Chapter Forty-Five
brOKEN PARTS
Andi
My hand automatically reaches across the sheets, searching for him even though I already know he’s not there.
The bathroom light is off. The hallway is dark.
But I can see a sliver of light coming from under the door of what we’ve been calling the spare room—though we both know what it’ll eventually become.
Rising from the bed, I pad along in the dark.
I find him sitting on the floor, back against the wall, staring at a paint sample card in his hand. Beef is curled beside him, massive head resting on Cole’s thigh.
“Hey,” I whisper, sliding down to sit next to him.
He doesn’t look at me. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” I lean into his shoulder, studying his profile in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. “Bad dream?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. Then, he shakes his head. “I keep seeing him.”
Brennan. It’s been almost a year, but grief doesn’t follow calendars.
“In my dreams, he’s always just out of reach,” Cole continues, voice rough. “I’m trying to get to him, trying to pull him clear, but I can’t move fast enough. And then I wake up and remember that I’ll never be fast enough because he’s already gone.”
I take his hand, lacing our fingers together. His are cold.
“I thought moving in together would make it better,” he says. “Like having you here all the time would chase away the ghosts. But sometimes...” He trails off, jaw working.
“Sometimes it makes it scarier,” I finish softly. “Because now you have more to lose.”
He turns to look at me then, eyes glossy in the low light. “Yeah.”
I understand. Possibly better than anyone.
Every happy moment carries the shadow of what could go wrong.
Every time he leaves for a shift, every time I watch him put on that uniform, there’s a voice in my head calculating odds, measuring risks, preparing for impact.
I hate it, but it comes with the territory of loving someone this much.
“I think about kids,” he says suddenly. “About this room. About painting it yellow or green or whatever color you tell me to paint it. And then I think about them growing up without me. Or you having to explain why Daddy’s not coming home.”
My throat tightens. “Cole—”
“I know.” He squeezes my hand. “I know we can’t live like that. But knowing and feeling are different things.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping across the wall. The paint sample in his hand is a soft blue called “Dream Dust.”
“You know what I think about?” I ask finally.
He makes a questioning sound.
“I think about Sunday mornings when you make pancakes and get batter everywhere. I think about you teaching our kids to ride bikes in the driveway. I think about growing old with you, arguing about what to watch on TV when we’re seventy.”
“Andi—”
“I think about all the life we get to live,” I continue, turning to face him fully. “All the ordinary, beautiful moments. And yeah, I’m terrified. Every single day. But the fear means something. It means what we have is worth being afraid for.”
He drops the paint sample and pulls me into his lap, burying his face in my neck. I feel him shake slightly—not quite crying, but close.
“I love you so much it scares me,” he whispers against my skin.
“I know.” I hold him tighter. “Me too.”
We stay like that for a long time, just breathing together in the dark of our maybe-someday-nursery. The weight of loving someone this much—it’s not easy. It’s not simple. But it’s real.
“We could paint it yellow,” I say eventually. “Sunshine yellow.”
He pulls back to look at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But not yet. Not until we’re ready.”
“Okay.” He nods slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Can we go back to bed?”
Beef stretches and yawns, then wedges himself more firmly between us, like he’s trying to absorb whatever sadness is in the air. He’s good at that.
“Come on.”
He follows me down the hall, our fingers still intertwined. When we crawl back under the covers, he pulls me close, my back to his chest, his arm heavy and protective around my waist.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair.
“For what?”
“For getting it. For being here. For not trying to fix it.”
I turn in his arms so we’re face to face. “We’re both broken in places,” I whisper. “But I think maybe our broken parts fit together.”
He kisses me then, soft and lingering, tasting like gratitude and grief and love all mixed together.