Graveminder by Melissa Marr Page B

he’d said he had changed.
    Almost three years had passed since she asked him not to call her anymore. He’d tried several relationships, and then he’d told himself that he wasn’t meant to fall in love. He’d pretended that—like his need to return to Claysville—his need to be with Rebekkah was something he could outrun. The difference, of course, was that when he gave in and went to Claysville, it hadn’t run from him. Rebekkah would run by morning if she wasn’t grieving. She still might.
    Tonight she’d let down her defenses, though. She leaned her head on his shoulder. The adrenaline and grief that had held her upright seemed to fail her all at once. She slouched down—shoulders drooped, one hand falling limp into her lap—like a marionette with cut strings. The dim porch light hid the pallor of her skin, and the messy knot she’d twisted her hair into hid how long it was these days. In all, though, she didn’t look much different than she had three years ago when she’d walked away from him: she was fit enough that he figured she still ran or swam regularly. Or both. Rebekkah had always buried stress with exercise and emotion with flight. Among other things.
    “Byron?” she said sleepily.
    “I’m right here.” He didn’t add that he always would be if she wasn’t so damn difficult or that he hadn’t ever pushed her away when she wanted him there. That was Rebekkah’s area of expertise, pulling him to her and then shoving him away when she realized that she actually wanted him there. He sighed, feeling guilty contemplating those things when she was feeling vulnerable but knowing full well that once she wasn’t feeling lost, she’d be off and running.
    “Bek?”
    “I wish it was a bad dream, B,” she whispered. “Why do they all keep dying and leaving me?”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. Even with a lifetime of being surrounded by the grieving he hadn’t found any better answer. There wasn’t one: people died, and it hurt. No words could truly ease that ache. Byron wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her while tears slid down her cheeks.
    She didn’t pull away, but she did turn her head to look at the slowly lightening sky.
    They sat there for several minutes watching the night end. She had her feet curled up under her, and one hand clutched the chain of the swing as if she were a small child afraid of falling. The afghan was tucked around her, adding to her vulnerable appearance.
    And he felt like a jackass for wanting to tell her the things that she always tried to keep unspoken between them. The problem with Rebekkah was that there wasn’t ever a good time to talk. She only let her walls down when she was hurt, and when she wasn’t hurt she ran—either literally or by chasing emotions away with sex. He used to think that there would be a time when the sex wasn’t an excuse to run from intimacy, but she’d disabused him of that notion the last time he’d seen her. Carefully keeping his own emotions in check, he said, “You’ll sleep better in a bed than out here on the swing. Come on.”
    For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but instead she said, “I know.”
    As she stood, he wrapped the afghan around her shoulders, and she whispered, “Will you stay?”
    When he frowned, she hastily added, “Not like ... not with me, just in the house. It’s almost dawn, and I don’t want to be alone here. The guest beds are probably made up.”
    Instead of calling her out on the lie she was trying to sell, he opened the door. “Sure. It’s probably easier. I had planned to pick you up for the service.”
    She stopped and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
    He nodded.
    But she didn’t move. One foot was on the step into the house; the other was still on the porch.
    “Bek?”
    Her lips parted, and she leaned toward him and said, “Tonight doesn’t have to count. Right?”
    He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her question. “I don’t know.”
    She pulled him to her