The word barely came out.
He stopped in the doorway.
Everything inside me went silent.
Three months of grief disappeared for one horrible second.
Then it came rushing back so violently that my knees weakened.
Andrew was alive.
The man I had buried was standing six feet away from me.
“Davina,” he whispered.
I backed into the dresser.
“No.”
He took one step forward.
“Don’t come near me.”
He stopped.
Clementine began crying.
I looked from her to Andrew and felt something inside me break open.
The funeral.
The coffin.
The sympathy cards still sitting unopened in my apartment.
The nights when I woke up reaching toward his side of the bed.
I had spent three months learning how to live without him.
And he had been alive.
“You died.”
Andrew lowered his head.
“I know.”
“You died.”
“I can explain.”
My hand shook as I pointed at him.
“I watched them bury you.”
Clementine covered her mouth.
Andrew looked sick.
“That wasn’t me.”
I stared at him.
Nothing made sense.
“Whose body was in that coffin?”
He did not answer quickly enough.
I turned to Clementine.
“You knew.”
She cried harder.
“Davina, I wanted to tell you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You hugged me at his funeral.”
My voice cracked.
“You looked me in the face and said, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I was sorry.”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“For what? His death? Or what you were doing to me?”
Andrew stepped closer.
“Mom didn’t want any part of this.”
Clementine looked at him sharply.
“Don’t.”
“No,” I said. “He should talk.”
Andrew rubbed both hands over his face.
The gesture was painfully familiar.
“There was an accident 12 days before the wedding.”
“I know there was an accident.”
“What you don’t know is that I wasn’t driving the car.”
I frowned.
Andrew swallowed.
“My friend Callum was.”
I had heard that name before. Callum had worked with Andrew years earlier. I had met him twice.
Andrew continued.
“We were together that night. I had been drinking. Callum offered to drive.”
My stomach twisted.
“The car went off the road.”
He nodded.
“I got out.”
“And Callum?”
Andrew looked away.
“He didn’t.”
I felt cold again.
“The car burned badly. My wallet was inside. My watch was inside. My phone was inside.”
He paused.
“And Callum had borrowed my jacket.”
I stared at him.
“The police thought he was you?”
“At first.”
“Yes. At first?”
Andrew said nothing.
The word barely came out.
He stopped in the doorway.
Everything inside me went silent.
Three months of grief disappeared for one horrible second.
Then it came rushing back so violently that my knees weakened.
Andrew was alive.
The man I had buried was standing six feet away from me.
“Davina,” he whispered.
I backed into the dresser.
“No.”
He took one step forward.
“Don’t come near me.”
He stopped.
Clementine began crying.
I looked from her to Andrew and felt something inside me break open.
The funeral.
The coffin.
The sympathy cards still sitting unopened in my apartment.
The nights when I woke up reaching toward his side of the bed.
I had spent three months learning how to live without him.
And he had been alive.
“You died.”
Andrew lowered his head.
“I know.”
“You died.”
“I can explain.”
My hand shook as I pointed at him.
“I watched them bury you.”
Clementine covered her mouth.
Andrew looked sick.
“That wasn’t me.”
I stared at him.
Nothing made sense.
“Whose body was in that coffin?”
He did not answer quickly enough.
I turned to Clementine.
“You knew.”
She cried harder.
“Davina, I wanted to tell you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You hugged me at his funeral.”
My voice cracked.
“You looked me in the face and said, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I was sorry.”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“For what? His death? Or what you were doing to me?”
Andrew stepped closer.
“Mom didn’t want any part of this.”
Clementine looked at him sharply.
“Don’t.”
“No,” I said. “He should talk.”
Andrew rubbed both hands over his face.
The gesture was painfully familiar.
“There was an accident 12 days before the wedding.”
“I know there was an accident.”
“What you don’t know is that I wasn’t driving the car.”
I frowned.
Andrew swallowed.
“My friend Callum was.”
I had heard that name before. Callum had worked with Andrew years earlier. I had met him twice.
Andrew continued.
“We were together that night. I had been drinking. Callum offered to drive.”
My stomach twisted.
“The car went off the road.”
He nodded.
“I got out.”
“And Callum?”
Andrew looked away.
“He didn’t.”
I felt cold again.
“The car burned badly. My wallet was inside. My watch was inside. My phone was inside.”
He paused.
“And Callum had borrowed my jacket.”
I stared at him.
“The police thought he was you?”
“At first.”
“Yes. At first?”
Andrew said nothing.
