Clay was utterly dry. His skin was dry, his eyes were dry, his tongue was dry. He finally broke down just before dawn and cried—sobbed. He hadn’t cried like that when Daddy died. In fact, the last time he cried like that was when he was five, and his best dog, Sammy, had to be put down, and Daddy had explained Sammy was old and sick. Daddy’s explanation didn’t make it easier when he was five, and knowing Mama was old and sick didn’t make it easier now.
But by the time he was showered and dressed, he was dry. His head ached, and his chest ached, and his bed smelled like Paige. He would have to change the sheets before he went to bed again, because he couldn’t stand another night of smelling her, of thinking about her. Of dwelling on the fact that he had fallen in love with his brother’s fi
