Draw the Line

chapter forty-two

I'm up before I can figure out what to do with the sodden book in my hands, but it's too late to decide if I should hide it from her because the second I step further into the living room, I spot her. Standing at the entry of the hall in an oversized sweater, mismatched socks, tear-stained cheeks, puffy eyes, and an expression I've never seen on her — grief.

"Jos, what's going on?" She hasn't caught sight of the sketchbook yet, so I discreetly slide it behind my back and into the waistband of my jeans as I step toward her.

She tilts her head up to meet my eyes, blinking away the sapphire tears clinging to her lashes. She looks — dazed, half-awake — and I have a sinking feeling she cried herself to sleep at some point today and I just woke her up.

Footsteps echo from behind her as Blondie slips out of Josie's room, her eyes and cheeks just as flushed and swollen. She looks like she just woke up too, and it doesn't take much to figure out they fell asleep crying together. Blondie's dog is clutched to her chest, the purple toy squeaking away while her little tail goes fucking crazy. Wincing at the sound, Blondie steals the toy, pressing a kiss to the dog's face in apology as she walks toward us.

"I'll start dinner, Jo." She doesn't look at me as she presses a kiss to Josie's cheek and slips away into the living room.

That's — a problem for later.

Right now, my attention is fixed on Josie. She's crying a steady stream of silent tears. I want to take another step toward her, but I also don't want to make this worse. I'm waiting for a sign — for anything that might indicate how she needs me to help her.

"Jos —"

She swipes away the tears dripping from her jaw with the back of her hand, finally meeting my eyes. Her small shoulders lift and drop helplessly as she heaves in a broken breath and tries to smile. She puts up a fair fight, I can see it in her eyes, the determination to not let it fall, but it's shaky at best and cracks quickly, evolving into the most heartbreaking expression of undiluted grief I've ever seen.

It's a knee-jerk reaction — an instinct deeply ingrained.

Three steps and I have her in my arms, her legs wrapped around my waist, and her face seeking refuge against my throat. The second her arms loop around my shoulders, clinging to the collar of my hoodie with shaking fists, she breaks. Sobs — deep, guttural, aching sobs rock through her.

All I can do is tighten my hold on her, pulling her closer.

Closer, but not close enough.

Not close enough to ease the pain radiating from her in waves.

I walk us through the hall to her bedroom, nudge the door closed with my shoe, and sit on the edge of her mattress.

"Jos —" I slide my hand up her sweater, resting it against the back of her ribs. She's shaking, body heaving with each clipped sob, but she's not breathing. Not enough. "Breathe, baby. Please."

I pull her closer, as close as I physically can, and mold her chest to mine as I take deep, steady, exaggerated breaths — a rhythm for her to follow.

It takes a while, but when her back rises with her first deep breath, the anxiety in my chest eases.

"Good girl, keep breathing," I murmur against the shell of her ear.

She shudders, hot gasps of breath fanning against my throat. Her tears slide down my neck, soaking the t-shirt beneath my hoodie. I keep my hand on her back, rubbing slow circles to mimic the rhythm of the breathing I'm trying to lead her toward. After the strongest waves of grief pass, she loosens her grip on me, nuzzling her nose against my throat, and focuses on matching my breathing. Slow and steady. Deep breaths that I can measure with my hand on her back with the rise and fall of her body.