Page 202 of Cinder
I almost laugh. Almost. Because the house feels wrong the second I walk inside. It’s as though somebody has shifted all the furniture half an inch overnight.
Colt's boots still sit inside the door, and his jacket hangs off the coat stand. A half-finished crossword rests on the coffee table as we walk into the sitting room, and the sight of it steals the air from my lungs.
Remi notices where I'm looking. “I can't move his stuff yet.”
“You don't have to,” I croak.
She nods slowly. “I know.”
But neither of us really believes that. The silence stretches between us as she leads me into the kitchen, where there’s fresh coffee in the pot.
I watch her carefully pour two cups, and feel the cold tips of her fingers as they brush mine when she hands me one. Neither of us drinks any though, instead we sit across from each other at the dining table.
The same table where Colt probably used to steal food jokingly off his kid's plates, and where Remi had told me he'd laughed so hard one night he nearly choked on garlic bread. His memories are everywhere.
My hands twist together in my lap. “How are you?”
The question sounds stupid the second it leaves my mouth, and I feel like an idiot for asking as Remi lets out a tired huff.
“Pretty shit, honestly.”
A watery laugh escapes my throat. “Yeah.”
“Some days have been okay.” She picks absent-mindedly at a chip in the tabletop. "Some days I forget for five seconds, but…” Her voice catches. “Then I remember again.”
The kitchen goes quiet and I stare at the table, because looking at her hurts. It guts me to my fucking bones, and if this is how I feel I can only imagine the hurt she can’t escape. So I don’t look. I can’t.
Looking at her is the proof Colt is gone.That the people I love get hurt. Proof that maybe I should’ve left Maplewood the second I arrived.
The thought lands hard enough that the words escape before I can stop them.
“I shouldn’t have gone after her.”
Remi's head lifts. “What?”
“That night.” The shame tastes bitter. “If I'd not gone to find Stacey—”
“Penny.”
I shake my head and force myself to keep going. “If I hadn't been at the tower—”
“Don’t.”
My voice trembles. “You lost your husband.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“I’m so sorry, Rem—”
“I lost my husband.” The words come out rougher as she repeats them, and her gaze drops briefly to the table. “And I’d give anything to have him back.”
The grief in her voice is so raw it makes my chest ache, then she looks at me again.
“But stop doing this.”
I stare at her. “Doing what?”
“Making yourself responsible for everything. You’re not some evil villain.”
