Raw (RAW Family #1)(88)

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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.