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“Happy took the kid to ask the girl out, then they went to work. They’d been to three other places with no issues.” Taking a step closer to me, he grips my forearms gently. “Happy knew something was wrong as soon as they got in. Too many men. Too many armed men. They tried to snatch the shipment without payment. Happy played it cool, placing the kid behind him before he drew his weapon.”

He reaches up, taking my chin between his fingers and lifting so we meet eye-to-eye. “My runner got shot up. He died at the scene. Happy took one to the shoulder.” He holds my stare for a few seconds. “Michael took one to the back.”

A sudden intake of breath makes me shudder. I step out of his reach and ask shakily, “Where is he?”

Swallowing hard, he takes a step towards me, “Happy got ‘em out through a storm of bullets. He got him here quickly. He was losing blood…”

Another step back. Shakier, “Where is he?”

“…a lot of blood. They started infusing him as soon as he got in. Happy called ahead so they knew what to expect. They were waiting at the emergency doors…”

Quieter, “I want to see him, Twitch.”

“…the blood loss made him weak and he went into cardiac arrest. They brought him back a few times and he fought, baby, he fought hard, but…”

I whisper weakly, “I want to see my cub.”

His eyes turn sad. “…but he died, Angel. He’s gone.”

My heart stops beating altogether. Gasping, I step away from Twitch, holding out my arms as a warning.
Do not come any closer to me.
With every breath I take, it still feels like I still have no air left in me. My head spins.

He didn’t just say that.

He couldn’t have.

This is a joke. A stupid prank. I’m being Punk’d.

Don’t cry. You’re being Punk’d.

Chest heaving, I look up into those cold brown eyes. Only now, they’re not so cold. They’re warm, apologetic, and pleading.

That’s when it hits me.

He’s gone.

Michael’s really gone.

“No,” I whisper, lifting a shaking hand to cover my mouth while wrapping the other around myself, holding myself. Comforting myself. Closing my eyes tightly, a soft keening cry escapes me.
 

My sadness is cut short as anger surges through my veins like molten lava.

This is all
his
fault.

Panting, I snap my eyes open, grit my teeth, and hiss, “This is your fault. All
your
fault!” Twitch takes a small step back as if my words are physically wounding him. “He was just a boy. And now he’s dead. My job is to help them, and I’m going to have to live with knowing I’m responsible for this – for his death – because…” My voice breaks. “…he never would’ve met you if I wasn’t fucking you!” Dipping my chin, my shoulders shake in silent sobs. Fingers on my arm cause me to flinch away.
 

Slowly lifting my head, I glare up at him in disgust. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking touch me.” Walking backwards, I throw my parting shot. “Everything you touch turns to shit.”

Turning, I walk away. Crying to myself, I wonder how I’m going to tell Tahlia that her date is cancelled.

Some things in life are so sad that there are no words to describe the amount of sadness, grief, and sorrow a person is feeling.

I assume this is why God allowed humans the simple act of crying.

When a person cries, they feel the sadness slowly ease out of them. They feel as though they are justifiably respecting a person that has died through showing their grief. They allow a moment of sorrow to overcome them and cry out a small portion of their unseen pain.

Calling Tahlia was one of the hardest things I had ever done.

Holding back my tears for a moment, I tried to be strong for her. I really did. She assumed I had called her to congratulate her and give her tips for her date. When she laughed uninhibitedly and shouted, “I can’t believe he
finally
asked me!” that was the moment I broke down again.

I explained that her date wouldn’t be going ahead and she gave me radio silence. It’s hard to read someone over the phone when they go silent on you. You don’t know what’s happening or what they’re feeling. Sniffling, I told her there had been an accident and that Michael was taken to the hospital. Immediately, Tahlia asked which hospital in a panic. She said she wanted to go see him. I tried hard to ease her into the deep end. That is, until I realized there is no easy way to tell a person that someone they care about has died.

Tahlia continued her silence while I explained that Michael was fatally shot. She listened patiently, never giving away her emotions. She ended our call abruptly with a furious, “Is that all, Ms. Ballentine? I really need to get going.”

Her sudden change in character should’ve been alarming, but I know she was just protecting herself. I pulled myself together enough to tell her I was always free if she needed to talk, and to please let me know if she needed anything. She grunted in my ear and told me that wouldn’t be necessary. We said our restrained goodbyes, and Tahlia had thrown her phone down obviously thinking she had ended the call. But she hadn’t.

I listened to her cry for an hour.

I couldn’t bring myself to hang up. I felt that it would be abandoning her. I couldn’t do that. Not to one of my kids. So I cried with her.

Charlie gave me the rest of the week off. I tried to hide just how badly this was affecting me, but he saw right through me. What he doesn’t know is that a week to myself is a week of torture. My mind will wander down all the paths it shouldn’t.
 

I’ll spend the week blaming myself. I’ll spend the week hating Twitch. I’ll spend the week missing Michael.

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, I fall asleep letting out a torrent of tears.

My heart is silently breaking.

Guilt eats away at me.

Why did he have to die when I am allowed to live?

He was seventeen years old.

Somewhere in the middle of sleep and wakefulness, I feel someone slide into bed with me. I smell him right away. Not even fully awake, my mouth parts, and I let out a soft cry as I’m reminded of why he had to sneak in. His arms circle me. He holds me close, rocking me and cooing. I hear his voice hitch every now and then. The warmth of his tears slide down my temple.
 

He tells me it’s going to be okay. He says he’ll make it better. He tells me he’s sorry. Over and over again.

We fall into a tangle of limbs, and my last though before I fall asleep is,
“This is a bad time to tell him I’m pregnant.”

Waking in the dark, I find myself alone and panic for a moment. Lifting my head, I hear movement in the kitchen and my head falls to the pillow with a whoosh.

I dreamed of Twitch while I slept.

He was high up, mounted on a white stallion, wearing gleaming silver armour. His tattooed hand lowered to reach out for me. I stared at that hand a long while before I stepped away from him and watched as he faded out of my mind’s eye.

Perhaps I built him up so much in my head that I don’t see him for what he truly is.

I don’t want a knight in shining armor.

I want a knight in scuffed armor.

I want his helmet to have dents. I want my knight to be real, and dark, and savage. I want my knight to be a survivor. Someone who’s been tested and got through his trials. Not some pussy in gleaming metal.

I don’t want gleaming metal. I don’t need a fucking knight.

I need a fearless warrior.

I need Twitch.

Approaching the kitchen, I stand at the end of the hall looking in.

My heart breaks for him.

He sits with has back to me, shoulders slumped with his chin dipped. Leaving him to some peace and quiet, I turn to leave.

“I need help,” he whispers.

Without turning back to him, I grip the doorframe tightly and respond just as quietly through the thickness in my throat. “I know, baby.”

A moment passes before he asks quietly, “How would I-I mean, how do I—” I hear the frustration loud and clear. “How?”

Finally turning, I take in his defeated posture. “I’ll help you.”

“No. Anyone but you.”

Firmer this time. “I’ll help you, Twitch.”

I almost miss it when he whispers, “Don’t deserve your help.”

He’s right. He doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore his plea. I can’t do that.

Making my way across the room, I place my hand on his bare, tattooed shoulder. He flinches. Recovering quickly, he places his hand on mine and squeezes. “I need help.”

Squeezing his shoulder in a silent show of support, the bridge of my nose tingles. Tears well in my eyes. I try desperately to hold it inside of me. All in vain.

My body shakes in silent sobs. Relief flows through me.

I can’t believe it. I’m stunned. I never thought I’d see the day.

He’s ready.

He wants help.

It’s all over the news.

How a boy of seventeen caught up in delivering drugs was shot and killed by drug dealers in a crooked part of town. How a lucky passer-by and high profile business owner is lucky to be alive after trying to assist the wayward youth. But everyone who hears the story shakes their head in a
well, that’s what you get
kind of way. Because Michael was just another boy in the system. Another rebellious kid just looking for ways to shock people and be a nuisance. He was just a piece of dirt asking for it.

My heart – barely held together – cracks with every false retelling of the story.

And it gets worse and even more fabricated every damn time.

No one even knew him. He was destined for bigger things. He wanted a life. A good life. He was working hard at achieving that.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Twitch disappeared this morning before I woke. I was hoping to tell him about our little peanut. Alas, today is not the day. I have no idea how he’ll react. It’s not like I did this deliberately. Spending all those nights over at his house, I really did forget about the darn pesky pill. It sits on my nightstand, so I’m reminded to take it before I go to bed. Unfortunately, after spending a week at his place and only stopping home to check mail, it wasn’t on my mind. And now I’m in the early stages of my pregnancy. So early, that I need to talk to him about it so I can plan, come what may.

A stupid part of my brain wishes he’ll hear the news and vow to be a better man, starting that very minute. The realist part of my brain scoffs.
 

Not likely.

I’m prepared to do this alone though.

I won’t lie. Having a piece of Twitch inside of me…it feels nice.

Clutching the remote with a death grip, I can’t seem to look away as they accuse Michael of being everything he wasn’t. I want to stand and shout, “
You didn’t know him!
”

My blood boils.

I click to TV off and throw down the remote.

If there’s anything this situation has taught me it’s that life is short, and if you want something, you have to reach out with both hands and grip it tightly.
 

I smile to myself.

Good or bad mood, today is the day Twitch finds out I’m pregnant.

I hope for the best while expecting the worst.