Page 44 of Coyote

"I know."

"You're mine."

"I know that, too."

His head snapped toward me.

I didn't look away. "I won't lie to you about him."

Coyote showed me the edge of his teeth. "I don't want your lies."

"I was his husband."

"And now you're mine."

Something in my chest twisted. "He has years of my life. I can't make those years not happen because you want them gone."

"I didn't say I wanted them gone."

"You don't want me loving him."

"No." He came back and planted one hand beside my hip. "I don't want him still taking things from you."

"He's dead, little one."

"I know."

"Then what do you think he's taking?"

Coyote climbed over my legs until he was kneeling between them. "The first few seconds every morning."

My breath stopped.

He put his palm against the center of my chest. "I want those," he said. "I want every second after you open your eyes. I want you reaching for me before you remember to reach for him."

"You can't order grief out of me."

"I'm not." His fingers curled into the hair on my chest. "Love him. Miss him. Reach for him when you're half asleep. But when you wake up, I want your hand on me."

"Coyote."

"I want all of you."

My eyes burned. "I can't give you what belonged to him."

"I don't want what belonged to him." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my lips. "I want what comes after."

Five years of being the one who carried it, and he wanted it out of my hands. My throat closed.

Coyote pressed his palm harder against my chest. "What happened after he died?"

"For a while, nothing."

I had kept the clinic going. Saw patients, filled out charts, trained a younger doctor to take over more of the work. Every night I went home to a house that still held two men's clothes and one man's breathing.

Eventually, I signed the clinic over completely. I thought that would help. It didn't.

"One morning, I went out walking before breakfast," I said. "I reached the end of the road and kept going."