I suddenly knew he was right. Just go home, and be happy. The Browns' son died about three years ago. I held on to Damian's hand like it was the last solid thing in the world.
Smell, his smell, that I knew. I was trying to think of something else, anything else, while I stood there. I don't love him the way I need to. He'd been crying while he held me, but I hadn't felt a single sob, nothing, but the fierceness in his arms, his hands, and silent tears.
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