“I couldn’t stay there.” Her arms tightened around his neck, remembering the feel of his body—the solid strength of him—now that he was in her arms. “I don’t like cities.”
He let go. Forced to lower herself, Emeline’s bare feet landed on the tiled kitchen floor.
“You love cities.” His voice sounded strange.
She shook her head. “I changed my mind.”
He observed her warily.
Sensing his skepticism, she said, “It’s not my dream if you’re not in it, Hawthorne.”
He turned away from her, his muscles tensing as he reached for a hand towel.
“I’m moving home,” she said, more forcefully.
“There’s nothing for you here.”
“You’re here.”
He dried his hands on the towel, folded it neatly, but didn’t set it down as he turned to face her. “That’s not a reason to give up everything you’ve worked so hard for.”
But he didn’t know what it was like, achieving success after success only to be rewarded with an ever-growing emptiness.
“I thought you’ d be happy to see me.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself. He turned towards the window over the sink, looking to the woods. “Please don’t do this.”
Emeline felt like a dropped spool of thread, unraveling across the floor. She’ d been gone for too long, she realized. He’ d moved on. Moved past her.
If that was true, she needed him to say it.
“Why not?” She balled her hands into fists. “Why can’t I do this?”
He didn’t turn to look at her, just kept staring out the window. “You’ d come to resent me one day. You’ d resent yourself. In five or ten years, you’ d come to your senses and realize you made a horrifying mistake. One you couldn’t take back.”
“I’m coming to my senses now!” she shouted at him. “I’ve already made the mistake, and I’m fixing it!”
He folded in on himself, like a wounded animal. Staring down at his hands, he whispered, “I wish that were true.”
He wasn’t listening to her.
Why wasn’t he listening?
“It’s my life, Hawthorne. I get to do what I want with it.”
He turned towards her, eyes sharp and piercing. “Fine. But do this, and I will never forgive you for it.”
Throwing down the towel on the counter, he walked straight past her and out the door. Cleaving her heart in two.
The next day, after she spent the entire night weeping, something strange happened. Emeline stopped crying, abruptly, and couldn’t remember why she started.
Nor could she remember why she came home.
To visit Pa, because she was homesick. Was that it? Or was it to get away from the music scene for a while? It drained her, sometimes—the gossip, the grind, the cutthroat competition. Maybe she should find some friends outside the industry. Nice, well-adjusted ones.
But why was her car packed full of all her stuff? Had she intended to move home? But that was absurd. Her whole life was in Montreal. Her career was on the rise. She couldn’t move home.
No matter how hard she tried, Emeline couldn’t remember why she was here.
