Page 25 of I Almost Do

"It wasn't you… picking up papers… that did it," he says. "It was what you said… after she walked away… to the assholes… who ignored her."

I blink. "What did I say?"

"No… clue. But you were… an intern who made a group of seasoned executives… ashamed of themselves. And the next time I saw… Dolores—" He wheezes a laugh. "—she had a promotion… and a PA… to carry the papers."

Marcus passes at 10:04 a.m. the next day, with Clarissa holding his hand. I stand on the other side of his bed, and I shove the pain down where it needs to go so I can be there for Clarissa. I keep my back stiff, my face blank, and my eyes on my wife.

I don't look at Marcus. I can't. When I'm alone, I'll look. Not now. Not yet.

Clarissa sits for a long time, just holding Marcus's hand. Quiet. Unable to let go, though he no longer lives in that body. Finally, she stands, eerily quiet, tucking blankets around him, kissing his forehead.

She walks to the door. "I have to call—"

I catch her just before her knees hit the floor. I sink down next to her and wrap her up tight while she sobs hard enough to make herself gag.

Useless. I'm agonizingly useless. Helpless in the face of her pain and mine.

I know this feeling well: the one where it seems I could just fly off into the ether and evaporate into thin air if I don't find something to tether me to solid ground. With the way she clings, I'd guess Clarissa feels the same.

So I pull her onto my lap and don't let go, ready and willing to be her anchor in the storm. I rock her in my arms until she cries herself out. And if I steal some small comfort while I give it, no one has to know.

10

Carry You

James

I'm not around as much as I'd like to be in the weeks following the funeral. Marcus's illness and passing left a large void at work, regardless of how well he orchestrated the transition. I'm working insane hours, even for me, to keep our stock from taking too much of a hit. Stepping into Marcus Harcourt's shoes is an honor; I can't let his life's work suffer because I'm not good enough or because I didn't work hard enough.

But I also made a promise to be a friend to Clarissa.

I’m failing at that already.

I drop my napkin onto my dinner plate and contemplate the empty seat where Clarissa should be sitting.

She hasn’t been down to dinner once since Marcus passed. She takes her meals alone in her bedroom. In fact, she rarely leaves her suite of rooms upstairs at all. When she does come downstairs, she floats through the brownstone, ghostlike, quiet, almost transparent in her frailty. On the occasions when I try to break through her haze of grief, she just blinks at me as though she’s not sure I’m speaking English.

It’s been weeks since the funeral. And while I’m not trying to put some kind of limitation or end date on her grieving—God knows I’m still in the depths of it myself—I’m deeply concerned for her.

Something has to give.

I reach for the bag with the sporting goods company name on it that I’d set on the floor beside my chair. I wanted to be prepared should she actually come down to dinner. But I needn’t have bothered.

Snatching it, I head for the stairs.

There’s a muffled sound behind her door when I knock, and then it creeps open just enough for her head and shoulders to peek through.

“Yes?”

“I’m here for our half hour.”

“What?”

I hold up my phone with the email version of our marriage plan showing. “It’s in the rules. Half an hour of conversation.”

“I’m not good company right now.”

“Are you refusing to follow the rules?” I shake my head at her teasingly. “You little rebel, you.”

---