Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it.
Standard disclaimer.
Very long chapter, but I didn't want to cut it.
Warning: The funeral chapter, talk of suicide, the emotional fall-out of Kurt's death...just a general sense of sadness and bad language.
The weekend and the days coming after that phone call were a blur.
Ryder gave me the week off from the bar, and I hadn't even pretended to fight his decision.
My head wasn't in the right place to be working with the public. My head wasn't anywhere it needed to be.
I didn't cry when I went to the facility on Tuesday, to get all the paintings and the little personal mementos, I'd loaded up Kurt's room with.
Three large boxes went out, placed side by side in the back of Sam's truck.
I didn't cry, not even when I saw his empty bed.
Not even when I learned, that he'd gone in his sleep from an aneurysm.
Not even when I discovered, that he'd died alone.
There would be no autopsy and the funeral was scheduled for Thursday.
I couldn't believe it was going to happen so soon, as if his parents were waiting for this to happen.
As if the grave had been dug all those years ago and was just waiting to be filled.
I didn't cry when Sam took me to my apartment, or when I stacked the paintings I'd done for Kurt, in the corner of my studio.
And I barely noticed, that my place had been wired for security...all the windows and doors. Actually, I did notice, but I just didn't care.
Thursday morning came, and it occured to me, Sam hadn't gone to work at all this week.
Robotically, I slipped on the only pair of black dress pants that I owned...that were now a little too loose.
Smoothing my hair back into a low ponytail, I squinted at my reflection in the mirror.
The purple streak had faded, becoming barely noticeable. What was glaringly visible, were the dark shadows under my eyes.
Slipping my glasses on, I left Sam's bathroom, finding him in the kitchen, fixing his black tie.
He was freshly shaven and his shoulders looked broad in his suit.
He looked good. Real good.
I guessed, that even though I felt so incredibly hollow, all my lady bits were still functioning.
Sam looked up, his head tilting to the side as he studied me.
We really hadn't talked much since Saturday. It wasn't for lack of him trying. Obviously, he'd been here this entire time, without me even asking.
The same with the funeral. Not once did I ask him to go, but he was ready before me, and I lo...I appreciated him for that.
I stopped at the edge of the kitchen counter.
"You've been taking off time from work."
He nodded slowly, as he fixed the cuffs on his suit.
"Yeah. I didn't want you to be alone."
The burn in my chest was renewed.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I have the time. Plus, everyone is understanding."
He came around the counter, stopping in front of me. His eyes searched mine intently.
"I go back to my shift next week."
I swallowed hard.
"Thank you. You've been...you've been so good about everything."
He cupped my cheeks with both hands.
"Babe, that's just what someone does in this situation." His thumbs trailed along my cheekbones, a gesture I looked forward to. "I'm here for you."
My gaze flicked away and then I squeezed my eyes shut, as he hauled me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me.
I was stiff for a moment. I wasn't even sure why, but then I clung to him, my fingers clawing through the clothes, to get a piece of him...to hold a piece of him.
"It's not fair," I murmured against his chest.
He pressed a kiss against the top of my head.
"No, it's not."
Chest aching, I pulled away from him and drew in a deep breath, that didn't seem to loosen the pressure wrapping around me.
"I'm ready," I told him.
That was a lie.
And I think he knew that.
The service was held at a funeral home, situated in the middle of a cemetery, the size of a small town.
With its winding roads and tall, graceful oaks, that still had all their leaves, it truly was a calm place. Peaceful. Beautiful in a morbid way.
Mom and Dad were already there, waiting outside, along with Gordon and Thomas. Maxine stood next to her husband, her hand resting lightly on her swollen belly.
All of them, even Gordon, hugged me, and I wished they wouldn't. I wished they'd greeted me like they'd greeted Sam, with a handshake or a nod.
I could deal with that.
"Honey," my mom murmured, kissing my forehead. Tears gathered in her eyes. "There really isn't anything I can say right now, to make this better."
"I know," I whispered, pulling away and squinting up at the cloudless sky.
It was too pretty a day, for a funeral, I thought.
I glanced at my dad, who looked as uncomfortable in dress pants and shirt, as Gordon did.
Dad caught my stare, and I saw the bone-deep sadness in his otherwise steady gaze.
Kurt had been like a third son to him, to both of my parents. I knew this was hurting them, too.
"Walk with me, baby," he urged, and I went over to my dad's side. He draped an arm over my shoulder, as he guided me through the double doors.
Sam stayed close behind me, as I tried not to breathe too deeply. I hated the smell of funeral homes. The mixture of floral and something else, I really didn't want to think about.
I was surprised, when I recognized the two people signing the guest book...Ryder and Marley had come.
"Hey," I said, voice low, as I stepped ahead of my father. "Guys, I..."
Marley hugged me, smiling sadly.
"The rest of the gang couldn't make it, but I was able to skip class today."
"You didn't have to come," I told them.
"We know," replied Ryder. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "We wanted to."
I was literally moved beyond words.
I never knew what that felt like before. But I totally got it now.
They didn't know Kurt and never had the pleasure of knowing him, but they were here, for me.
All of us piled into the large room where the service was being held, and I sat between my dad and Sam, staring straight ahead.
The casket was closed, and Kurt's parents were sitting up front, their backs straight, through the whole shebang.
Part of me knew, that I should make an attempt to go talk to them, but so much festered inside me.
I was never close to them, never comfortable in their sterile and rigid home.
I remembered how they treated Kurt, like he was something to be ashamed of. That wasn't fair either, because, he knew how they felt.
When the service finally drew to a close, tears streaked my mother's face and my father's eyes were glassy. But I couldn't cry. My eyes were broken.
That frustrated me, as I rose from the uncomfortable pew.
The burning was there, in my chest and throat, and had been there since the phone call, but it was like something had broken off deep inside me.
Sam's hand landed on the small of my back and moved in a slow, comforting circle, as we waited our turn to step into the center aisle.
The urge to turn and wrap my arms around him was hard to ignore.
On our way out, I thought I caught a glimpse of Karofsky, slipping out, one of the side doors.
That pressure thickened in me as, I stared at where I thought he'd been. I wasn't sure how to feel about him coming to Kurt's funeral.
A few weeks ago, I would've been spitting mad, like puking green vomit and head-spinning level of rage.
But now?
I almost wanted to laugh...the hysterical, never-ending kind of laugh. I wanted to sit down in the middle of the funeral home and laugh.
"You okay baby?" Sam asked.
I nodded slowly, realizing, I was probably rocking one hell of a crazy face.
He took my hand in his and squeezed gently.
"We can take a couple of minutes if you want."
God, he was so good to me.
"I'm okay," I said, and I think everyone within a ten-mile radius, knew that wasn't the case at all.
But Sam held my hand tight, as we started out of the funeral home.
The walk out to the gravesite, was as quiet, as one would expect such a thing to be.
Our group stood near the back, and when I saw the hearse arrive, I looked away hastily and my gaze landed on the grave.
I sucked in a sharp breath, and all I got was the suffocating scent of rich soil.
This was really happening.
This was it. No more trips on Friday. No more hope, that one day Kurt would get better...that he'd look at me and say my name.
That he'd tell me, that all of this wasn't my fault.
'Oh God!'
A slight tremble rocked my body, starting in my toes...which were pinched, due to the too-tight black heels...coursing all the way up, to the tips of my fingers.
Sam let go of my hand and slipped his arm over my shoulder.
He bowed his head, pressing his lips against my temple, and my heart squeezed even more...clenched to the point, I wondered, if I was having a heart attack.
Instead of standing at Kurt's funeral, I saw myself standing at Sam's.
It might've sounded crazy, but because of his line of work, it was believable. One day I could be standing right here and saying good-bye to him.
I couldn't get enough air in my lungs.
Pain sliced through me. I couldn't do this anymore.
I turned to Sam, saying just that.
"I...I can't..."
"Okay. I'm going to get you out of here," he said, and I knew he didn't get it. He couldn't get it.
He turned to my father, speaking too low for me to hear. My dad nodded, and then without saying a word, Sam steered me away from the graveside service.
I was walking fast, my hands balled into tight fists, by the time we reached Sam's truck.
When we were both inside, I stared out the windshield, as he drove and once we were back at his condo, I wasn't feeling empty.
I was feeling wild, like an animal snared in a trap.
I knew what I needed to do.
Being with Sam, could easily end up with me being utterly destroyed, beyond the point of repair.
For a sweet, brief time, I convinced myself, that I could deal with that. I could let myself fall for him and it would be worth that risk.
But standing there at Kurt's grave, was a brutal wake up call.
I had to have the strength to walk away.
Sliding passed Sam, I headed straight to his bedroom, where my suitcase and tote were next to the dresser.
I took my glasses off, placing them atop the dresser and then pulled my hair up into a quick bun.
"Baby?"
Not turning around, I kicked off my heels.
"Yes?"
"You're not okay right now."
I opened my mouth, and a harsh laugh slipped out.
"I'm fine." I picked up my shoes, placing them in the bottom of my suitcase.
"Babe, you just walked out of your best friend's funeral service," he countered gently. "You're not fine."
Hands shaking, I grabbed the neat stack of jeans, I know my ass didn't fold, and placed them in the suitcase. It had to have been Sam.
"What are you doing?" His voice was closer.
I shook my head as I reached down, unhooking the silver button on my pants. I let them fall to the floor and then I carelessly tossed them in the suitcase.
The blouse went next, leaving me in my undies and a black cami.
"Mercedes," Sam's voice snapped. "Look at me."
Against my will, I slowly turned around. He had gotten rid of the jacket and his tie. His dress shirt was unbuttoned, flashing golden skin.
'Focus!'
I dragged my gaze up to his stunning green eyes.
"I'm looking at you."
His jaw flexed.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm packing my stuff." My voice shook, as I waved towards my suitcase. "Seems pretty obvious, right?"
"Yeah, it does seem obvious, but what I don't get, is why are you doing it?"
Turning from him, I walked over to my shirts and picked them up, dropping the pile into the suitcase.
"My place has security. I don't need to impose on you any longer."
"You can stay here as long as you want to, and you damn well know that."
"I know, but I'm sure you want your space."
Finding my yoga pants under my tote bag, I started to pick it up, but Sam grabbed my arm, spinning me back around.
My breath caught.
His lips were thin as he spoke.
"If I wanted my space, I would've told you. That's something else you damn well already know. So don't play this game with me and put this on me. You're leaving because of..."
I didn't want to hear him finish the sentence, and I wasn't sure what happened next, other than I lost it.
All my control snapped, like a band pulled tight.
I yanked my arm free and then I planted my hands in his chest, shoving him.
Caught off guard, he stumbled a step, the backs of his legs bumping into the bed. His brows flew up.
"Did you seriously just push me?" he asked.
I couldn't tell by his tone, if he wanted to laugh or push me back, and that pissed me off. I was no longer empty, that was for sure. I was brimming to the top...full of anger, helplessness, and a million other things.
So I pushed him again, and this time he sat down.
I was breathing heavy as I stared at him.
"Did that make you feel better?" he asked, voice deceptively even.
"Maybe it did."
Tipping his chin up, Sam raised his arms.
"Babe, if pushing me around, gets you to slow the fuck down and think about what you're actually doing right now, then have at it."
My jaw dropped.
"You want me to push you?"
"Not really."
I hesitated and then started to turn back for my pants, but his hand shot out and the next thing I knew, he'd hauled me into his lap.
"Oh no, you don't. You're going to tell me why you want to go back to your place. The real reason."
"I already told you."
I pulled back, and he yanked me forward. We were chest to chest, my knees on either side of his legs, and he had an iron grip on my wrists.
My heart was racing, as our gazes locked.
"Let me go."
"That's not the real reason."
My fingers curled helplessly.
"What? Are you also psychic? Did you hit your head on your gun belt?"
One side of his lips curved up.
"No. I'm just not blind. Man, this wasn't how I imagined today was going to go," he said. "I know you got a lot going on in your head, but we need to talk it out."
"There's nothing we need to talk about."
His hold loosened enough, that I was able to push off his shoulders to stand. Or try to.
The moment my hands connected with his shoulders, he muttered a curse and held me tight.
"That's such utter bullshit and you know it. There's one thing I never thought you were, and that's a coward. But you are acting like one now."
"What?" I drew back as far as I could. Leaving him, would require every ounce of strength I had. That wasn't weak.
"Don't do this," he said again. "Stop acting like a coward."
"I'm not being a coward! I just don't want to do this anymore with you. It was fun, but that's it. I want to go home. I want to move on with my life..."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, you can lie better than this. You've wanted me since you were fifteen and now that you have me, you aren't willing to risk getting hurt for me? What kind of shit is that?"
Whoa. He just called me right on that.
"W-what do you mean getting hurt?"
"You think I don't know?" Sam shook his head. "You are afraid, Mercedes. Afraid of getting hurt...ever since what happened to Kurt. You don't want to feel that kind of pain again. I get that. But you can't live your whole life like that, throwing everything away...throwing this away...just because, you think you are going to get hurt. And it's not just with me. It's with everything."
I didn't know what to say to that.
And Sam kept going.
"When you leave today, are you going to go back to dating a string of losers, who aren't worth breathing the same fucking air as you, because, when it comes down to it, you really don't care about them? Your heart isn't in it, so you're safe? But with me, it's different."
"You don't understand," I whispered, stunned.
"I don't understand?"
He looked like he wanted to shake me.
"Babe, I know what it's like to be afraid. I watched friends die overseas. I come home and every day I go to work, knowing it could be my last. I think about my brother, knowing he faces the same shit I do. And I'm afraid of losing you."
I gasped.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. You, Mercedes. You have a fucking stalker. I'm scared shitless for you." Now, he really looked like he wanted to throttle me...a little. "It goes beyond that. You could get into the car and crash. I've seen the way you drive."
"Ha," I muttered.
"Anything can happen to you at any moment, but you don't see me running away from what we have...what we could have. You've got to deal with what happened to Kurt. That doesn't mean you have to deal with that alone."
"What do you know about dealing with this?" I snapped.
He pinned me with a look.
"You barely talk about the shooting! You have nightmares because of it!" I shouted, throat stinging. "It's not like you know how to deal either, Mr. Fucking Perfect."
"I'm not saying I know how to deal. Fuck, Mercedes! You and I both know, I had a hell of time handling that and I still do!" he yelled back, and for a second, I thought he might pitch me across the room. I'd kind of deserve that.
"I drank myself into a fucking stupor, by not dealing with the fact I shot and killed an eighteen-year-old kid."
I flinched.
"Sam, I..."
"No. You're going to hear me out on this. For almost a year, I dealt with what I had to, by drinking, instead of talking to someone...anyone about it. If it weren't for Ryder, I probably would've swallowed a goddamn bullet, because, let me tell you something, I had to make that choice between life and death, enough times in the fucking sandbox, to know making that call sucks. I still chose to be a cop, knowing I could face that again. It didn't make it a goddamn bit easier when I had to."
This was what he hadn't shared with me, the night on the balcony, how bad the guilt and the anger had really gotten for him.
Oh my God, I didn't want to hear this, as terrible as it sounded. I didn't want to even think of him being in that kind of pain.
It slaughtered me.
"But you know what? Ryder got me to talk about it. He got me to take the damn counseling, the department required I take seriously. And you're right. I still don't deal all that well with it, but at least I'm trying. I'm not pushing you away. I'm trying to deal. But you haven't tried once, not in six years."
Unable to stand to hear any of this, I tried again to pull free, but he wasn't letting me get anywhere.
"You're going to college for a degree you don't want, because, you're too afraid to admit and accept, that you like working at Marcy's. Not because you don't have any drive, but because, it gives you time to do what you love...paint. But you won't even take that risk. You'll continue on, just to stay safe. To not take any risks."
"Shut up," I seethed, wishing I'd never told him, about how much I hated taking those classes.
It was a good thing he was still holding my wrists, because, I probably would've smacked him upside the head.
"Yeah, the truth is a fucking bitch, right?" Sam's eyes glinted. "What I don't understand, is how what happened with Kurt, made you so afraid to do anything, but you want to know what I do know?" His eyes flashed like green fire. "I love you, Mercedes. Kurt's death isn't going to change that. This isn't going to change that. And I know you feel the same way."
He what?
He said I feel what?
Yep, it was time for me to roll on out of here.
Using all my strength, I jerked away from him, which got me nowhere.
"Mercedes, stop it," Sam commanded.
Frustration rose sharply, but so did something else.
We were pressed together in all the places that matter, and despite the fact I was trying to leave him and we were arguing, the longer I sat on him, the more I could feel him hardening underneath me, and my blood was simmering from the contact.
And he said he loved me.
I twisted in his lap, which only succeeded in me grinding down on him.
Red-hot sensations licked through me, and I saw the exact moment, he felt the same thing I did...his features tightened.
"Jesus..." he groaned.
My breath was coming in short pants, as I zeroed in on his expressive lips.
I was still trying to pull my arms free, and it was probably a good thing he hadn't let go, because, I'd probably fly backwards.
I rocked forward, hoping to knock him off balance, and his answering groan set my body on fire.
I stopped thinking.
Or maybe I was thinking so much, that I couldn't grasp and hold any one thought in particular, other than I needed this...I needed him.
Just one more time.
It took nothing to reach his mouth, and when our lips met, he jerked back a little.
"Mercedes..."
I didn't want to hear it, especially if he was going to introduce logic, into what was happening.
Pressing my lips against his, I kissed him harder, and when he didn't kiss me back, I bit down on his lower lip.
Sam gasped, and I took advantage, slipping my tongue into his mouth, twisting mine with his, as I rocked my hips again, but this time I didn't stop.
I moved in his lap, moaning into the kiss, as pleasure spiraled so brightly, I thought I saw white behind my eyes.
Sam let go of my wrists, dropping his hands to my hips, and I wrapped an arm around his neck, running my fingers along his hair, as I slid the other down his throat and further, over his chest and his taut stomach.
My fingers reached the top button and I unhooked it with ease.
"Shit," he hissed, eyes clouded with need. "We haven't settled anything..." He groaned, as I palmed him through his trousers.
"Fuck, Mercedes...you're not playing fair."
"I'm not playing."
My lips felt swollen, as I brought my mouth back to his and rubbed him through his pants.
When he didn't stop me, I quickly pulled down the zipper and eased his hot, pulsing length out from his boxers.
Sam leaned back, his gaze gliding down to where I held him in my hand. His voice was like smoke when he spoke.
"This isn't what you need right now."
"Yes it is." I rested my forehead against his. "This is what I want right now."
"Mercedes," he said my name like it was a curse and a prayer.
I dragged my hand up his length, running my thumb over the head of it.
"Touch me," I implored. "Please, Sam, touch me."
He made that sound that drove me crazy, the deep growl that was so raw and masculine, it curled my toes and caused the muscles low in my belly to tighten.
Then, he lifted one of his hands and finally tugged the front of my cami down. Next, he tugged the cups of my bra aside, baring my breasts.
And he touched me.
He did more than just touch me.
His hands were greedy and so were his kisses.
We were flushed and panting, as I worked him to the point, he pulled my hand away and all but tore my panties off.
There was no more waiting.
On my knees, I lowered myself on him, skin against skin.
I cried out at the feeling, at how he stretched me, and how I burned around his length, and how I was scorched every place he touched and kissed me.
Letting me set the rhythm, Sam gave me complete control, as I moved over him, rising and lowering myself slowly at first and then more frantically, as my muscles contracted around him.
As the pleasure built, I held on for dear life, impaling myself, over and over on his turgid shaft.
Pleasure spun tighter and tighter, and the release I sought, began to whip through me.
Sam moved then, taking over.
Gripping my hip with one hand and the back of my head with the other, his hips powered up, thrusting into me.
Repeatedly, he pummeled my sweet spot, bringing moans from low down in my belly and successfully setting me off.
The release was so powerful, so explosive, it was almost painful, almost too much.
I wasn't sure I could take it, but I didn't want to escape. Not when I felt him start to lose control, when he grunted my name in my ear.
I knew he was close.
His hold on my hip tightened, and he started to lift me off him. But I didn't want him to pull out. This was going to be our last time, and I wanted to feel him, so very alive inside me.
I trusted him, and I hadn't missed any more of the pills.
I bore down on him, holding him just as tightly as he held me, and he knew what I wanted, because, I felt him start to shake.
"Mercedes," he growled my name, his large body stilling against mine, as his arms surrounded me in a powerful embrace.
It took a while to move after that.
I could feel Sam's heart pounding, just as fiercely as mine, and I felt each flex of his body, throughout every cell in me.
Neither of us spoke, as I rested in his lap. We just held each other quietly, in a silence, that was filled with a thousand unspoken words.
It was only when we were no longer joined, that I knew it was time.
"I need to clean up." My voice sounded strange to me. Too low. Too empty.
He eased his arms away from me, and I climbed off, snatching my panties off the floor.
Our gazes met briefly, and I tried to ignore the question in them, as I fixed my bra and top.
Then I turned, hurrying into his bathroom.
I didn't take long, because, I knew that if I delayed this, I wouldn't leave.
After cleaning myself up, I pulled on my undies.
I needed to leave, right?
I couldn't stay here and I couldn't be with him, because I...
I already loved him.
I've been in love with him for so long.
The burn rekindled in the center of my chest. And I backed away from the door, struggling to clear my thoughts, but there was so much sparking back and forth.
The backs of my legs hit the tub and I sat down, noting my undies were no protection against the cold ceramic.
What was I doing?
I was running.
I was scared.
Nothing Sam said, was truly new to me.
Fuck! I knew a lot of it already, but hearing it come from him, shattered walls, I didn't even know I had erected around myself.
"Mercedes?" Sam's deep voice shook me.
My eyes snapped to the door, I tried to take a deep breath, but it went nowhere.
"Are you okay?" he demanded.
My lower lip trembled, as I balled my hands into fists.
Walking away from Sam wasn't strength. This was me being weak...me doing what I always did, when it came to everything.
But it wasn't just born out of fear. Oh no, it ran deeper than that.
The bathroom door swung open and Sam's body filled it.
His shirt was askew and he hadn't fastened the top button on his pants.
He took one look at me, and everything I'd been thinking, must've been written on my face, because, his expression softened, as he stared at me.
Emotion crawled up my throat.
"It's my...it's my fault."
Sam stepped into the bathroom slowly, as if he was afraid of startling me.
"What's your fault, baby?"
"What happened to Kurt." My voice cracked.
His brows knitted, as he knelt in front of me, keeping his hands on his thighs.
"Honey, what happened to him is not your fault."
"Yes it is," I whispered, because, saying it too loudly was too much. "You don't understand. You weren't there. I antagonized the situation."
His eyes widened.
"Mercedes..."
"He was hitting on me...Patrick was."
"You did nothing wrong Mercedes." Anger flooded Sam's face, mixing with sadness. "You're allowed to tell a guy no, if you're not interested, and not be worried about retaliation. It's not your fault."
I shook my head.
"He always hit on me, and I could deal with that, but he insulted Kurt. He called him a homo."
I begun trembling, as I wrapped my arms around my waist.
"I started yelling at Patrick. Then he called Kurt worse names. And Kurt kept asking me to just leave it alone, but I couldn't, because, I knew how much that bothered him. He hated that kind of stuff, and it hurt him. Karofsky then asked if I was a 'dyke' and if that was why I hung out with a 'faggot' all the time. So I lost it. I pushed him. Like I pushed you."
I bent over, staring at my toes, as the night replayed itself in vivid detail.
"Kurt had grabbed me and we were walking away. So was Karofsky. Then I...I turned around and said...I told him to go fuck himself, because, that was the only way white trash like him would get any action."
Sam closed his eyes.
"That's when he picked up the rock and threw it." I rocked slowly, shaking my head. "If I had just kept my mouth shut, we all would've walked away and everything would've been different. I am scared. You're right about that. I'm so scared of losing you and feeling that kind of pain again, but it's more than that. Why do I deserve to get to do whatever I want, when Kurt never will? I ran my mouth. I took the situation to the next level. Haven't they put people in jail for that kind of thing? Accessory to assault...to murder? Why do I deserve you? Why do I deserve to do what I love for the rest of my life?"
When Sam opened his eyes, they weren't full of censure or judgment, just so much pain.
"Words," he said quietly. "You threw out some words. Just like Patrick did. And you know that words can do a lot of damage. I'm not saying they don't. Sometimes, they can cut deeper than a knife, but you did not pick up that rock. You did not throw it. Patrick made that decision. It's one he seems to regret, more than anything and I doubt he ever truly thought he'd hurt Kurt the way he did, but he can't change that. And you can't change what you said, but Mercedes..."
He dropped down on his knees in front of me and slowly, carefully, cradled my face in his hands.
"What happened to Kurt was not your fault. You did not hurt him. Patrick did. And I know it's going to take more than just my words, for you to really accept that, but I'm going to be here for you every day, to remind you, that you so deserve every fucking thing this life has to offer."
My voice hitched on a sob and the backs of my eyes burned, causing his face to blur.
"Remember everything I said in the bedroom? I'm scared, too. And there are times I question what I deserve, but we're in this together. So fall with me," he said, smoothing his thumbs along my cheekbones. "Let yourself go and fall with me, and baby, I will catch you. I will get you through this. You just got to take that risk."
I broke then, split wide open.
I cried the deep, ugly kind of tears, that no one looked good doing. Those tears came and they were for all that Kurt had lost.
They were for Sam and everything he had to do.
They were even for Patrick Karofsky, because, a tiny part of me had woken up in that moment, had opened my eyes, and realized, he had thrown his life away, when he threw that rock.
And that sucked too, because, maybe, Sam was right. Maybe, he never meant to do that.
I cried, because, I was no longer numb. I hurt. I was afraid.
I'd started the process of losing my best friend six years ago, and I hadn't even begun to let go of any of that pain or hate and all the other toxic emotions.
I didn't even remember sliding off the rim of the tub and into Sam's arms, but like he had promised, he was there to catch me, when I fell apart.
Stay safe!