Page 73 of Unbroken
Footsteps, a rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, kneeling next to me like he was always going to end up here, beside me, holding space for memories and ghosts and pain.
I don’t want to look up… I don’t want to see his face right now. Not when I’m like this, weak. Caught, like I was trespassing when visiting my own sister’s grave.
But the second I put weight on my ankle, pain lances through it like a blade. I lose my footing and stumble toward the ground again when his steady hand catches my elbow.
“I tripped. On the stupid tree root,” I whisper, ashamed and hurting, words tumbling from my lips. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Did you follow me?” Even though his tone is curious and not accusatory, I feel the need to defend myself.
“No!”
I shake my head so hard it makes me dizzy. “No, I just— I just came to see my sister. I wanted to… talk to her.”
It’s funny how different things trigger grief. A smell, a memory, the realization that she won’t pick up when you dial her number.
Knowing you’re in pain and you don’t have your big sister to make it better like you used to.
My voice wobbles. I try to hold back, try to hold on, but I can’t.
I break. I shatter. The tears come fast, unrelenting, as I buckle under the weight of everything I’m not saying out loud.
I can’t talk to her. I can’t see her. Neither can he. The tears fall with no warning. Fast. Hot. Angry.
I hate this.
Ihatethat she’s gone.
Ihatethat I feel so bereft and alone, like I’m flailing in a world of unknowns, and my only anchor has vanished.
And I hate that the only solid, real thing in a world of uncertainty is…him.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, clutching my side. “I just needed to talk to her.”
At first, he doesn’t reach for me. His breath is steady as I shudder, sobbing. But I can feel his restraint, the way it’s coiled like a leash pulled taut.
He’s near me, his eyes searching mine, his hand hovering as if ready to catch me if I stumble. His voice is warm andcompassionate, making my tears fall harder. I’m gulping for air, swiping at my eyes, when he leans in and cups my face.
“And what would you tell her, baby? What do you need to talk about that was so urgent you came here? Tell me.”
I sniff and swallow, unable to look away. “You know exactly what I need to tell her.”
His eyes search mine, hopeful and pained. “I want to hear you say it.”
I blow out a breath. My voice wobbles. “I want to tell her that I’m falling in love with her husband. And I’m terrified he doesn’t feel the same way I do. I want to tell her that I’m sorry, that I?—”
And then his mouth is on mine—urgent, desperate. And we’re both crying, tears mixing with the kiss, his hands tangled in my hair. “I know,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice cracked open like mine. “I know, baby.”
No one’s ever called me that before him, and I love it. I love it so much.
The kiss is brief, healing, as we both pull away and meet each other’s eyes.
“You don’t have to explain anything, Ruthie,” he whispers.
I’ll never forget seeing him so strong, so powerful, brought to his knees by grief. It’s beautiful in the most devastating way. I reach up to wipe his tears, and he brushes my hair gently from my face. “Let me see your ankle,” he says softly.
It’s something tangible. Something real. He bends down, careful, his touch gentle as he cradles my ankle in his hands. I wince—god, it hurts like a motherfucker.
“Bruised. Sprained at least,” he mutters, examining it closely. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you definitely pulled something. You won’t be able to walk on this.”
