“What the hell is wrong with me?”
“Nothing at all.” He rubbed my hands. “There are medical benefits to crying. You should do it as much as possible.”
If I even survive past these next days.
Then, I laughed through those tears. I laughed through the horror of my situation. I laughed because it came out of my mouth and rocked my body. I cried and laughed. Sorrow spilled out of my heart. Humor cracked out of my hardened soul.
“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.” He wrapped his huge, muscular arms around my body, shocking the shit out of me.
I stopped laughing and sank into his warm, muscular body, feeling safer than I’d ever been in my life.
“Tears from the depth of some divine despair.” He pulled me in closer to his warmth. “Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes.”
I leaned against him. “What is that?”
“It’s the beginning of a poem by Alfred Tennyson.”
I closed my eyes. “I don’t know who that is.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s been dead for a long time.”
“Why do you know it?”
“Because long ago, I made it my job to remember things said by dead men.” He rubbed circles into my back.
Sinking into his all-consuming comfort, I whispered, “What other things do you remember?”
“People have believed in the power of crying as far back as ancient Greece. The Greeks believed tears purified us.”
Unable to help myself, I placed my hands around him too.
I couldn’t think of the last time someone truly hugged me. It had been so many years. Quinn wasn’t a hugger. She freaked from too much touching.
My ex, Chris never hugged either. We kissed. We fucked. We fought. But there was no tenderness. No cuddling. No making love.
My mother hadn’t hugged me since I was a little girl. Once I entered puberty, it felt like she backed away from me, horrified by my developing breasts and thickening hips.
Meanwhile, my stepfather never had a problem with trying to hug me.
My body tensed.
No. Don’t think about that.
Still keeping my eyes shut tight, I hugged Cain harder, needing his strength, feeding off it.
His deep voice filled my ears. “In these modern times, crying is seen as a method to release stress and emotional pain.”
I trembled against him. His embrace felt right. I swore it felt healing, like my body and mind were returning to normal. I also felt less alone. Somehow, his warmth was helping me cope with this fucked-up reality.
The birds chirping rose.
Cain no longer spoke about tears and the words of dead men.
We sat there in the silence of his dimly lit chapel—his altar bedroom. We held each other with the soundtrack of the natural world playing in the background.
I needed this.
I didn’t know how long we remained that way. All I knew was that my heart calmed. The tears stopped. My body relaxed. More pressure left my chest—pressure that I didn’t even know existed. There was this soothing emptiness in the pockets of my heart.
There was this sensation of healing. I could feel invisible hands sewing my wounds up, stitching my scars back together.
Oddly, this moment was the sweetest and most loving one I’d experienced in a long time.
What does that say about my life?
That thought brought maddening laughter to escape my throat.
“It’s okay, Phoenix.” Cain began to rock me. “Let it out.”
My laughing shifted to more tears.
Chapter 15
Lacrimosa
Phoenix
A
fter the session of hugs and tears, Cain gave me an adult multivitamin and made me lavender chamomile tea with several drops of honey.
What will happen today?
An hour later, I sat at the kitchen bar, watching Cain chop and create small piles of garlic, rosemary, onions, and potatoes.
He still had his shirt off. Black jogging pants hung low at his waist, showing off the chiseled V of his abdominal muscles. With each quick dice, his bicep flexed.
I didn’t like looking at him. It delighted me too much. Made me forget what he really was—a psycho that I had to escape.
It was just hard to remember because this sick stranger treated me better than my family—the people who were supposed to love and support me.
Noah lay by the front door, chewing at my old tube top. Now, it was just shredded pieces of fabric in front of him. It made me wonder if Saint Bernard’s were good hunters. If they were, then Noah would surely have my scent. If I seized my escape and raced off into the woods, he might come chasing after me.
I hope that’s not true. I don’t want to kill Noah.
A new opera song played on repeat.
The violins held a haunting sound. I could make out subtle horns. I caught a piano too.
Several singers sang in unison within the rising melody. Their foreign words danced with the notes. Passion drenched their voices. Their words rang out with power and sadness. Although I had no idea what they were saying, these singers touched my spirit and hugged my heart.