“Okay, Bellamy. What if I told you I wanted to spend tomorrow alone with Rose?”

“Then you would be in error. I will be joining you tomorrow.”

“Fair enough. But what if I told Rose not to come here at all? What if I don’t want her to meet you? What would you say then, huh?”

“I would say our agreement is void. You asked for three days so you could spend time with your children. No children, no three days. Decide now, Blythe.”

His poker face was something to behold, but there was that tension in his voice. An old emotion perhaps, bubbling to the surface.

“I was only asking,” she said. “Of course, I’m going to see them, and you’re welcome to tag along and…observe. So long as that’s all you have in mind.”

“Explain.”

“I’d rather you didn’t rub off on them. You know, the whole death thing.”

“That isn’t remotely what I had in—”

“Just so we know where we stand,” she interrupted. “I’m grateful for the three days, I really am, but I would rather kill myself than to let you interfere with my kids’ futures in any way. They are off-limits. Okay?”

“You’ve made yourself clear, Blythe. Perhaps now we can be civil again.”

“Fine by me. Perhaps now you’ll let me rest for a while. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

He ran a hand through his long hair, as though enjoying the sensation of being inside a human body again, then laced his fingers on the back of his head, and watched her watching him. A million questions that had been flying around in her head suddenly settled and sank like damp leaves on a lake. Through his eyes, she saw herself clearly for the first time in a long time. The sum total of everything she’d done. The things she still had left to do.

Best of all, she had tomorrow.

The rest would take care of itself.

“Will you be here all night, Bellamy, even if I fall asleep?”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t have, you know, other appointments to keep?”

The sun finally disappeared, leaving the room in near-total darkness. He replied, “Do I have to share everything?”

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The slow, deliberate rhythm of Rose’s hiking boots creaking up the stairs to her mom’s floor seemed to echo through the whole apartment building. It was that familiar weary self-consciousness that had followed her around for months now, ever since Mom’s doctor had broken the bad news about her heart. Words like degenerative, incurable, and lucky, all used by Dr. Barkatali, were the toxic headlines from the worst news day of her life. They framed her thoughts completely so that any time she wanted to feel good about spending time with her mom, they bled into her like black ink. Bad news ink; The heavy, poisonous kind that was hard to erase.