Chapter 33 Marnie
MARNIE
The bathroom mirror doesn’t lie.
The bruise spreading across my cheekbone is spectacular—dark purple bleeding into blue at the edges, the skin swollen and hot. There’s a small cut on the bridge of my nose where his elbow caught me, scabbed over now but still visible. It’s not broken, but it hurts like hell.
I touch it gently and wince. It’s going to look worse before it looks better.
I wash my face carefully, avoiding the bruise, and pull my hair back. The apartment is quiet. Roman’s still asleep, or at least he was when I got up ten minutes ago. I consider trying to cover it up with makeup before he wakes up and sees it.
But first, coffee.
I’m halfway through pouring my second cup when I hear movement from the bedroom. Water running. The bathroom door closing.
Then his footsteps in the hallway. “Marnie?”
His voice is rough. Wrecked. Probably from the whiskey and the nightmare had him thrashing hard enough to hit me.
“Kitchen,” I call back.
He comes around the corner wearing sweatpants and nothing else, hair sticking up, eyes red and swollen. He looks like hell.
“Why is there blood on the pillow—”
He stops and sees my face.
“Did I do that?”
The words come out hoarse, barely above a whisper, like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to.
I set down my coffee mug. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there staring at my face like he’s trying to process something his brain won’t accept.
Then he turns and walks straight back to the bathroom.
I hear him retching, harsh and violent.
When it stops, I follow. He’s at the sink, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles have gone white, staring down at the drain.
“I hit you.”
“You didn’t mean it—”
“I hit you.” His voice is still flat. Controlled. “I was so drunk I hit you hard enough to make you bleed and I didn’t even wake up when it happened.”
I step closer. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps gripping that sink.
“You were having a nightmare,” I say. “About Matty. You were fighting something in your sleep and your elbow caught my face when I tried to wake you.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His jaw locks. “I fucking hit you, Marnie.”
“It was an accident—” I reach out to place my hand on his back, needing him to understand I’m not mad, not about this.
“Don’t.” He flinches back and the word comes out sharp. “Don’t make excuses for me.”
I can see his hands shaking even as he grips the sink harder. The tension radiating through his shoulders, his back. He’s holding himself together through sheer force of will.
My mom died nine days ago. I spent two of those days being angry at Roman for keeping secrets. But standing here watching him try not to fall apart, the anger just drains away. Because whatever he did, whatever secrets he kept—he was trying to help, even if it was the wrong way.
And this? This wasn’t intentional.
“What do you need?” I ask.
He finally looks at me. There’s something raw in his expression, something I haven’t seen before.
“I need—” His throat works. “I need you to not be here right now.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Marnie—”
“Tell me what happened. With Matty. Not just that he died. Tell me how.”
His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump. “You don’t need to hear that.”
“Yes I do. Because you’ve been carrying this alone for five years and it’s destroying you.” I gesture at my face. “So tell me.”
For a long moment I think he won’t.
“Depression.”
The word comes out rough.
“He was seeing a therapist. Dr. Kim. I thought he was getting better. He seemed good, even.”
His hands tighten on the sink.
“But then when he called and I sent it to voicemail. “ He stops. “Meant to call him back. Got into this thing about the lines, forgot, figured I’d call in the morning.”
A tear slides down his cheek. He swipes it away fast, like he’s angry that it’s there.
“Got the call at 7:43 in the morning. Detroit time. Hospital saying they had Matthew Varga and I was his emergency contact.” His voice cracks and he stops, jaw working.
I wait.
“He was already gone. Twenty-one years old and I had to identify him and sign papers.” He shakes his head once. “Pills. Empty bottles. A note that said ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, Roman.’”
His hands are shaking now. “I kept thinking about that call. What he might have said. If hearing my voice would have been enough to—”
“You can’t know that.”
“I should have known something was wrong. I was his brother.” The words cut off and he takes a sharp breath. “Every sign was there and I missed them because I was focused on hockey.”
“Oh, Roman.”
“Every year December 29th comes and I think this will be the year I don’t fall apart. But I always end up drunk.” His jaw locks. “And now I’ve hurt you.”
He looks at me. His eyes are red but dry, his expression carefully blank except for something devastated underneath.
I reach for his hand. He lets me take it but doesn’t hold on.
“My mom used to tell me grief isn’t something you get over,” I say. “It’s something you learn to carry.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ve been carrying guilt for the past few months. That I didn’t notice the cancer sooner. That I didn’t push harder for treatment. That I was at work when she asked for me.” My throat tightens. “I hate myself for it even though I know it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“It’s not the same—”
“It’s exactly the same. You’re torturing yourself with what-ifs about Matty. I’m torturing myself with what-ifs about Mom. But we can’t save people from themselves.”
“I don’t know how to stop feeling like I failed him.”
“I don’t know how to stop feeling like I failed her. But maybe that’s why you need to talk to someone who understands this.”
He looks at our hands. “You should go. Give yourself space from me.”
“I’m not leaving. We’re both grieving. You lost Matty five years ago but you’re still losing him every December 29th. I just lost my mom and I’m going to keep losing her.” I squeeze his hand. “Maybe we’re both a mess but we’re a mess together.”
Something in his face shifts and he squeezes my hand this time, pulling me to him.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not. But you’re stuck with me.” I wrap my arms around his waist. “Now brush your teeth because you smell like a distillery.”
He brushes his teeth, follows me to the kitchen, sits when I point at the table.
“Thank you,” he says after a moment. “For staying.”
“I love you. Even when everything’s a mess.”
“I love you, too, Moxie.”
I order breakfast and we end up on the couch waiting for the food to arrive. Roman sits stiff until I pull his arm around my shoulders. Then some of the tension drains.
“I keep thinking about the voicemail,” he says. “What he said. If there was something I missed.”
“You can’t do that to yourself.”
“I know. But I’ve listened to it so many times.” He stops. “It’s just him asking me to call back. His voice sounds fine.”
“Depression’s good at hiding.” I think about Mom putting on brave faces. “People sound fine when they’re falling apart.”
“Yeah.” His arm tightens. “Dr. Kim probably knows what he was dealing with.”
“Did you ever think of talking to her about it?”
“Sometimes. She called a lot in the first year and I never returned them. Now she emails every few months asking me to make an appointment.”
“What if you did?”
“I’m scared,” he admits. “Of calling her. Of what she might tell me.”
“Or she might tell you there was nothing you could have done. You’ll never know until you actually talk to her.”
His hand finds my hair. “If I call her will you go with me? Just in the waiting room,” he says. “Not in the session.”
“I’ll be wherever you want me.” I tell him.
The afternoon fades. We eat leftover pancakes for dinner. We watch episodes of some show and couldn’t name a single one.
When it gets dark, we go to the bedroom. Roman looks at the blood-stained pillow.
“I’ll change the sheets.”
“Tomorrow.”
He flips the pillow anyway. Then climbs into bed and waits.
I turn off the light and crawl in beside him. We lie in the dark. Then I curl against his side and his arm comes around me.
“I’m going to cry,” I warn him. “About my mom.”
“Okay.”
And I do. Quietly at first, then harder. His hand moves in circles on my back and I feel him shaking too.
“I miss her,” I sob. “I miss her so much and it feels like it will never, ever get better.”
“I know.” His voice is tight with unshed tears. “I know exactly how that feels.”
We cry together—for his brother, for my mother, for the people who left holes we can’t fill. Not fixing it. Just two broken people holding on, trying to survive one breath at a time.
“Just breathing,” I murmur.
“Just breathing,” he repeats.
And somehow, in the wreckage of everything we’ve lost, that’s enough.
For now. For tonight. Together.