Sadness seems to seep from her pores, and I realize I never saw this side of her until she started opening up about Rich and Heath. Teagan is happiness and sunshine. It radiates from every inch of her. She sags against the weight of the story, curling into herself as if she can defend her heart from the pain of the memory. Seeing her like this is like watching her fade away. And it kills me.

I stroke her back in gentle circles, trying my best to comfort her.

“Rich and I were both a mess after Heath died. I told you losing Heath made me reckless, but what I didn’t say was . . . I slept with Rich.”

I wait for jealousy to ratchet through me, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing to be jealous of. I want her, but I’d never want to turn into a regret, and that’s all Rich is. “It happens. Grief can make us impulsive.”

She swallows. “The night I buried my boyfriend, I slept with his best friend. We were drinking, and I started crying. Rich held me, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing.” She buries her face in my chest and draws in a long, deep breath. “It wasn’t about sex. Not for me, at least. We were lonely and grieving and comforting each other. But Rich . . .

“I knew it was a mistake immediately. Hell, I think I knew it was a mistake even while it was happening, but Rich didn’t see it like that. He thought we’d be back together in no time. I was still a new nurse and I’d come home from work, exhausted from the long days and the demands of a new job, and he’d be there, waiting for me.”

She’s quiet for a long beat, and I can almost feel her sorting through the memories—analyzing them from every angle and trying to find the right details, the right words. “It was fine at first. I mean, I felt so bad for sleeping with him—for leading him on like that when I knew he was grieving too. I put up with his presence in my life for a while. And at first, I didn’t mind. I was lonely, but at least with Rich around, I wasn’t alone. Then things changed—they’d been changing, but so slowly I hadn’t even realized what was happening, and by the time I realized it, I was already under his control again. Like in high school. He’d show up to my house and grill me about who I’d seen that day. Who I’d been with. His cousin saw me at lunch with another guy—was I fucking him? He’d show up to the hospital and sweet-talk my coworkers and feed them little bits of my life and struggles. He’d tell them I was drinking more, but he was keeping an eye on me. That I wasn’t sleeping, but he was working on getting me to take the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed.