Page 86 of The Sun and Her Star

I wince as his grip tightens, and I turn to glare up at him. “Let go of me.” He drops them and steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t fair, but you can’t touch me like that. I’ll be back.”

I step into our room and lock the door behind me. And then I select the number and choose “call.”

It only rings twice before he picks up.

“It’s me,” I say before he can even say hello.

He answers me with a sob. I listen, with my heart in my throat while Graham weeps and speaks incoherently into the phone. The only thing I can make out is my name and the word Mama. Fear grips my heart. Oh my God. What’s happened?

“Graham,” I said in a voice that I hope was firm enough to make him stop and answer me. “Where are you?”

“Please … Find a way, we have to,” he says in between his sobs.

I look around my room frantically. What am I doing here? When the other half of my heart needs me? Why had I left him? I couldn’t even remember right now.

“Graham, is it your Mama?” I ask.

“She’s dying, Apollo. And I can’t do anything to save her,” he said, and then he just cried. I lay on my bed and listen, and I cry, too.

I don’t know how long we stayed that way. I listened as his crying subsided, and all I could hear were sniffles, and then he was quiet, but I could hear him breathing.

“Star?” I say quietly.

“Sunshine, please stay with me … I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep,” he says, his voice groggy, words sluggish with misery.

“I’m here, you sleep,” I tell him. My arms ache to hold him.

“I’ve been dreaming of our hammock, Sunshine,” he whispers.

My heart thunders in my chest.

Our hammock.

Sunshine.

“You have?” I ask.

“Yes, I wish we were there right now,” he says. “You smell like strawberries.” A shiver starts right at my very core and travels over my entire body. I haven’t used that shampoo in years.

I close my eyes.

“We’re done reading. The sun is peeking through the leaves of the tree we’re in and you’ve got shadows all over your legs. We’re laughing. Let’s stay here.”

I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat and nod vigorously. I can feel the weight of him beside me in our hammock. “Yes, let’s,” I whisper, and my heart settles in my chest. My world, in the blink of an eye, feels like it’s been set to rights.

“It hurts so much,” he whispers in a broken voice.

“I know. I’m so sorry,” I tell him.

“Me, too. But you’re here. I’m not dreaming?” he asks sleepily.

“You’re not dreaming,” I say more for myself than for him. I can’t believe how five years of distance and silence has disappeared in just the space of a moment.

We don’t talk. His breathing evens out, and I find myself waiting for each inhale. I remember my father telling me how he used to stand over our cribs and watch our chests to make sure we hadn’t stopped breathing and how he would sometimes do it all night.

Every once in a while, Graham calls out my name, and when I answer, all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

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