Now, I was the one in his arms. Lying against his chest. I sobbed into my husband’s black polo shirt, clutching its collar, letting the moans roll out of my throat. The truth was, I was frightened and confused. One moment, I had managed to be calm and reasonable—logical, even. I wasn’t going to feel anything. I was simply going to cease to exist. Just like any other human in the history of this planet. Dead, alive, or destined to live. Simple as that. Other moments, I was panicking, struggling to breathe. The whole room felt like it was closing in on me. I was trapped inside my body, wanting to leap out with my breath still in me and run from it. From cystic fibrosis.

“I’m scared,” I cried into Dean’s chest. Because I was. God, I was frightened.

He stroked my hair and kissed the crown of my head. “Don’t be scared, my love. I promise I will watch over you, even when you’re there and I’m here. I promise this is not the end. I promise to come look for you in heaven. And if I’m destined to go the other way, I assure you, I’ll find someone to bribe so we can be roommates in hell.”

I broke out in relieved laughter, shaking against his body.

He pulled away, showing me his brave, glorious smile—all straight, white teeth. Then he pulled me into a bone-crushing hug again.

“Not only will you not get rid of me, Mrs. Leblanc-Cole, but I also promise I will make sure our sons grow up to be decent men, with big families. They will be happy and healthy. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll make sure of it. I also promise to come to you every single month, twelve months a year, and show you pictures, give you letters, and keep you updated.”

“Once a year will do.” I grinned. “But if you slack, I will haunt you from there, wherever it is.”

“Once a month.” He shook his head, correcting. “We need a monthly date, to keep the flame alive and all.” He winked.

This reminded me of something I absolutely had to tell him, something I knew he didn’t want to hear, especially right now.

I put my hand on his chest. “My love?”

“Yes, Baby Leblanc?”

“Can you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“I know I’m the love of your life. I feel very secure in this position. No one will ever take it away from me. I gave you two beautiful sons. I gave you a life worth living. I helped you overcome your addiction. No one will ever be able to replace me—”

“So don’t ask to be replaced,” my husband cut me off, a jolt of chill twinging his otherwise soft voice.

I felt his chest flexing and stiffening under my fingers.

“And yet…” I raised my voice an octave. “I forbid you to spend the rest of your life miserable and alone. I refuse to shoulder this responsibility. You’re young, gorgeous, and amazing. You will need some help with the boys. You will find someone else. Promise me that.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t promise you I’ll let anyone else in. I’m all out of heart space. It’s you and the kids. Just because you’re about to leave doesn’t mean you’ll leave here.” He pounded his fist to his chest. “You think I didn’t know this was a possibility?” He motioned between us, his voice steady. “I knew. I knew this could happen. And I still fought to be with you. I’m at peace with that, Baby Leblanc.”

“I have a plan,” I whispered, but he kissed me halfway through my sentence, brushing a lock of hair from my eye. Our faces were so close, it was easy to memorize every curve of his beautiful face. For a moment, we just breathed each other in, as we’d done the first time we met, inking one another into memory.

“Will you do me one honor?” I asked.

“Anything,” he said again, which I now knew wasn’t necessarily true.

“Would you please let me die in your arms, alone, just the two of us?”

He crawled into bed with me and settled behind me, sprawling me out against him as he wrapped his arms around me possessively. We stared at the door. Breathing. Waiting. Digesting.

He kissed my ear, trailing the kisses down my neck.

“Ride or die,” he whispered.

“Ride.” I closed my eyes, smiling. “Always ride.”

“Talk about fucking awkward.” I unbuttoned my Armani suit jacket, flapping it back to take a seat on the first pew overlooking my wife’s open casket.

For the first second, I waited for her to scold me for dropping the F-bomb, and then reality came crashing in.

Knight scooted away from Lev to make room for me between them. He glared forward, not taking the bait.

“We’re wearing the same outfit,” I explained, resisting the urge to put the final nail in my nonchalance coffin and nudge his shoulder.

Said outfit was black cigar pants, black loafers, and a black button-down shirt, complete with the black blazer Rosie was fond of. Normal attire for a funeral, especially your own wife’s, but I needed to break the ice with my son.

I’d thrown every single negative thought that had crossed my mind about him at his feet. I’d been wrapped up in Rosie’s coma, mentally climbing the walls of my sanity. And when I finally did talk to him, it was to force him to go to a counselor for his addiction. He needed more than to be bossed around. He needed a father.

Knight stared ahead at the elaborate stainless steel casket, his expression as flat and dead as Vaughn’s. This wasn’t my son. My son was an expressive, lively motherfucker with a sense of humor and natural charm. He was nothing like his sulky-ass best friend.

“Devastated,” he finally drawled when he realized I wasn’t going to look away until he gave me an answer.

“As you should be,” I murmured.

“As I fucking am.”

“Language,” I sparred.

“Please, Dean. You use the F-word more than any other word in the dictionary.”

Dean.

He’d called me Dean.

“I can’t believe you’re talking about suits right now,” Lev gritted out, wringing his hands together, almost as if trying to rid himself of his own flesh.

He wouldn’t look at the coffin. Only his hands. I couldn’t blame him.

“We’re not talking about suits,” Knight and I said in unison, which made us glance at each other.

The only time we’d caught each other’s eyes since he’d walked in on me going down on Rosie all those weeks ago.

The realization nearly skinned me alive.

I hadn’t talked to my elder son in months.

I’d been too busy grieving a wife who hadn’t even been dead, mourning her loss instead of enjoying her presence, enjoying our family while I still could.

Rosie. Rosie. Rosie.

I looked around at the two front pews of the church, which were filled with our friends and family. My wife had taken her last breath in my arms three days after she woke up from her chemically induced coma. My brave Rosie had hung on to her life longer than the doctors predicted, because she wanted to say goodbye to all of us. I’d been selfishly hoping she’d go in her sleep, that her heavy breaths would turn into shallow ones, then to no breaths at all. But she’d been awake, still squeezing my hand with whatever strength she had left. Her last words would forever remain carved on my heart.