Every bone in my body aches. Every muscle yells for me to go back to bed. My head throbs and my chest burns, and fighting with Ethan over baseball, of all things, isn’t what I want to do today.

But, then again, I don’t want to do anything.

All I want to do is erase the last twenty-four hours of my life. I want to climb back into bed and close my eyes and pretend that Charlotte isn’t sick and that Kirk won’t lose the love of his life. That my—our—home, Bloomfield, might not be in jeopardy.

I want to pretend that Cole thinks enough of me to stay and that he’ll be back through the door in a few minutes. And tonight, when I go to sleep, Cole will be beside me. Loving me.

I want to feel safe, like I did with him. I desperately need his smile to get me through this shit at work. I wish for the hope that he brought me, the light he shone on my life—the way things felt possible. Like there was something to look forward to.

Like there was something in this life just for me.

My eyes fill with tears as I look at Ethan, and I feel my heart break again for him. I want so badly to give him more, to be more for him, to attempt to fix all the things I’ve fucked up. But I can’t, and whenever I try, things get worse.

Cole wasn’t supposed to make them worse.

I stand straight and take a breath. The show must go on.

“You aren’t sick,” I say, my voice clearer than before.

“So?”

“Ethan . . .” I sigh. “Please turn off your game and look at me.”

I think he’s going to argue. For a moment, I think he’s going to pitch a preteen fit and tell me no. But he doesn’t.

He hits a few buttons on his remote, and then the screen goes dark. Slowly, he spins his chair around and faces me.

“What?” he asks.

We look at each other. How deep does our sorrow go? I know mine is bottomless—I’m certain that I’ll never have someone in my life like Cole again because I’m certain he’s a one-of-a-kind man—but I hope Ethan’s isn’t. He’s resilient. Kids bounce back. But when I peer into his little green eyes, I see a grief that I know far too well.

What kills me is how easily he’s accepted being let down. It’s like he expected Cole to leave.

That’s not what I want for you, sweet boy. You deserve so much more than this.

“This sucks,” I say, the words wobbling. “I know it sucks and I’m sorry. But we’re gonna be okay.”

“I know we are. We’re always okay.”