But I do. I see it in the way his chest heaves, the way his fingers twitch like they ache to reach for me. And for once, I don’t bury my heart behind duty. I let it stand bare between us, pulsing with the truth I can’t take back.
He leans closer, the space between us thinning, and for a heartbeat I think he’ll kiss me. My breath catches, waiting, wanting. But he holds himself there, trembling on the edge of surrender.
I whisper into the charged stillness, voice breaking with desperation and wonder alike. “What are we going to do?”
New
Marcel 1986
Grace helpsEli clear the table, Isaac close at her side, their hands brushing once or twice as they pass plates. Each time, her cheeks bloom pink, and each time, he pretends not to notice while failing miserably.
I dry while Eli washes, the rhythm grounding. Clara hovers nearby, folding napkins with too much care, her silence stretched tight. I ache to reach across the narrow counter, to take her hand, to ease the storm I know still spins inside her.
When the last dish is set aside, Eli dries his hands on a rag and leans against the counter, his eyes bright. “Grace,” he says casually, “do you like to dance?”
She blinks, startled by the question. “I do,” she admits softly.
Eli’s gaze flicks to Isaac, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “Then you ought to take her to Ropers. Little bar in town, live music most nights. It’d do you both good to cut loose a bit. Lord knows it’s been a heavy evening.”
Isaac’s ears go red clear to the tips. “I—uh—” He glances at Grace, flustered, then steadies himself. “Would you like to?”
Grace bites her lip, and her smile gives her away. “I’d love to.”
The air between them crackles, young and bright and sweet in a way that twists something deep inside me. I remember whenClara and I smiled like that—when just sayingyesto being in the same place felt like rebellion.
They gather themselves quickly, Grace slipping her cardigan over her shoulders, Isaac fumbling with his hat. They leave with shy laughter trailing behind them, the front door closing gently in their wake.
Eli watches them go, the corner of his mouth lifting. Then he turns to us, his tone softening. “I’ll sleep in the bunkhouse tonight.”
Clara looks up sharply. “Eli, you don’t have to?—”
“I do,” he says firmly, though his eyes stay kind. “You two deserve the house to yourselves. Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”
I freeze, the rag still in my hand, the words burrowing deep. Clara’s breath stutters, her fingers twisting in the hem of her flannel.
Eli sets the rag down, giving me a sly look. Then he heads for the door, leaving the silence swollen and fragile in his absence.
And just like that—after decades of waiting, dreaming, despairing—we are alone.
Clara stands near the edge of the kitchen, the hem of her flannel brushing her hips. She doesn’t fidget this time. Her eyes find mine and hold there, steady and searching. There’s a flicker of uncertainty, yes, but beneath it is something stronger—composure, grace, the quiet strength of a woman who’s fought her own battles and survived them all.
“Well,” she says finally, her voice a little too bright. “I suppose it’s just us now.”
“Suppose it is.” I lean against the counter, trying to keep my tone light, steady, when inside my chest everything rattles loose.
We linger in the kitchen like strangers instead of two people who once knew each other’s souls. The weight of everythingwe’ve said tonight—letters hidden, love stolen, years lost—presses heavy, and neither of us seems to know where to start.
“I don’t even know what to do with myself,” she admits softly. “It feels…peculiar. To be here with you like this.”
I let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Feels peculiar to me too. Peculiar, but right. Like the first time I asked you to dance and thought my knees might give out if you said no.”
Her lips twitch, a faint smile ghosting there. “You were nervous?”
“I was terrified.” I grin a little. “You had on that blue dress, and I swear I couldn’t breathe looking at you. Thought if I touched you, I’d burn alive.”
Her cheeks warm, and she shakes her head. “You still remember that?”
“Clara,” I say, my voice thickening, “there’s not a thing about you I’ve forgotten.”
