he was smarter than consequences. But I think… I think he was scared. And I didn’t see it. I was too busy trying to survive my own mess.”
Her voice cracks on that last word.
My thumb brushes gently along her side in a slow, steady rhythm. “You were his sister,” I say, firm but not harsh. “Not his keeper.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them again, they’re glassy but focused.
“When we were kids,” she whispers, “he used to climb this massive oak tree behind our house. Way too high. Mom would scream at him to get down before he broke his neck.”
“And?” I prompt softly.
“He’d look down at me and say, ‘If I fall, you’ll catch me, right?’” Her lips tremble faintly. “And I’d yell back, ‘Obviously.’ Like I had any idea how to catch someone falling from twenty feet in the air.”
A tear escapes, sliding down toward her ear. I catch it with my thumb before it disappears into her hair.
“And I always said yes,” she finishes.
“He didn’t fall because of you,” I say, my tone steady and unmovable.
She searches my face. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I reply quietly. “Because the kind of man who drags someone down with him doesn’t ask if they’ll catch him first. He loved you. That’s obvious.”
Her breath stutters. She nods once. “He did. He really did.”
She shifts slightly, “His favorite color was lime green,” she adds suddenly, and a soft, broken laugh escapes her. “God, I hated it. It was so bright. So obnoxious. He had lime green sneakers once. And a hoodie. And he tried to paint his room that color.”
I can’t help the faint smile that tugs at my mouth. “Bold choice.”
“It was hideous,” she insists. “But he loved it. Said he liked that it was impossible to ignore. That it made people look twice.”
I arch a brow. “Sounds familiar.”
She studies me for a second, understanding flickering between us.
“He liked being seen,” she says. “Even when he pretended he didn’t.”
The silence that follows isn’t suffocating. It’s full.
“You would’ve liked him,” she says quietly.
“He stole pancakes,” I remind her dryly.
“He would’ve tried to intimidate you.”
“That would not have gone well for him.”
This time she actually laughs, a soft, breathy sound that feels like something fragile being stitched back together. I savor it.
She grows serious again after a moment, her gaze tracing over my face. “You don’t have to stay,” she says, even though her hand hasn’t left my chest. “You don’t owe me this.”
“I know.”
“But you are.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers drag lightly along my jawline again. “You’re different like this,” she murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Not sharp,” she says carefully. “Not… cutting.”
I raise a brow slightly. “Careful.”
She huffs softly. “You know what I mean.”
I do. I lean closer, lowering my voice until it’s just for her. “This isn’t the world,” I tell her. “This is you.”
Her breath shivers between us. “And that changes things?”
“Yes.”
There’s no hesitation in my answer.