11

She shakes her head again, but it is meek, weak, just like she is beneath my touch. Until now, I have never noticed how small she actually is compared to me.

How fragile.

Actually, I did once. When she was pressed up against me with her lips on mine.

But I should not be thinking about that. I should not be thinking about how small my best friend’s daughter is or how she feels in my hold when we’re in front of his hospital room.

A muscle clenches in my jaw and I loosen my hold on her shoulders, starting to step away from her.

I am unprepared for what she does, though.

Completely and utterly taken off guard.

Just like two fucking years ago.

Genevieve lunges at me and wraps both arms around my waist. And as if that is not enough, she stuffs her face in my chest—her damp face.

I can feel the moisture clinging to my shirt and seeping onto my skin. But it does not stop there, no. It is like acid, melting away the flesh and bones and reaching for an organ I thought only functioned to pump bl