The faded outline on the area rug where her bed used to be steals the smile right off me, forcing a fake one in its place. I close the door behind me and drop onto the chair in the corner.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to sound upbeat.
“Hi, baby.”
My lids drift closed as I tip my head back on the seat.
His voice is soft, like he’s saved the last few moments of his day just for me. It’s two hours ahead in Charlotte. I imagine him there, after a long day of physical therapy for Tess, her first session back since their trip to Colorado. I see him preparing dinner for the two of them, cleaning the kitchen, maybe watching a show together while sipping hot cocoa. And now, after the whole house is shut down for the night, him hidden under his covers in the dark, whispering softly into the phone.
An ache unfurls in my chest. “I love it when you call me that.”
“I know you do.” His voice smiles, and it’s enough to make my lips tip a little.
“How was therapy today?”
His nails scraping over his jaw comes through the line. I bet his full beard has grown back in by now. “Tough, but she did alright, all things considered.”
I shift the call to speaker as I get ready for bed. While I put on my pajamas and brush my teeth, he tells me about the consult next week with one of Tess’ doctors, the surgery on the horizon, and what a therapy recovery schedule might look like before she’d be deemed ready for another surgery,ifher medical team determines she needs one at all.Fingers crossed she won’t.
Months, and then some, at best, over a year at worst when it’s all said and done. It hits me like a gut punch—I’m so bone tired I can barely stand. None of this is new information, we talked about it several times while he was here.
Except, he’s nothereanymore. He’s all the way over there, and I’mhere, and the divide has never felt larger.
“Hannah?”
My lungs pull on a long inhale, and I realize I haven’t said anything in a while. “I’m here, sorry. Just tired.” I dip my gaze to my screen on the bathroom counter.
7:45. The sun is still up. But Mom’s been asleep for hours. And…this is my life right now.
Rowan breathes quietly into the receiver for long seconds. I close my eyes against the near sensation of the soft puff of air along my temple, if only he were here holding me.
I start to cry.
“Hannah.”
“Sorry.” I sniff, switch off speaker mode and put the phone to my ear. “I’m fine, I swear.”
“Baby.” His voice fades on the endearment, a plea. “What’s going on?” I shake my head, irrationally aware he can’t see me. “Is it your mom?”
A sob breaks free. I shut myself inside Mom’s en suite so Richard won’t hear me before sliding down the wall to the bathroom floor.
Rowan murmurs a curse. This is what I’ve tried so hard to avoid—him worried about me when he’s got a full plate back home.
“It’s nothing,” I hiccup. “Nothing I haven’t been preparing for.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means…” I pause to catch my breath, wipe my face with the back of my hand. The words are nearly unbearable to say out loud. “It’s almost the end.”
He heaves a long sigh. I cry into the phone for fifteen minutes, incapable of piecing together a coherent thought. But he stays—listens, lets me grieve in the silence of this bathroom, persuades my emotions to calm with whispered encouragement and promises.
“Sshhh, let it out.”
“You’re strong like her.”
“She’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m here. I’ll always be here.”