She stiffened but couldn’t push him away. Her veins were filled with cement.
Gran was dead. Gran was gone forever. Gran was never coming back.
Quinn’s own mother had abandoned her, betrayed her, failed to love her—but Gran never had. Not for one second.
Gran had been tough and stern, not given to bouts of affection or sentimentality, but Quinn had never doubted that Gran loved her. Never, not once.
And how many times had Quinn told Gran how much she meant to her? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember. That seemed like the worst kind of failure.
Milo took her hand and held it. Small fingers clutched her own. “I miss her. I miss her laugh. I miss her cornbread and how she always gave me extra drizzles of honey. I miss that she taught me things way more interesting than school. Or how she saved all her peanut butter just for me.”
Quinn sucked in a sharp breath. Her chest tightened, and it was hard to breathe. Her eyes hot and stinging. “Me, too.”
“What else do you miss?”
“Lots of things. Everything. Her sarcasm. How she loved those damn cats. How she’d lecture you like she was mad, but you knew she really wasn’t, and she’d probably make you cookies later. How everyone was a little scared of her, even Liam. She was always there, no matter what.”
The pain was a boulder on her chest, threatening to crush her. A tsunami to drown her. A black hole to suck her into nothingness.
“Mom says the people you love who die still live in your heart,” Milo said in a soft voice. “You remember them with other people, to talk about them. That’s what keeps them with you. How they laughed and what they smelled like. How they made you feel. That’s how I remember Dad.”
“That’s…that’s a great idea, Small Fry.”
“You should try it. It helps me. Probably it’ll help you, too.”
“Maybe.”
“Mom says it’s okay to cry. That crying helps to get some of the sadness out so it doesn’t stick inside.”
“What happens if it sticks inside?”
“Your internal organs get all moldy and gross, of course.”
“Of course,” Quinn echoed.
“And some feelings are too big for one person. So you gotta share those, too. That way it’s not so big, when you’re both holding it.”
“You’ve got a pretty smart mom.”
“I know.”
Odin and Thor pushed the bedroom door open with their noses and wandered into the room, looking lost and forlorn. Milo patted the mattress, and both cats leapt onto the bed and curled into furry balls at his feet.
A minute later, Loki and Hel followed suit. They sauntered up to Ghost and nested themselves in his white fur. Gentle purring filled the room.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah, Small Fry?”
“Can we stay here for a while? Like we used to?”
They used to lay like this in the days and nights after the massacre, when the nightmares invaded and all they had was each other. How they’d clung to each other, then.
Milo had needed her so desperately. The truth was, she’d needed him.
He’d brought her back to herself. She’d forgotten that. Forgotten how love was a two-way street and people couldn’t help you if you didn’t let them in, if you didn’t let them come into your messy ugly places and love you back to life.
She’d forgotten. Milo reminded her.
The tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. The trickle became a stream which turned into a waterfall, and then she was weeping, sobbing, shuddering with grief.
Milo wrapped his thin arms around her and held her tight. “It’s okay, Quinn. I’m holding onto it now, too. It’s okay.”
This hole in her heart was too big for her, but together, together they shared it. And somewhere deep inside, she understood that it was enough. It would be enough.
This time, she didn’t run from it. She felt it all, let the pain roll through her in waves.
She wept and Milo held her, and after a while, the waves of sadness relented, rolled back a little. Her tears dried, the great hiccupping sobs subsiding.
She felt the jagged and broken pieces of herself slowly, slowly fitting themselves back together.
Not today, not tomorrow, but they would.
She rubbed the wetness from her eyes and stared blearily at the painted monsters decorating her walls. Every square inch of wall and ceiling covered in bright murals, including her bookcases, desk, and bed. King Kong, Godzilla, the Minotaur. Gremlins and harpies.
Her gaze landed on the unicorn painted across her closet doors. Milo had christened him Jeff the stabby unicorn.
“Milo.”
“Yeah?”
She cleared her throat, struggling to get the words out. “I know I’ve been…I messed up, Small Fry. I wasn’t here for you after…after Noah. You needed me, and I let you down. That wasn’t cool. I’m sorry.”
She felt his shoulders shrug. “I forgive you.”
“That’s it? Seems too easy.”
“What else is there?”
“Like, you aren’t going to hold it over me or make me do your chores for a year?”
“Tempting, but nope.”
Quinn gave a pained snort. “Well…thank you.”
“We can share,” Milo said.
“What do you mean?”
“You need a family, but you don’t have one. I’ll share mine with you. Then we can be brother and sister, for real.”
“You really want that?”
He snuggled into her neck. His mop of unruly curls tickled her cheeks. “More than Christmas. More than peanut butter.”
It was several moments before she trusted her voice enough to speak. Her broken heart pulsed with affection and sadness, love and sorrow. It was almost too much to bear.
Damn, but she loved this kid.
“Okay,” Quinn whispered. Then, louder. “Okay.”
“Pinkie promise?”
Milo held up his pinkie finger. Quinn hooked hers around his smaller one. “Pinkie promise.”
“We’re family now,” Milo said with such sweet confidence that Quinn nearly dissolved into tears again. “My family is your family. Mom and baby Charlotte. And Ghost. Can’t forget Ghost.”
Ten minutes ago, she thought she’d never smile again. Yet amid misery and heartache, she felt it. That spark of joy, a promise of something more.