There’s screeching now. And sirens. One SUV is flying out of the gas station. They shoot one more bullet but this one misses. Not that it matters. One less won’t make a difference. Not for me. Not anymore.

“Nat.”

It always pisses her off when I call her that and I almost smile at the memory of her face when I do.

Something gurgles up from my throat. I open my eyes for a moment to see a stranger’s face.

And then I’m watching. Just watching.

Nothing hurts. It did, the first bullet. It fucking burned. The second, too. And the one that ripped into my heart.

Now, nothing.

One leg is bent underneath me, the other stretched out. Blood pools all around me. The ambulance is here, and the sirens are fading. All noise is fading, I realize. Their screams. Their words. I hear nothing. And it’s not like I think it would be.

I want to see her again. One last time. I need to. I will myself to. To be home. To lie beside her. To touch her just once more. To brush my fingers across her cheek. To lay my hand on her belly. Hear her laugh. Feel her curl into me. Feel her breath on my cheek.

To tell her I’m sorry.

And maybe it’s my reprieve. Maybe some time in my life, I did one good thing, and this is my reward. Because I’m here with her. And she’s sleeping. She’s wearing my T-shirt. It’s so big on her. And she’s holding my pillow to her and her hair is fanned out all around her and she’s so beautiful.

I want to scream to her, but I can’t. I will the sound, but nothing comes. Nothing. I want to touch her, but I can’t feel her. I can’t fucking feel her.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’m screaming, but there’s nothing. Nothing but silence. Utter silence.

She stirs. Blinks. I stop. And for a moment, I think she’s looking up at me. I think she sees me.

But then she closes her eyes again and rolls onto her side and she’s asleep. Peaceful still.

She doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t know yet that I’m gone. That I won’t be able to keep my promise. That I won’t wake her tonight or any night.

She doesn’t know yet that I died.

29

Natalie

I haven’t been inside the study in the four weeks since the night Sergio didn’t come home. I’ve barricaded myself in this house, which I never had the chance to make my home. I wanted to. After everything, I wanted to make it a home. Our home.