Weeks pass slowly when you’re sad. They don’t ebb and flow like a passing tide. Rather, they are like quicksand, and the harder you attempt to pull away, the more stuck you become.

It’s been one month since my trip with Preston and I’ve sworn to Sydney I’ll get out of my funk, but really I’m learning to fake it better. By Friday after work I can no longer pretend to smile. I have nothing left in me.

I throw myself into work and organizing Richard’s estate. Today I’ve decide to take up the task of cleaning out his closet.

Walking into Richard’s apartment wakes up all sorts of feelings. Sadness is laced with smiles. There were some great times here. There were also some not so great times, but the good outweigh the bad. I’m overcome with emotion. I blink away moisture, and the room comes into focus. It’s just like the last time. Except it’s different now . . . empty. A picture on the console table pops out at me. It’s the same picture I have in my apartment, the one from my graduation. Instantly a smile forms.

Right after Richard died, I had the apartment professionally cleaned. Since the windows haven’t been opened in weeks the air is stale; bleach still wafts through the air.

All the furniture has been sold through an estate sale, and all that remains to be done is to go through Richard’s personal belongings. With a deep inhale I set off for the master bedroom. Suits still hang in the closet. Shoes are still displayed along the wall. Goodwill. Or maybe a charity that helps men get back on their feet. I’ve heard of a few that train and dress the unemployed for interviews. Richard would like that. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Grabbing my phone, I make a note to look into companies that provide that service, then I set off to do my task.

There’s a step stool in the back of the walk-in closet that Richard obviously used to store boxes on the top shelf. For twenty minutes, I rummage. There are bills and receipts in one box. The next box has old pictures. They make me smile as I take a few out and remember the better times. Every muscle starts to ache after two hours of sorting, and by the time I’m ready to give up for the day, I see one more box in the back corner. In order to grab it I have to climb to the highest step of the ladder and lean my whole body up and onto the shelf. My fingers are barely able to reach it, but as I stretch one more inch, I secure it in my hand.

It’s marked “Miscellaneous.” As I pull the box down and almost have it safely on the floor, it slips and it crashes, turning over on its side.

Papers spread against the hardwood floors.

Just my luck, now I have to go through everything. I hop down to clean up the floor. The first thing that becomes apparent is that some of these papers are actual legal documents. Some are contracts. There’s an operator’s agreement between my mom and Richard. LLC paperwork. Banking information. With a huff I pull the lid fully off and decide to see what else he has in here. There’s a picture of Richard and myself. A few small envelopes, nothing that seems too important. A book. I pick up the book and notice it’s a Jane Austen. It looks to match my mom’s old collection—the ones that sat in our library growing up. When I lift it to get a better look, a piece of paper falls out. I reach out and turn it over.

My heart stops.

An arctic chill runs up my spine.

Every last bit of oxygen leaves my body.

I’m stuck. My feet heavy like cement.

What the hell is this?

I see crimson.

I crumble to the ground.

I’m desperately gasping for air.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t stop the memories that flow into my brain.

All at once consuming me with pain.

There was blood on my hands.

Get it off! Get it off!

A rush of broken visions flashes in my mind. Take shape and tell me a story.

My heart races in my ears and I can no longer hear anything.

The vision of me is so clear, and I bite back a sob.

I was small.

So small.

An innocent child.

I sat on the floor, my doll in hand and I gently brushed her hair. In the distance I heard a sound. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was loud, like the fireworks we saw on the Fourth of July. It made my ears hurt and the walls shake. I hugged my doll to me tightly. Where was Mommy? Maybe she knew where the loud bang came from. The sound was scary.

“Mommy?” She didn’t answer. My feet pressed against the cold wood floor as I peered out of the playroom. “Mommy?” Where did she go?

Maybe Daddy knew. A smile grew on my face and the fear I felt left my body. He always knew everything. Mommy always said he’d protect us from harm. The house was silent as I padded down the hallway toward the library. He often sat in there for hours.

“Daddy?” My little hands pounded on the door, but he wouldn’t answer.

Turning the knob, I peeked my head inside. “Daddy, are you in there? I can’t find Mommy,” I said as I flung the door open. “Daddy.” I couldn’t see him. Where was he? The room smelled funny, like he had blown out a candle. What was that smell? I walked in farther and from where I stood I could finally see him.

“What are you doing there?” I walked to where I saw my dad.

“What are you looking for on the floor? Did you drop something?”

He was turned to face under the desk. “Daddy?”

My foot slipped out from under me and I fell and hit the floor. My hands hit the wood first, then my stomach.

“Ouch!” I yelped as I brought my hand forward to lift myself back off the floor.

I slipped on something warm.

It was thick against my fingers.

It was all over my dress.

My hands were red.

Why were my hands red?

Everything was red.

Looking around me, I noticed I was sitting in a pool of red liquid. Red spread over the surface of my skin. Was this blood?

Why was I bleeding? I shook my head. My heart rate sped up.

I wasn’t bleeding.

It wasn’t blood.

It was . . .

“Daddy!” I could barely call out to him.

The blood was flowing from the back of his head.

I tapped at his shoulder and fear spread throughout my body when he didn’t answer. “Why aren’t you answering me, Daddy. Daddy!” I shook him with all my might, and his head flopped forward. His open eyes stared at me. But he still didn’t answer. “Please, Daddy. Answer me.”

Why wouldn’t he answer?

“No!” I manage to scream. I press my palms against my eyes to force the memory out of my mind. “No. No. No. No.” I rock in place.

A knot is lodged in my throat but I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

My father.

Dead.

I found him.

It was a suicide.

The blood.

I run my hands down my shirt as I wipe away the memory, but there’s no point.

The visions tear at my soul. I’m holding my father’s note. His last words. It grows heavy in my hand.

The note that brings it all back. That makes me remember.

A suicide note.

With a shaky hand, I force myself to read his last words.

I’m so sorry, Laura. My intentions were never to harm you. I don’t want to bring you pain. I don’t want you to be ashamed of what I’ve done. Sometimes I think this will pass. That I will get through this, and you’ll look at me like the husband you were once proud of. But now I know I have failed you too many times. I have failed our family. This is the only way out, the only way I can stop the pain I’m causing you. You were right. Everything you said was right. I failed you. I failed Eve. For that I’m truly and forever sorry. I hope you find the happiness you seek. This is the only way. I can’t stand the disappointment I see in your eyes.

Please don’t be sad, for I’m not worthy of your tears.

Please forgive me, and what I’ve done to us.

This is the only way. I know how to make it all better now.

Tell Eve that Daddy will always protect her. Tell her I love her.

My hand shakes. A sob breaks lose. Everything trembles. My body collapses forward. Every tiny shred of remaining strength breaks. What is this? What the hell is this? I have no idea what’s going on. No clue, but I can’t move. I can’t think. The world is shutting down. The walls are closing in. It feels as if I’m drowning. Ice-cold liquid fills my veins as I realize my entire life is a lie. Everything I know is wrong. Nothing makes sense.

Time stops. Everything ceases to be. Lying on the floor, I think of nothing but the betrayal. As the seconds turn to minutes and then hours, I realize I haven’t moved from my spot on the floor.

Nothing will ever make sense again, but in truth, it all makes sense. Every vague answer. Every sidestep. All to avoid this. But she won’t avoid it any longer. I need to know everything and she will tell me. I have that right. I deserve to know.

My anger fuels my body. I make my way out of Richard’s apartment and storm into hers. The hallway is quiet. No doubt she is curled up in her bed, hiding from the world. How nice it must be to hide from everything in your life.

“Mom?” She doesn’t answer, and I step farther into the room. “Mom. I’m talking to you.”

“I’m not well. Can we speak after my nap?”

“No. You will speak to me now!” With that her head rises from her pillow.

“What is this about?” She seems more alert than normal, but when I lift the paper into her line of vision she flinches, and the look in her eye fades as she shrinks back into herself.

“I’m dizzy. Can we talk about this later?”

“No, Mom. I deserve answers. How could you not tell me? How could you keep this from me? How could Richard?”

“I had to. We had to.” Her voice is so sad. She’s broken.

“I–I don’t understand.”

“I don’t even know where to start. I’m not sure I have the energy to tell it.”

“Please, Mom,” I plead and she finally relents.

“You were so young. We lived a good life. Your-your father was a good man. It was my fault. Everything is my fault.” She starts to sob uncontrollably. I don’t know how to help her. Her tears break out like a river. Never stopping. Always flowing.

“I don’t understand.”

“I said things. Bad things,” she whispers.

“Mom, please. I think you owe it to me to tell me the full story. What happened? And no more saying you’re sick. No more hiding. No more lying.”

“I told him he was a loser. That he wasn’t good enough for us. That if he couldn’t . . . he couldn’t provide for us we were better off without him.”

“But how is that your fault?” She looks down.

“What else did you say, Mom?”

“I-I . . . Don’t make me say it.”

“Please.”

“I told him we’d be better off if he was dead. I didn’t mean it. Oh, God. Oh, God. It’s entirely my fault. Everything is my fault.” I crawl into bed with her. Hold her in my arms. Tears seep through my blouse. They’re coming from my own eyes. I cry and I cry until I have no tears left to shed. When they finally dry, I turn to her.

“But why? Why did you lie to me?”

“I can’t.”

“You have to, Mom. For the first time since Dad died, put me first. I need to know everything. Tell me everything.”

I wait for her to wipe her own tears and then she looks at me. There is so much sadness. So much remorse. “When we found you—”

“We?”

“Yes, Richard came over to discuss finances with your father. You see, we were bankrupt. Your father was always a dreamer. One scheme after the other, each one riskier than the last. The bigger the risk—”

“The bigger the reward.” I nod.

“I had no idea we were financially destroyed until I overheard him begging Richard to come over and help him. I stormed into the room after he hung up the phone and he came clean. We had lost everything. When I found out, I flew off the handle, screaming and yelling at him.

The last investment was a property in South America. The developer was supposed to build a hotel. He was assured it was a sure thing. When he first told me about his new project, I begged him not to do it, but the return on the investment was supposed to be incredible. He couldn’t say no.

I’m so ashamed of myself. It’s my fault he did it. I didn’t hear the gunshot. I left you in the house with him. I needed air. I threatened to leave him, to take you. I-I . . .” She starts to tremble. “I didn’t . . . ”

“Please, Mom,” I plead to hear the rest. To know about those fateful minutes before my dad took his own life.

“When I pulled into the driveway, Richard was outside knocking. No one was home, he said. But I knew that wasn’t true. I left you with your dad. He was out of his mind when I left but I didn’t think. I didn’t. You were in your room watching a TV show, playing with a doll. I thought you’d be okay. I thought he would be okay. Oh, God . . . He could have hurt you. What kind of a mother leaves her child?” She swipes at her tears again.

“When Richard said that, I knew something was wrong. The TV was still playing when we walked through the house, but you weren’t there. We found you, and you were covered in blood, lying on him. I don’t know how long you were like that. B-but you wouldn’t speak. You wouldn’t cry. You were catatonic.”

“But why, if I found him, why did you tell me it was an accident? What are you leaving out? What are you not telling me?”

“When we found you that way, we weren’t thinking straight, or at least I wasn’t. Richard brought us to my room. He took care of us. Th-then he called the cops. He didn’t tell me he took the note until much later. He knew we were in financial ruin, and with your father’s life insurance policy—although there was a stipulation allowing payout—he didn’t want to risk it. So, he took the note, and he said it was an accident. When you finally came out of your trance and started to speak again, it was as if you forgot. So we never told you.”

“But there was no accident.”

“No.”

“And Dad killed himself.”

“Because of me,” she says through sobs. I’m numb. I stand and walk toward the door. “You’re leaving me?”

The walls are closing in. I have to leave. I can’t stay here. I need to get out. Get far from this hell I’ve been thrust in. I know I will break, but not in front of her.

“But I need you—” she cries out. I’m already out the door.

It’s too much.

My heart crashes in my chest.

Too much information.

It’s as if my heart has been ripped out.

Too many lies.

I’m not okay.

My shoulders constrict. All my muscles have become corded. I place my hand on my shoulder blades and massage.

Needles tingle down my arm.

I move about uncomfortably. 

The panic is starting. Spreading through my veins like a poisonous venom suffocating me.

It’s all in your head.

It’s all in your head.

You can control your own fear.

Own it.

Inhale.

Exhale.

In. Out.

In. Out. 

My chest is still pounding.

The truth has broken me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been walking or how far my feet have carried me. I fall to the ground. The tears come heavier now. My broken soul bleeds out all over the streets of New York. I sob for everything I thought I knew. I sob for my dad, who felt so desperate that he had no other choice. I sob for the pain and guilt my mother carried inside her, and I cry for a decision Richard shouldn’t have had to make.

From a haze, I lift my phone and reach out for help. For someone to help me. My fingers do the dialing. It rings and rings, but no one answers, and all I can do is sob harder. But then I hear a voice coming through the earpiece.

“Eve?”

But the sobs don’t stop. They only increase in tempo at the sound of the voice on the other side of the phone. “Shh. Please don’t cry. Are you hurt?” Still no words come out, only endless whimpers. “Please.” He pauses a beat. His breathing pulls me out of my haze. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know where I am,” I finally say. My voice is raspy from the strain.

“Are you home?”

“No.”

“Are you out?”

“Street.”

“Okay, you’re doing really well. Tell me the street. What street are you on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you look up? Can you see anything?”

“Thirty Seventh.”

“Okay, do you know the avenue?”

“Lexington. I have to go.”

“Please, stay on the—” Without another word, I drop the call. I break. I fear I will pass out from the racing of my heart. Slumping down on the stoop of the apartment building, I let it all out.

It hammers to the point of pain as my small hand touches the ice-cold pavement.

A light sheen of sweat collects down my back. In the distance, through my fog, I hear my name.

There he is. His gaze sears mine.

“What are you doing here?” I mutter out, drained and hollow.

“I needed to make sure you’re okay.”

“So you found me?”

“Of course, I found you.”

“Are you here as my doctor or as my friend?”

“What do you need me to be?”

“Everything. I need you to be everything.”

“Then that’s what I’ll be.” My shoulders shake on a sob. “I’ll be anything you need.”

“Please hold me,” I plead. He nods and sits down on the stoop beside me. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never.” He pulls me closer into his embrace. Cradles me. My body wracks with another wave of sobs. They won’t stop. They just keep coming.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

“I-I can’t. It’s too much.” He tilts my chin up, locking our eyes together.

“Please.”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“What wasn’t an accident? I don’t understand.”

“My dad . . . Not an accident.” With that, I slump forward, laying my head against his legs. He traces soft circles on my back. They comfort. They soothe.

“Breathe. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two three.” The air once restricted, flows back. He must feel it as he waits, trailing circles until I calm. “What do you mean it wasn’t an accident?”

“I-I found a letter. He did it.”

“Did what? What did he do?”

“He took his own life,” I say. “He lost everything and took his own life. He left us on purpose. He left me on purpose,” I cry. “Why am I never enough?” 

Preston holds me. He holds my trembling body against his until I can’t cry anymore. Until no sobs leave my body. Until I’m numb.

“Please don’t abandon me,” I whisper.

“Shh. Shh. I have you.”

“Please don’t leave me,” I cry out again. This time I raise my head to meet his stare. I have said so much more than words can say, but he understands every word.

“Never.” He stands and lifts me to my feet, taking on my weight.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.” With slow, steady steps, Preston guides me down Lexington until we get to Thirty-Fifth. I expect him to keep going, but instead he turns down the block and up to his brownstone where he fishes for his keys.

“I thought . . .”

“I didn’t want to leave you. I needed to make sure you were okay. So I brought you to my place.”

“Thank you, Preston.”

Together we walk into his apartment. He takes my coat and hangs it by the front door, then leads me to the living room.

“Tell me what happened?”

“It’s so hard to say. To understand.” He nods and takes my hand in his, squeezing with reassurance.

“I was at Richard’s apartment, cleaning out his closet and I found a box. Inside were all types of personal belongings. The papers from my mother’s investment, the deed to the apartment that the company bought for us in the building. Then there was a book. A Jane Austen book. When I grabbed it, a letter fell out.” All the words dry up. They feel like chalk.

In, out. In, out.

“I got you.”

“He said he was sorry. He said my mom was right about him.” I take gulps of air. “Mom t-told him we were better off without him. He had lost everything, and she told him that.” He nods in understanding. “How could she say that? How could she tell him we were better off with him dead? It’s her fault.”

“I know you’re angry right now. And it’s understandable for you to blame your mother. But your father was obviously going through something very emotional and not thinking rationally. He felt he had no other way out besides taking his own life. As much as you want to blame your mother, you can’t. From what you’ve told me about her, it’s obvious she blames herself enough. You need to forgive her.”

“And him? How do I forgive him? How do I forgive the fact he didn’t love me enough to stay?”

“You have to know it in your heart, that he truly felt he had no other option. He was in pain. Forgive him and love him despite his actions.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. And you will. You’re an amazing person, and if anyone can forgive, it’s you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I believe in you.”

And again he says the words. The words I’m so desperate to hear. The words that I need to hear.

“It will be the salve for your heartbreak. Forgive her. Forgive him.”

“You speak as if you know.”

“I do.” I quirk my eyebrow up at him.

“No, this is about your loss. I don’t want to make it about mine.”

“Or you just don’t trust me with that part of yourself.”

“I do.” He lets out an exhale. “I told you when I was in college I had a girlfriend. We’d dated since high school. She was amazing, but there was another side to her, as well. I know she suffered from bipolar disorder now, but at the time, well, obviously I didn’t know. She was reckless and fun, but when she was off, it was bad . . .” His voice trails off. “She committed suicide our sophomore year.”

“I’m so sorry. Is that why?”

“Is that why I became a psychologist? Yes. I never saw the signs. If I only knew, I could have helped her get through her nightmares.” My eyes grow wide at his choice of words. My heart beats frantically in my chest.

“Nightmares?” I whisper to myself, looking up at him, letting the piece of the puzzle fit together.

“Oh, my God. All this time you’ve been so scared that what I had was transference, were you with me because . . . Am I a replacement? Am I some way for you to right your wrongs?”

Preston’s self-restraint snaps. He leans forward and cups my face, and before I know what’s happening, I find myself kissed with abandon.

When we pull apart, his ragged breath tickles my lips.

“How can you doubt me? How can you imagine this is anything other than what it is?”

“And what is it? What is it you feel for me?”

“Everything. I feel everything for you. You’re all I think about. You’re all I dream of. Every second I’m not with you is a second too long. Don’t you think this is killing me? Don’t you think I’m hurting, too?” And with that, our mouths collide and my lips part again.

Tasting each other’s mouths, savoring each swipe of the tongue.

The feel of his thumb running alone the curve of my jaw makes me open fully to him.

He takes me in an all-consuming kiss.

Strong arms pull me closer. They surround me, engulf me. They pin me to him.

His touch is electrifying.

Every inch of my skin burns to feel more. To experience more of this heady sensation.

Preston eases back until our eyes lock.

The feel of his breath tickles my lips.

Our breathing mingles.

Our mouths barely touch as we inhale each other.

Steam puffs between us.

I curl my arms around his neck as he lifts me into his arms and pads his way to the bedroom.

Once in the room, he eases me onto the bed and lays another deep kiss before lifting off me. His icy blue eyes study me.

He’s silent as he removes his clothes . . . and then removes mine.

My body shakes and trembles from the emotion swirling around us.

This is more than sex.

This is more than comfort.

He might not say it, but I see it in his eyes. This is two people falling in love.

When he gets back on top of me, he presses tiny kisses to my neck, trailing them down to the hollow of my chest. His warm hands feel me.

My body arches into his touch. To the feel of his fingers caressing each nipple. To the feel of him stroking them into hard peaks. The tip of his tongue circles them. One, then the other. He licks with careful precision until I’m writhing with pleasure.

I need more. So much more.

“Please,” I beg and he answers my pleas by crawling up my body.

A ragged gasp echoes through the room. His fingers are the catalyst for my frantic desire. His hand slips between us, aligning himself with my core.

Urgency fills my blood. The need to feel him inside me is all I can think of.

Greedily, I grab at his hard length, teasing my sensitive skin.

He pushes forward, and when he enters me, he takes my breath away.

My head falls back on the pillow, and my lids flutter shut as he takes me over and over again.

With each push and pull, I lose myself more to the feeling.

“Open your eyes. I want to see you. I want to see all of you.”

As they flutter open again, I get lost in a sea of blue. The entire world drifts away.

Through gasps and shudders, the connection is broken. Through trembles and sobs we hold each other. My body clamps around him.

His hands dig deeper into my flesh as his whole body jerks inside me.

Preston leans in and kisses the soft hollow of my neck, soft lips, tantalizing tongue. 

“I keep doing this, and I feel like I’m taking advantage of you. I want you, I want you more than you will ever know, but this was supposed to be about more than my pleasure. This was supposed to be about me helping you.”

“You did. By being here. By opening up. By telling me your story. Every part of you that you gave me, helped me.” He looks away from me. “What is it, Preston?” He won’t look at me. “Just tell me.”

“Eve.”

“No, you don’t get to Eve me. Not after that. You know it meant something. You know it meant more. Can you see that?”

“We still can’t be together. I’m your doctor.”

“You’re not my doctor anymore.”

“Semantics.”

“How can you say that after everything? What we have, it means more than that. How can you push me away now? Are you scared? Is that it? Scared of what I could become? That I could be like her? Because of my father.”

“I am scared. But not of that. I’m scared of everything else, all that we have done, and everything you’ve learned, it would be all for nothing if I do this. If we continue down this path. Even though you’re no longer my patient, that doesn’t mean I won’t get in trouble if we’re found out. I could still lose my license to practice. I wouldn’t be able to volunteer at the hospital anymore. I wouldn’t be able to help people. And to be honest after, what we just found out about your father, this is even a stronger case for transference. Between losing Richard and now the repressed memory surfacing of your father, you could be unknowingly projecting your feelings of abandonment to me. You could be looking for an older figure to protect you and until you, know you’re not, that it’s not transference you’re feeling, we can’t.”

“Please don’t let me go. You’re all I have.”

“But that’s the problem. I can’t be your crutch. You need to learn to hold yourself up.” His words hang in the air. They steal the oxygen like a poisonous gas, slowly killing pieces of me.

“So, now what?” I say, still lying in his arms. Our hearts still beat in tandem.

“We go back to the way it was before.”

“And how was that?

“Me wishing every day that I could rewrite history, and that I never walked into the hospital for work that day.”

I have wishes too, but mine I won’t speak . . . Say I’m enough. Sacrifice for me. Fight for me. Wait for me.