I poked him in the chest with my finger. “You died in front of my eyes and let me believe it was real, you bastard!” I felt like I was being torn in half—pulled toward the boudoir by destiny, rooted in place by the need to air my grievances. He knocked my finger away. “Do you think it was fun for me?” “I hated watching you die!” “I hated doing it. It hurts every damned time.” “I grieved!” I shouted. “I felt guilty—” “Guilt isn’t grief,” he snapped. “And lost—” “Get a fucking road map. Lost isn’t grief, either.” “And—and—and—” I broke off. There was no way I was telling him all the things I’d
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