He was sitting here for the second time in three months and much like the last time his heart was throbbing at an irregular rhythm. Rafe sat on the hard chair; legs spread elbows on his knees. His head rested in the palm of his hand cutting out the light around him. He wasn’t prepared. If that doctor came through those double doors and told him his wife was dead, he honestly believed that he would have a nervous breakdown. Despite the fact that he had been behaving like a complete and utter fool for the past couple of months, living life without Dahlia was not an option. She was the other half of him. Rafe watched as his father paced the room, occasionally stopping to run his hand through his thick black hair. He would then shake his head and continue on. Lauralyn sat next to her son, her arms around his hung shoulders, offering him silent comfort. Although Rafe knew that he was to be fully blamed for the current situation he was in, his parents had not once made him feel that way. Here they were—supporting him even though he didn’t deserve it.
