Page 134 of Carry On
“That’s okay.”
It wasn’t. I spent every minute of every hour obsessing over our short life together. I dissected each moment, trying to figure out where I’d fucked up.
If I’d seen more…
If I’d pushed more…
If I’d done… anything…
There had to be something I could’ve done to save him. If I’d paid better attention instead of being stuck in my own delusional state of everything was getting better—that he was doing better…
“If you need help with the arrangements,” she was saying, “Mitchell and I are more than willing to help.”
“I’ll let you know,” I whispered.
Arrangements.
What she meant was his funeral.
I had to plan his funeral.
I didn’t want to.
Obsession pushed my freeze response into overdrive as I practically counted down the minutes to forty-eight hours. I fixated on it as I stood inmy kitchen, staring at my living room floor. Would I ever be able to feel comfortable here again?
I didn’t think I could.
There was too much ofhimhere. Part of me wanted to run from every reminder, while the other wanted to stay here and cling to every little bit of him I still had. It was an awful, gut-wrenching feeling.
Angry pounding on my door made my brain falter. Who the hell?
I glanced at my phone. I had at least half a dozen messages from Dean checking in on me, all of which I’d ignored. Calling Charlotte had taken it out of me. I didn’t have the energy for more people. Still, I made myself answer. I barely had the door open before Peter pushed his way inside, looking upset beyond words.
“Where is he?” he demanded, stomping through my condo. I let him because I didn’t have it in me to fight him. “Nash?”
Just hearing his name hurt, and I swallowed hard. I shut the door as Peter helped himself into my home, looking for his brother. Every slam and angry yell had me cringing and flinching. I was too rubbed raw to handle his anger in strides.
“Where is he?” Peter snapped as he rejoined me in the living room.
“He’s gone,” I said softly.
“No.” He shook his head. “No. Where is he?”
“Peter—”
“Where is he?” he interrupted. I sighed heavily. This poor kid was in denial. Closing the distance between us, I dragged him in for a hug, holding on tight, even as he struggled.
“He’s gone,” I whispered.
“No—”
“He’s–”
“No!”
“He’s gone, Peter,” I repeated, my voice catching in my throat. “Nash is gone.”
Back and forth, I kept repeating myself as he tried to deny it until the kid finally broke down and crumbled in my arms.
