Part 30 (1/2)

”But not gone, right?”

”I don't think so.”

”Dull colors we can work with. No colors ... well, let's hope we can pull her out of this before it gets that far. We need to get her out of bed.”

Maverick hesitates. ”She's mourning, Finley.”

”I get that. But the miscarriage happened a month ago, and if we don't do something, she's going to slip further into herself. Mourning is fine; depression isn't. You called me here to help, so let me help.”

Maverick lets out a long breath. ”All right. Just bring her back to me.”

”I'll do what I can, but Maverick, you're the one who woke her up before.”

A few minutes pa.s.s before Finley gets into bed, facing me from Maverick's side. I see her there, but at the same time, I don't. She's like a ghost, someone who represents the me from before.

”I sent Maverick to the store for some supplies,” she says. ”The only thing in your fridge is salt. Who puts salt in their refrigerator?”

I remain silent. We've been through this routine before-with Chris. But this is different, because she's wasting her time.

”I'm ordering junk food tonight. Mozzarella sticks, hot wings, chili-cheese fries, and your favorite: fried mushrooms. How delish and life-threatening does that sound?” Finley's wide-eyed, nodding, and trying to get me to agree.

I want to tell her I'm not hungry. I'm never hungry anymore. But unlike Maverick, Finley will shove food down my throat if I don't eat. I hate that I'll have to nibble to keep her happy. Why can't they just leave me alone?

d.a.m.n Maverick for calling her.

”I told Maverick to get iced tea. You still like the super-sugary stuff, right? If not, I can text him.”

I blink, then roll onto my other side to get away from her. She doesn't understand.

Finley groans. ”You're not going make this easy on me, are you? b.i.t.c.h.”

The old me would have laughed. Maybe even slugged her. This me, though, just clutches the blanket tighter to her chest and closes her eyes. The grays surrounding me are exhausting.

I feel the mattress lighten, and a moment later, minty-scented breath wafts over my face. I'll have to open my eyes, I think. If I don't, she'll keep blowing on me. I'm too weak to scream at her to leave me the f.u.c.k alone. G.o.d, she's annoying.

Instead I look her in the eye and attempt telepathy. How can she not see that I'm not in the mood?

She stares back. ”I know you don't want me here, but like it or not, you're stuck with me.” Finley cups her hand over mine. ”We swore we'd never let each other fall too far. We swore we'd always be there for each other. That's why I came, and I'm not leaving.”

What I hear is that if I make an effort, she'll go home. So when Maverick arrives with dinner, I let Finley drag me to the sofa. I avoid meeting Maverick's gaze. For weeks he's tried to do what Finley's accomplished in an hour, the pain in his eyes evident. What he doesn't realize is that I can't face him. I can't look at him and wonder if our baby would've had his eyes, his smile, his dark hair. I can't look at my husband and picture my son.

Maverick had been so excited, and now, come September, there will be no nursery, no little booties, no cries at 2AM.

No tiny football jersey.

”Here you go.” Finley shoves a plate of food at me. ”Eat.”

Her lips are pursed, and she's watching me like I'm going to spontaneously combust. She's thinking I've lost too much weight. I haven't been drinking enough water. I haven't seen sunlight in days. She isn't wrong.

I pick the crust off the smallest mushroom and stick it into my mouth.

”Dip the next one into the sauce. It's delish,” she says.

I do, but after, that I'm done. I sink lower into the cus.h.i.+on and cover myself with a blanket. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maverick with his fist to his mouth, studying me. I'm breaking his heart, I know, but how can I mend his when mine is in a thousand pieces?

”Try this next.” Finley has a crusted something on her fork and she's sticking it in my face.

I shake my head.

”Do I need to feed you? Because I will.” She has that look in her eye, so I open my mouth and force myself to swallow. I want to throw it up.

And then, unbidden, the tears begin to flow. Finley doesn't notice right away, but Maverick does. He reaches for me, but I turn away from him before he touches me and get up.

”Ali,” Finley starts.

”Let her go,” Maverick says, the husk in his voice breaking me more.

I go back to my room, lock the door, and cry until I fall asleep.

The next morning, I wake up to Finley snoring in bed beside me. Maverick's working, of course, and it seems that my bestie is my babysitter. If I want any time to myself, it has to be now.

I sit in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, gazing out the window as the sun pulls up over the horizon. There's a sketchpad at my fingertips. Maverick left it for me a few weeks ago, but it holds no persuasion for me this morning. The sky is a dull shade of gray.

When Finley pads in, I excuse myself to take a shower. She doesn't protest, and I lock myself in the bathroom. I stand under the spray until the water turns cold. Then I step out and dress in my bedroom. Normally I don't examine myself in the mirror, but I do today. The sleeves of my s.h.i.+rt hang off me, and the neckline plunges lower than it's supposed to. I tie the drawstring of my pants that makes my b.u.t.t sag. My face too shows my pain-sunken eyes and cheeks. I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.

She's sick. She's been through h.e.l.l and doesn't know how to escape. Maybe she doesn't want to.

A picture on the dresser catches my attention. I pick it up. The man is Maverick. But the woman beside him? It's not me.

She's beautiful, brown hair falling over one shoulder. Her eyes are alive, pewter in color, and filled with love for the man she's gazing at.

I touch my own cheek as I compare it to hers. Mine are dreary, whereas hers have a natural pink tint. The white dress she wears fits her curves, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s fill out the top, leaving a slit of cleavage under her necklace. Her skin is sun-kissed, glowing in the twilight.

She's happy. She's found heaven, and she belongs there. She should never want to leave.

Still holding the photo, I look back into the mirror. How had I gone from heaven to h.e.l.l so quickly? From a dancing stare, to eyes that hold more tears than music. From full, pink lips that smile wide, to a mouth that rarely moves. Where did all of my color go?

I put the picture back on the dresser, and when I turn, Finley's standing in the doorway. I don't know how long she's been watching me, probably long enough to know I've hit rock bottom. Deep down, I knew I was losing myself again. Sinking into the corners of my mind where Chris lives to torment me, to tell me I deserve the darkness I'm in.

And again, I've let him.

Tears rim my eyes. ”Finley,” I breathe. ”Who am I?”

She knows the answer I need, the same one she gave all those years ago.