Page 9 of Unbroken

“I know you’re drowning, Vadka.” Her voice lowers. “I know how that feels. But Luka isn’t. And he needs us.”

That lands like a fist to my ribs. My eyes burn, and my throat’s too tight.

I open my mouth to speak but can’t. If I do, I’m gonna sob like a goddamn baby.

Ruthie softens. “Here’s your phone,” she says, handing it to me.

Sure enough, it’s dead and powered off. “Dead,” I say with a sigh. I cringe as soon as the words hit my lips. “I’ll charge it.”

She nods and wraps her arms around herself as if she’s cold. As if she’s trying to hold herself together.

I know that feeling too.

“Where is he?” she whispers.

“Still sleeping if your temper tantrum didn’t wake him up.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’ll stay until he wakes up. Unless you’re planning on calling in sick to work and telling Rafail you won’t make it in today? When it’s the end of the quarter, and someone threatened your damn nanny last night?”

I should tell her to leave. She has no right. This ismymess.

But Luka is her nephew, and I do have to see Rafail.

“Alright. I need to grab a shower.” I look toward Luka’s room on instinct. I haven’t had a shower without worrying about where he was or what he needed from me in so damn long. It feels good to have another adult here, even if she’s spitting venom at me.

I’ve known Ruthie for almost as long as I knew Mariah. And I know for a fact that she burns hot but fizzles out, and her heart’s as big as they come. She’ll calm down. Hell, probably did her good to tell me off.

I turn to go, and something in me tells me to stop. To turn around and ask her howshe’sdoing. To maybe hug her or something, something… a brother would do. What if she needs that right now?

But when I turn back, she’s halfway to the kitchen, broom in hand. I look after her, open my mouth to speak, then shake my head and walk to the bathroom.

I tiptoe into my room. Luka came in at some point in the middle of the night, sprawled out on his belly, all messy hair and tangled sheets. At four years old, I can already tell he’ll be tall like me but wiry like his mama. I’m glad he’s asleep. I love him so much it makes me ache, but right now, I don’t want him to look up at me with his mother’s eyes.

I leave the door to the bathroom partly open so I can still see him and keep an eye on him as I strip out of my clothes. God, I need a shower badly. I smell like I used to when I played sports in college. Mariah used to wrinkle her nose and tell me to hit the shower, so naturally, I’d tackle her andkiss her all sweaty, just so she’d fight me, and I could overpower her and kiss her. I smile to myself as I throw the clothes onto the floor and turn the shower on.

I look through the crack in the doorway to see Luka’s still sleeping soundly. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. God, my baby boy. So young to lose his mama.

I step into the shower, grateful for the hot, steamy water. Shampoo bottle’s empty, so I squirt some weird purple toddler stuff onto my palm and make do. I clean fast, wanting to get back to my boy and get out of here so I can get to work. Ruthie isn’t kidding. Rafail doesn’t fuck around at the end of the quarter, and my cover job as owner and general manager of Black Line Security means I have reports to give him.

I mentally scold myself for losing it. Ruthie is right. My house is in shambles, I don’t remember the last time I shopped for groceries, and Rafail will kick my ass for letting my phone die. I don’t like feeling this out of control. I’m never like this.

I’ll stare into space when something triggers a memory, then blink and come to hours later. Time passes weirdly when you’re grieving, I guess.

How long does grief last? I would’ve thought I’d feel better by now. And Luka barely seemed to register the loss of his mama. He’s asked for her a few times and cried when she didn’t come home, but he’s too young to really understand that she’s gone forever.

And I know how this will go. He’ll grow up with only vague memories of her. And then, eventually, he might even forget her. I lean my head against the wall as a fresh sob rips frommy chest. It’s safer to cry in the shower. I can hide the signs, and it’s harder for anyone to hear.

The grief hits me like a tidal wave. The fact that she’s gone, that I’ll never hold her again, never talk to her again, never see her witness all my son’s firsts ever again, feels like a reality that’s too hard for me to swallow. My shoulders shake, and something loosens in my chest. The grief feels wrenched from me, raw and so painful it kills.

I cry until relief finally comes. My father used to beat the shit out of me for crying. Ironic. Maybe it’s why I feel the need to hide when I do. But goddamn, a man’s got to let some of this out.

I let the water splash on my face and wash away my tears, wipe my eyes, and peek through the curtain to see Luka still sleeping soundly.

Fuck. I’m all stuffed up and snotty, and my head aches. I hate this. I can’t let myself fall apart every time I step in the fucking shower.

I turn the water off and reach for a towel when I realize I didn’t bring one in with me. I grit my teeth and look at the gross clothes I tossed on the floor and the tiny hand towel that’s askew, probably needs to be changed, and wouldn’t even dry my shoulder.

Gah-reat.

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