A terrible thought snuck into her mind: she realized that she would have to tell his publisher and editor about what had happened. She would have to tell lots of people about it. A rush of nausea flooded her insides and she knew she was going to be sick.
Quinn’s phone bleeped, and he picked it up off the console. “I think it’s the hospital,” he said.
“Oh, God,” Cassidy said.
Quinn answered the call, his face tight. After answering it, he listened for a moment, and then replied with a series of one-word answers: “Okay . . . okay. . . I understand,” and “thank you.” When he hung up, his tortured look ripped her open. “He’s . . . ” Quinn bit his lips, his eyes filing with tears. “He’s passed.”
Cassidy stumbled out of the car just as her stomach turned inside out.
Quinn unlocked his front door and stepped into the spacious apartment. Cassidy’s legs felt so heavy that climbing the stairs drained the last of her strength, and she arrived feeling drained, her head pounding. Inside, Pete’s presence bombarded her at every turn. His running shoes sat by the door, a pair of thin ankle socks tucked under each tongue.
The sparse living room looked neat, nothing out of place. The guest room door stood ajar but she couldn’t make her legs move toward it. Pete’s things would be in there. She started to cry again.
As if in a trance, she followed Quinn into the kitchen. Her gaze swept over the countertop tiled in tiny blue squares and lit by decorative lights hanging from the ceiling in a tidy row of three. Pete’s laptop rested beneath the farthest light, plugged into the wall, an empty rocks glass set beside it.
Quinn finished preparing his stovetop espresso maker and came to her side. “You don’t have to go in there,” he said, catching Cassidy staring at Quinn’s bedroom. “I can go pack up his things if you want.”
“No,” she said, her brain jammed on the phrase: pack up his things. “Can we just leave them for now?” Her words sounded like they were coming from someone else.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be here yet,” he said softly. “Maybe we should . . . I don’t know, walk or something.”
Cassidy buried her head in Quinn’s chest. Would she feel better if she didn’t have to see all of Pete’s things?
Quinn hugged her tight. “Maybe the beach?”
“Maybe,” she said after a moment.
“Do you want coffee?” he asked. “Or something else? Water?”
Cassidy shook her head. She didn’t want to throw up again. Quinn left her side, and she heard the espresso maker’s hiss, the tap of a cup on the countertop.
Like a moth to a flame, she walked toward the guest room, her dread mounting with every step. At the door, she paused to inhale a shaky breath. Then she nudged the door open. Pete’s backpack sat on the floor, leaking out its contents: his white fisherman’s wool sweater, a pair of jeans. Her mind flicked from the certainty of him stepping into the room at any minute to the image of him in the hospital bed. She shook her head vigorously, but her disorientation remained.
In the adjoining closet she spotted his dress shoes on the floor and his pressed khaki trousers, dress shirt, and V-neck sweater hanging above. With tenderness, she remembered his pride at purchasing the new clothes for his meeting. He had so badly wanted to impress the marketing team and show them he wasn’t just some farm kid from the sticks. Cassidy had helped pick out the colors—the blue of the sweater set off his eyes, made them blaze like gems. She imagined him smiling his wide smile during that meeting and saying yes to everything they asked for.
What would happen to his book now? A thought from far away drifted into her mind: It will be published, of course, she realized, though she couldn’t imagine taking the steps to do so. She licked her lips, tasting the salt of her tears, and exhaled a shuddering breath.
She stepped further into the room, Pete’s presence assaulting her from all sides. She touched the made futon bed, the covers cool to her fingertips. Stepping to the closet, she stroked the dress shirt, her eyes filling with tears again. Her fingers gripped the sleeves, and the shirt came loose. Hugging it to her chest, his scent enveloped her. Her brain hammered out why why why why why why why why why. Her knees wobbled and she crumpled to the bed.
Time seemed to pass in a haze. One minute she was crying and the next she was trying to figure out what she would do now that Pete was gone.
When she opened her eyes, the bedside clock numbers blared 1:32 p.m. For just a split second, she experienced a delay in her reality. In that split second, Pete was still alive. Then, the events came rushing back.
“Quinn?” she called out as a wave of pain crashed over her.
He came to the doorway and quickly moved to her side. She dove into his arms as the sobs shook her body. After a long time, she was able to sit back and wipe her eyes.
“Do you remember when Dad died, and we all had to go to that therapist?” Quinn said.
“Sort of,” Cassidy said. “Mostly I remember hating it.”
“I remember you being really quiet,” Quinn replied. “Like you were holding it in.”
“It all seemed so pointless,” she replied, her stuffy nose making her voice dense and flat. “Dad had died and we were supposed to all bond together as a family? How was that going to make it better?”
“It wasn’t Pamela’s fault Dad died,” Quinn said.
Cassidy sighed. “No, but if we’d never moved there . . . ” She caught Quinn’s look from the corner
