“What?” I ask. “What were you going to say?”
Ellie presses her lips together, a contemplative expression on her face. “I understand if she’s not quite ready to take the leap into a relationship. That’s completely valid.” She pauses, shifting in her seat. “But if she keeps running away from love, eventually there won’t be anywhere left for her to go. There’s not a type of love in the world that doesn’t come with a risk.”
She didn’t intend those words for me, but they cling to me like shrink-wrap. IfIchoose to walk away from Ron or even the possibility of love, where does it end?
I’ve been running since I lost Henry, only I haven’t been running away so much as I’ve been running in circles. Somehow, I thought if I put everyone I love in a time capsule, I could keep them safe, and I could also keep Henry alive in some way. It’s why I’ve held on to every moment of the past so tightly.
I fold my hands on my desk and sigh. “You know what, Ellie? You’re absolutely right.”
“Anyway, you never said why you’re at the office” —she raises an accusing brow at me— “three days before Christmas. I know you’re in demand, but we’re notthatbusy this time of year.”
“You’re right,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender.
“How about you pack up and get coffee with me before you head home?” she asks.
I snap my laptop shut. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“I’m buying.”
“You know,you’re supposed to be helping,” I say to Rose as she gingerly grabs another of the snowflake-shaped cookies I’ve been icing and takes a bite. After I got home, I was feeling antsy, so I asked if she wanted to come over to wrap presents and do some baking.
“Iamhelping,” she insists around a mouthful of cookie. “I’m quality control.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes. “Right.”
My phone pings from the counter, but I ignore it.
“We both know you don’tactuallywant my help, anyway,” she says, refilling both of our wine glasses. “If memory serves, the last time you allowed me to actually bake something was when you got the flu and were supposed to be baking cupcakes for Lindsey’s thirteenth birthday.”
“And can you blame me? They looked like little boobs.”
Lindsey’s favorite color was pink, and she wanted that on top of the vanilla frosting. Did Rose really have to put the little Hot Tamales in the center, though? To be fair, theyareLindsey’s favorite candy.
“You said that was Lindsey’s favorite birthday,” Rose said.
“It’s true,” I admit, handing her a freshly-frosted cookie. “The kids thought it was hilarious and that she had the coolest aunt ever.”
My phone chimes again.
“Well, she does.” She chomps into the snowflake and leans her elbows on the counter, glancing over at my phone. “So, how’s Ron?”
I fix my eyes on the next batch of icing I’m mixing. “We haven’t really talked much since Oliver went to the hospital last week.”
The heat of her gaze is burning holes into my skull.
“Uh-huh. And why’s that?” she asks.
“I haven’t had time.”
She snorts. “You have nothingbuttime.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Have not.”
“Have so. I’ve been at the office a lot.”
