In the morning when she’d awoken and realized that it hadn’t been a nightmare, that Dean was indeed dead and wasn’t at the clubhouse waiting with a new joke or a tale about one of the boys or just a smile, she’d felt her heart physically snap. It felt like the fabric of reality had been torn and that the rip was in the center of her chest. The rent was still gaping wide enough to suck the whole world in and turn everything inside out. She felt drained and exhausted, like maybe Dean had taken her life force with him when he’d gone. She was nothing but a husk. If not for Paul holding her up, a solid, unwavering tower of strength by her side, she would have fallen. She was still struggling to wrap her head around someone so lively and vital and strong could be alive one moment and dead the next.
In moments like this, when she first opened her eyes in the morning, before sleep had fully left her brain, she let herself believe that he was alive, but the reality that he was gone kept crashing back over her like a bleak, grey wave. Today the wave threatened to drown her; today was the day of her brother’s funeral. Her thirtieth birthday had passed two days before, but she hadn’t celebrated it. She wasn’t sure that her parents had remembered or whether it had just been too much for them to think about. Ether way she hadn’t reminded them. Paul had found out somehow, someone must have told him, but he didn’t make a fuss. He’d presented her with a single red rose, they’d ordered takeout and he’d made love to her so slowly and gently that she’d felt like the only woman on earth.
Paul hadn’t woken yet, but Ashleigh didn’t feel like she could lie in bed any longer. She needed distraction, so she edged out of the bed, being careful not to wake the sleeping giant next to her, and headed for the shower. She ran the water hot and let the spray soak her as it turned her skin pink. She wasn’t entirely sure whether she was officially living at Paul’s house now, but she’d barely been home in two weeks. She’d emptied her fridge and collected most of her clothes. It was probably a conversation that they needed to have, but not today, definitely not today.
Paul was awake when she re-entered the bedroom, but Ashleigh couldn’t find the words in her to speak, even to say ‘Good Morning.’ He seemed to understand and kissed her gently as he passed her on his way into the bathroom. She was stepping into a black shift dress when he came back into the bedroom. Any other morning she would have shown the proper appreciation for the sight of him in nothing but a towel, but this morning she felt like she’d been drugged or that gravity had increased, making it difficult for her to move her limbs. She struggled with the zip on the dress, but then Paul’s hands softly moved hers out of the way and he slid the fastening closed for her. It was a blazingly hot day, thickly humid, making everything even more sluggish.
She dried her hair and tied it sedately at the nape of her neck, only taking care with it for other people’s sake, and applied enough makeup to look presentable. There was no amount of foundation to disguise the hollows in her cheeks or the dark circles under her eyes. Her appetite had fled and although she was sleeping reasonably well she still had the appearance of a confirmed insomniac. She slipped her bare feet into black pumps and went to find Paul in the kitchen, since he’d finished dressing a long time before she had.
A steaming cup of black coffee was waiting for her on the counter. It was the only way she’d been able to drink it in weeks, finding she couldn’t tolerate anything sweet without her stomach turning over. She wrapped her hands around the mug, trying to draw some much needed warmth from it, despite the fight that the air conditioner was having with the humidity.
Paul was at the stove working with a spoon and a frying pan. The smell of cooking eggs penetrated the fog in her head, and Ashleigh had to take a moment to decide whether the smell made her nauseous or ravenous. Paul served up two plates of scrambled eggs and toast onto the small table.
“You need to eat, beauty. It won’t do anyone any good if you pass out during the service.”
He was all quiet concern, not pushing her, just speaking sense. She looked at the plate and decided she was hungry. She pulled a chair out and sat down. She relinquished her coffee mug in favor of cutlery and tucked in. She knew he was glancing at her as he ate his own breakfast, but his scrutiny didn’t unnerve her. He kept it low key. She enjoyed the feeling of being cared for, that someone was concerned about her well-being, and was thankful that he knew how to keep that dialed down to an appropriate level so that she didn’t feel smothered.