I wake first. Connor sleeps soundly, his bottom lip drawn away from his top. His snores are soft, his breath a steady rhythm.

Everything about last night tumbles to the forefront of my mind. How could so much awful and so much amazing fit into one six-hour time period?

Carefully I extract myself from the forearm Connor has laid across my torso and creep out of the room, going straight for the kitchen. I need coffee like nobody’s business.

When the coffee is brewed, I step outside. The sky is already bright, not because we slept in late, but because it’s the peak of summer, and the sun rises at an hour that feels closer to nighttime. I sit down on a chair and close my eyes, listening to the chattering birds. Feel the heat creep over my skin. Smell the bitter scent of strong, black coffee.

I thought I’d be getting ready to leave for Phoenix by now. This afternoon I was supposed to be in the air. I still need to cancel my flight.

What will happen to Eric?

He should be held responsible for what he did. I know that, but I don’t want him to lose more of his life. I can’t say for certain, but I think he had a psychotic break. A disconnect from reality brought on by profound grief. I looked him up after the accident, combing through his social media profiles. He was a normal guy before everything happened. Upper-middle class. Doting father. He probably worked too much, didn’t see his wife slipping away. The disconnection in her didn’t raise a flag in him.

I want him to get what he needs to be better, and that is not a jail cell. How can I make that happen? Setting down my coffee on the floor beside the chair, I go inside to grab my phone.

I find three texts from my mother. Two voicemails. One notification from the yoga person I follow on YouTube.

Settling back down in the chair, I pick up my coffee, fold my legs underneath me, and click on the notification. I need some good before I tell my parents what happened last night. It’s a new video. I press the little arrow on the screen, and see the yoga instructor, Ember.

“Hey, guys.” She smiles and waves from a cross-legged position on a lawn. She looks tired, but her eyes sparkle. “It has been a while since I posted a new flow, and this”—she reaches for something off-screen—“is why. Meet Jonas.” She angles an infant toward the screen. Her husband comes into the frame and settles down behind her. His chin resting on her shoulder, he wraps his arms around hers so that he cradles the baby too.

My lips purse and I try not to cry, but it’s useless. The tears sting. I blink a few times and let them roll. Ember has in her eyes what Amy Prince did not when I saw her that day. Utter devotion. Joy. No fear, or emptiness. Her husband is attentive. It’s obvious even in these few, precious moments she’s sharing with her followers. As Ember talks to the camera, he presses his nose against the space behind her ear and closes his eyes briefly. He is a man in love with his wife, his baby, his life.

Maybe we all are responsible for what happened to Amy. Her husband, for being closest to her, and not seeing her desperation. Me, for not reaching out that day in the bookstore. Her parents? Her friends? Whomever else, for seeing her but not recognizing her illness. Postpartum depression is treatable. When someone is sick like Amy was, they can’t always help themselves. It’s the responsibility of everyone around them to help them, and we all fucking failed her. We all failed her baby. Eric Prince most of all.

I hit pause on the video. It freezes on a moment so beautiful I almost want to take a screenshot. Ember, still sitting on the ground, baby Jonas extended. Her husband crouched beside her, taking the baby. The beautiful part? They are beaming at one another.

It rips me in half.

I was dragged into something that day. Amy Prince and her baby crossed my path. I still don’t know why. The spiral it sent me down hasn’t finished yet. I’m still on it, but I think I’m near the end. I pray that I am.

Before I can step off, before I can figure out a way to help other women like Amy Prince, I need to see Eric.

Connor walks out. He is shirtless, the shorts he pulled on after waking hang low on his hips. He is glorious in the morning light. All male. All mine.

“Do you still love me in the morning?” I shield my eyes with a hand and look up at him.

He grabs my hand and pulls me up. Brushing my hair back from my face, he nuzzles his rough cheek against mine. “I will love you on a plane and on a train, on a boat and in a moat. I will love you anywhere and everywhere between here and there.”

I squeeze his shoulders, running my hands down his arms. My brain searches for a good response, but I come up empty. “I can’t think of a rhyme for there. How about… I love you in the light of day, in every single way?”

I feel his laughter in his chest. “I’ll take it, and I’ll take you. Right now. In my bed.” He reaches down and swats my behind.

I squeal and wriggle in his arms. “I’ll join you in bed, if you’ll join me somewhere else after.”

“Done,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me into the house.

There are two police officers posted outside Eric’s door when we arrive. They stand tall and serious, like sentries.

Before we left Connor’s house I called the police officer who gave me his card last night. He okayed my visit this morning, and said he’d let the men standing watch know to expect me.

Coming to a stop in front of them, I give them my name and they nod at me. One of them reaches for the door and opens it. Pausing, I glance at Connor.

“Do you want me in there with you?” He asks.

I consider it briefly, then shake my head.

“He’s cuffed to the bed, ma’am.”

I’m not sure which officer spoke, but I nod and say thank you in their general direction.

Squeezing Connor’s hand, I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be out soon.” Then I take a deep breath and slip into Eric’s hospital room.

The door falls softly into the jamb behind me. I hover near the entrance, uncertain now that I’m here. He lays in the bed, looking a fraction of the angry man he was last night. His eyes are closed. His hair is still a mess. The bed sheets cover his lower half, so I can’t see what his leg looks like. As gunshot wounds go, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.

There was a terrifying moment when I thought it was Walt who’d been hit. There’d been blood, the two men pressed against eachother, and they fell together. When Eric rolled away, screaming, I saw the hole in his thigh, and the red that poured from it.

He opens his eyes when I take a step. Stares at me. Aside from blinking, he doesn’t move.

Memories of last night come to me. His indignation. His hatred. The feel of a gun pressed to my head. My hands begin to shake, and I look at his handcuffs. I am safe.

I take a few steps inside, grab the chair from the corner, and drag it closer. Sitting down, I cross my legs. Uncross my legs. Fidget, and clasp my hands on my lap.

“Elizabeth,” Eric says.

My head snaps up. I’ve never heard that voice from him. So…normal. He has only ever snarled my name.

“Hello, Eric.”

The inside of my cheek is captured by my teeth. I’m not sure what to say now that I’m here. In his presence, I feel frightened, and though I anticipated the feeling, the reality is different. I gaze out the window while he says nothing. The absence of sound is louder than if a marching band paraded through here.

He finally speaks. “Why are you here?”

My eyes meet his. I’m thinking a hundred things and nothing at all. So many words swirling around, and I need to choose the right ones. Are there any right words?

I take a deep breath, letting it slide from between my lips. Pushing all those words aside, I open my mouth and let my heart speak for me. “You failed Amy. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth, and maybe the truth is what you need to face.”

Over and over, his cheeks tug and fall back into place as emotions dart across his face.

I don’t stop. He’s a captive audience.

“Amy was likely battling postpartum depression, and perhaps you already know that. Perhaps you’ve hidden that truth from yourself so that you don’t have to be responsible for missing it.” I lean forward. “I want to make something very clear to you. Every day, I struggle with what happened. Life is not the same for me. And yes, I was a mostly worthless person before. My job was to help people party. Not very fulfilling. But I didn’t deserve what Amy did to my life that day. Nobody did.”

Tears roll freely. I can’t stop them, and I don’t even bother wiping them.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry from the deepest, rawest, barest part of my soul. You mourn your wife and child every day, but you’re not alone. I mourn them too. I wish they were back with you. I wish you weren’t so hurt. I wish you could handle your grief, because I don’t want to be stalked and threatened. I want you to stop.”

My breath is ragged, making catching it almost impossible. Eric’s eyes pour tears like mine, except he has no way to wipe them.

“I’m not planning on pressing charges.” My voice is shaky as I continue. “I can’t say the same for Walt, the old man you hurt, or the state, but I won’t. All I ask is that you get help. You need grief counseling. Badly. You’re a smart person, Eric. I’m sure you know this psychosis cannot continue.”

He nods, licking tears from his lips. “I want to hold my baby again. I want to hold my wife. I didn’t tell her goodbye the day she died. I left early in the morning to play golf, and she was sleeping. I didn’t know… I didn’t know…,” he sobs, chin tucked to his chest, with no way to help himself, or cover his face.

Tissues are on the counter beside the sink. Plucking a few from the box, I come up alongside his bed and hold out a hand with a tissue gathered in my fingers.

“I would like to help you,” I say tentatively. “Please don’t bite me.”

His eyes hold shock. “You think I would—” He shakes his head. He must be remembering what he did last night. “I won’t bite you.”

I reach out cautiously, the same way I would pet a wild animal. His eyes close as I gently swipe the tissue against them. He reopens them when I’m done, his gaze on me as the tissue moves to his cheeks, then on to his chin and lips.

“Would you like to blow your nose?” It’s not something I particularly want to do, but I don’t think I’d like it if I were restrained and had snot clogging my nose.

“No,” he murmurs, his face coloring. “The nurse can do that.”

I toss the used tissues in the trash and go back to the foot of the bed.

“I’m going to leave now, Eric. Good luck with everything.” I turn, but his voice stops me.

“I’m sorry Amy ruined your life. I’m sorry I made it worse. I can’t forgive you for what happened… Not yet.” His voice catches, a sob on the verge of breaking through. “I don’t even know if there is anything to forgive.”

“You’ll figure that out in counseling, Eric.” I muster a smile, but I’m certain it’s the saddest smile to ever grace my lips.

I leave.

I walk out of Eric’s hospital room and straight into Connor’s arms.

“You all right?” he asks against the side of my head.

I nod. I’ll be okay. Now that I’m no longer running, I can rebuild.

We leave the hospital and climb into Connor’s truck.

“Where to?” he asks me.

“A plane. Maybe a train. I’d like to sail on a boat and swim in a moat. We can go anywhere and everywhere between here and there.”

Grabbing my hand, he kisses it. “You’re free now. Do you want to be Elizabeth or Brynn?”

“Brynn,” I say with confidence. Elizabeth isn’t someone I want to be anymore.

Connor winks. “Brynn suits you.” The trucks roars to life as he puts it in drive and turns around, heading back to his house.

We drive through the town that somehow became my home. Connor has one hand on the steering wheel. The other holds my heart, my soul, and my whole future.